#a week to atone by realjane

[real-jane]

AWtA: Things I've Done

(hermione x draco)

summary: hermione and draco share their most intimate selves.

warnings: this is gentle, poetic smut. both h and d are over the age of 18.

a/n: part 7 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. this is a long time coming--thank you for your patience. and enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

He didn’t want to make an event of it, touching her.

He hadn’t brought her back to his room to put on slow, thrumming music, and charm her the way Blaise always used to boast he did in his Summertime trysts. Now that she was inside his bedroom, Draco was fairly certain he had lost all sense. Did he want her there? More than he wanted peace, or a restful night’s sleep. Especially after her admission. But Draco was also cognizant of what more might change if she consented to other than just kissing--an act which had him staving off arousal in broad daylight just thinking about her lips. And there was the very real issue that he wasn’t sure how to be intimate with a girl and then convince her to stay around. Even Pansy had grown bored with him once their flash-in-the-pan attraction had finally come to fruition. Hermione was not the sort of girl easily won, nor easily impressed. Gods forbid she cast him aside… he wasn’t quite sure how he’d survive it.

Which is why Draco sat her down on the end of his bed as soon as his door was locked and the room silenced, and knelt at her feet. She smiled at him.

“This is alright, isn’t it?” he asked softly. Hermione nodded.

“Do you like your room?”

“I’ve hardly spent any time here. Someone has kept me up studying all hours.” Draco preened under her touch as she brushed an errant lock of hair from his forehead. He was instantly covered in goosebumps. And then he was dumbstruck by the sharp realization that he could not go a step further until he clarified something--a thought which had taken root in his mind when he had spent an evening on her bed.

“Granger--Hermione...” He sat up on his knees so he could ingratiate himself between hers, a hare’s breath from her lips. “You have… um.” Draco cleared his throat. Why was he so suddenly choked by nerves? “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“It is hard for me to say what I’d like to, but… I want to talk before we move past talking into not talking, more than we already have.”

She was clearly trying not to laugh, and she nodded. “Alright. You want to know if I’ve ever not talked before.”

“It seemed ungentlemanly to ask it.”

“I have.”

“And… you can say, then, what you absolutely do not enjoy, or even that you want to--”

Draco trailed off into the palm of Hermione’s hand, which had stayed his lips, but not his sentiments. Her irises were flecked with bands of gold and bronze, whetted by a single measured blink. Then, she let one sound escape her lips, and Draco’s heart leapt. It was a miniscule whimper, which caused her to cling to his shoulders like she hadn’t meant him to hear it. Her ankles locked behind his back, too. But Hermione whispered her admission against the curve of his temple, and his fingers shook from where he had concealed them in the fabric of her skirt.

“I know who I am,” she murmured. “I may not be… quite as knowledgeable as other girls, and Cormac McLaggen was not gallant, but--”

“That ponce didn’t know what he had,” he scoffed. His breath grazed the soft turn of her neck. Her tendon jumped beneath his lips as she swallowed. Draco was dizzy, and doing a poor job at keeping to his tenuous boundary.

“What if...” Hermione was lost in the headiness of the moment--kissing, but not kissing, embracing but not touching as he wanted to--as she wanted him to. He squeezed her hands--tiny and perfect, soft. He leaned over her until he could rest his cheek on her stomach.

“Hmm?” Tell me, he willed her. Trust me.

When she finally said what was choking at the back of her throat, he had to hold his breath to hear it.

“Do you promise this won’t change anything?”

Draco wound his arms fully around her body. He wanted to absorb her pain, to tell her that what she had said broke his heart. Not only would this--whatever it was going to be--not change how much he needed her, it would afford him maybe the first taste of gentleness he had ever known. No--Draco wanted to give.

It didn’t make him want her less, to know she was worried that it might. It made him want to live up to the challenge he had accepted half a week ago. He never would’ve sought the title for himself, but on the behalf of Hermione Granger, he would be gentle. Maybe not Good like she thought, but… maybe he could make her feel like everything she felt was alright. If she wanted it. Wanted him.

So, Draco remained quiet. He lifted her, kneeling on the bed as he could with her hauled up against his chest; Hermione’s shirt rucked out of her waistband, and she clasped at his shoulders for dear life, and he knelt with one knee between hers. Her gaze flicked between his lips and eyes in confusion. She clearly expected some kind of grand reaction from him… and not the way he pressed himself closer.

“I’ll hold you,” he whispered. “As long as you need.” She melted into his hold. “And if anything will change, it won’t be this.” He kissed her. “This is for us. Nobody needs to know.”

She frowned. “I’m not ashamed of you. If… if people suspect, so what?” Hermione took his face in her hands. “I’ve never been accused of subtlety. But I don’t want you to feel differently.”

“I… Granger, that’s--” Her heart was galloping under his thumb, and it matched the way his own raced. “If you’re worried that being gifted your closeness will make me not want it anymore, bloody hell. I may be a masochist, but that is cruel and unusual.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay?” He blinked several times. “Okay… as in--”

“Okay. Alright, I---I trust you.”

“I don’t know why you would, but I will take it.” Draco shifted them like she was part of him, sitting back against his headboard and stretching his legs out between hers. “If it’s all the same… maybe you’d feel more comfortable if we were to continue operating in the Truth or Dare conceit.”

“Thought you said you’d do it without being dared.”

“Surely you have realized by now how much I enjoy being at your mercy. And I happen to know that you like me that way. But if you’d rather skip it--”

The girl on his lap blushed, but she shook her head. “I fear how quickly you’ve figured me out.”

Draco folded his hands innocently behind her hips, and raised an eyebrow.

“Truth or Dare?” she breathed.

“Truth.”

“Do you really like me?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “In all ways.”

“My hair?” He tilted his head back like he needed any time at all to consider just how glorious her beautiful hair was. Draco tilted her chin up, turned her head…

“It’s incredible.” His hands dwarfed her face, but his slender fingers carded through her hair, which made Hermione gasp. The part of him which wanted to please her purred.

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you…” She smiled softly. “To unbutton your shirt.”

Draco’s hands felt foreign to his arms, but he did as she asked. But not before letting his fingers trail from the pleasing curve of her arse and down her thighs. She bit back a shiver. He thumbed the buttons free until the plackets were fully separated. She had seen him sans shirt the day prior, it wasn’t as if that particular patch of skin was new to her, but her eyes narrowed.

Brushing her thumb up his sternum, Hermione gasped. “You, um… I didn’t really notice yesterday. Is this from--” She found the scar, which bisected his chest, massaging it softly.

“Your friend Potter gave that to me in a lavatory,” Draco said darkly. “And--ah! It’s more sensitive skin than the rest, so be gentle.”

“Hmm. Truth or dare?”

“Blanket dare from here on out. Tell me what you want of me.”

“Unbutton mine.”

Draco’s fingers crept between the pleats of her skirt and up her legs once more, until reaching the hem of her shirt. Hermione grasped his wrists for a moment. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“He hurt you.”

“Now, now,” he chuckled, despite the brimming feeling of pride in her wrathful gaze. “You can’t avenge all my demons.”

“Watch me.” She yanked his wrists, and the bottom two buttons of her top popped their threads. Draco wound his hands tighter in the fabric, made bolder by her nails prickling into his forearms--then he finished what she had started. Buttons flew. Hermione gasped, and smiled.

“Plenty of things--people--could’ve ended me before Potter tried,” Draco murmured into the crook of her neck. “Are you going to confund them all?”

Hermione tugged his chin until he looked up at her. “I would do a great many things. For you.”

His irises flicked between hers. “I should have killed my aunt for what she did to you, Granger. Right there in the great room, consequences be damned. I’ll forever see you lying there, whenever I close my eyes--”

He couldn’t speak any more but for her lips on his, and he hummed into her mouth the apology which had sat heavy on his tongue.

“I forgive you,” she sighed, and he realized his hands had made their own way to the curve of her waist and upwards.

Draco remembered himself, then--why he was there, in his room alone with the girl who had been the fixture of every good and bad dream in his memory, ready to rend fabric for a chance to touch her skin. People like him didn’t get third chances. At anything. He had one life, one miserable and meaningless life--but if Hermione Granger wanted to take a bite out of him, then he was the luckiest wizard on that sorry planet. He would be a fool to do else but worship her.

He graced the rounded softness beneath her breasts like he shouldn’t have the right to. She nuzzled his cheek, both of them drunk by the unhurried and yet thrumming energy running from his skin to hers.

“Touch me like there was never a question that you could,” she whispered.

Draco’s heart ached, and she was nestled against the most responsive part of his body… he kissed her, as she asked. With lips that tugged like there was never a war between them. Whispering a prayer to how soft she was.

“The fact--oh my gods,” his head fell back as she grazed the pinpoints of her nails over his scarred torso. “...that I can, that you want me to…”

“So mouthy, Malfoy.”

Against his will, his mirth bubbled out in a chuckle. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish his sentiment before she devoured him--or whatever she had planned, at that point he would let her talk him over the edge of a cliff. He pushed her top from her shoulders, but kept her hands trapped by the fabric at her sides.

“The fact that there was ever a time I couldn’t makes this sweeter.” He hooked a finger beneath the strap of her bra and coaxed it slack, so the cup threatened to fall. Draco kissed a freckle at the upper curve of her breast. Her breath made her skin rise up to meet his lips again, once, twice--he laved the spot with his tongue. “Everything about you is sugar.”

Her left strap met the same fate as the right, and Draco was over-the-moon to discover that the lovely lace bra had a front closure.

“I’m not edible,” she breathed as the little gem snapped between his fingers.

“Debatable.”

Draco ran hot, it was an inevitability of being an athlete in top form and a brooding serpent, but he still rubbed his palms together to ensure his skin was warm enough. For good measure, he grabbed blindly for his wand on the side table, and charmed the room warmer. Hermione was flushed like she was nervous, embarrassed, but she just watched him with those beautiful eyes. He waved his hand. She did as he asked, laying back on his quilt, but she curled her fingers into his shirt and tugged.

If Draco died at the end of the week, he would go to his grave with the memory of her gasp as he pulled the lace from those perfect breasts. He settled between her legs, nevermind the groan that involuntarily escaped his lips to feel how warm she was there. Hermione’s heels settled behind his thighs. She rolled up into him.

“Kiss me,” she breathed. “I’m a little… um--”

“Happily, even if that’s all you want--”

“I’m just nervous, but--mmph!”

Now, Draco couldn’t have that. Nerves consuming her, taking over her mind. No, madam. He took an inventory of the little nervous sounds she made--he loved them almost as much as the certainty in her voice in telling him she wanted more. Her bottom lip was his favorite--lush, more swollen than usual with his attention to it--and her top lip sealed the oaths away that he was ready to make to her. Who was he kidding? He had already made one four days prior. Being at her mercy would be his pleasure--hers. If ‘mercy’ meant touching every inch of her skin.

“Still nervous?” He asked as she pushed at his shirt almost frantically, like the garment had personally offended her.

“I can be nervous and want you. I’m a complex girl. Can you please take this off? It’s robbing me of looking at your Seeker arms.”

“Oh? Even when they belong to a losing Seeker?”

“I can cut it off you--”

Draco nipped at her lips as he did as she asked, tossing the shirt off the bed. “You are... terrifying.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You flatter me.” She pressed one hand over the ugly mark on his forearm, but her fingers flexed as if she were trying to erase it by will. Draco let her make the choice—to look at it, or not. To remark on it, curse at it, making him cover it up again, but…

Hermione did none of those things.

Every day, that marred piece of skin taunted him. When he bathed, changed from his jersey to a jumper, pulled his sleeves up out of rising personal temperature shifts. It held up a dark mirror. You chose this. You chose Him.

The girl beneath him, more real than any one thing he had ever known—more cutting than any mistake he had made—she pressed a kiss to her fingers, and touched the very same ones to his mark.

“I can’t hate it,” she breathed, “because I won’t hate any part of you. I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

He nearly collapsed, and would have done so if she hadn’t pressed spread fingers against his sternum. Draco forced himself to look her dead in the eye.

“Why not?” he begged. “I’ve done nothing to deserve you.” The depth of it ripped at his throat.

“This is not nothing. Please… just focus on what you want, Draco—”

What he wanted was to be a calm sea that carried one lone boat to safety, with no other purpose but to keep her bow pointed true. Oh, if I were an ocean...

He tried to sit back on his heels so he could undo his belt but soft fingers batted his away; Hermione fished the leather from the belt loops. He gasped.

“Your fingers are dangerously close to being inside my trousers--oh, no, there they are.” Draco could not help but grind down against her hand as she palmed him between his very formal trousers--much too formal for this kind of activity--and his briefs. He nodded for her to continue, whether speaking or touching, or… breathing, whatever she was going to do next.

“You’re so…” she trailed off, watching through heavy-lidded eyes at how easily his breath could be taken by worrying the pad of her thumb along the length of him. Draco’s lungs ceased to function entirely. The coil of warmth which made him stand at attention, which had his body in a chokehold every time they kissed… it built like she was the only kindling he had ever sparked, like feeling his body thrumming was only something she could give to him. Say nothing of the tingling that came when her nails tucked into his waistband and left prickling trails to the base of his cock.

“Beautiful,” Hermione said, finally. She pushed the fabric back so it would ease over his arse, and he finally got his faculties back enough to curl his own fingers in the waistband of her skirt.

Draco yanked her closer by the band and sat back enough to grab his wand. “I’ll fix it--”

“It unsnaps,” she breathed. She pulled on his wrist and two hefty snaps gave at her right hip. Draco nearly cheered. He hopped off the mattress to shuck off his trousers and briefs. Meanwhile, Hermione crawled beneath his quilt, opening the covers. Her cheeks were pink.

He slid in and for a moment, it felt like there was an acre of space between them. Even on a single sized mattress, which Draco frequently found his limbs hanging off of. But Hermione reached for him. She hummed happily when his arms wrapped around her.

Draco took her hum for his own. He felt her freeze beneath him at the sound of distant murmurs.

“What?”

“There are people outside…” Her eyes were huge. For a moment, panic got the better of her, but Draco soothed one hand down the length of her body, and she remembered with a shiver that she was there--out of sight, safe, being held. She laughed against his lips. Draco couldn’t help but feel like it was even hotter that she had to take refuge with him for a while, and nobody knew where she was… but he had her, and he got to touch her.

“Don’t think about them,” he whispered.

“Touch me? I’ll forget--oh.”

Draco wasn’t a prolific lover--in fact, the thought of such a thing made him want to stick his head in a fire. But he never could remember a time that he had felt so safe to just be with a girl, feeling the way she responded to him in every atom of his body. But she.

She.

Touch was a gift she gave to him. Draco sank his nerves into the sweetness of her mouth, and his fingers found a similar deep and plentiful softness, which gave way to a wealth of sighs. Her own hands had plans, too. She knew him in one stroke better than anyone ever had. Knees gave way. She called him home.

He remained above her, hovering so she could adjust to him, defying the way she arched to take and give more. Draco was intoxicated. Desperate. Holy.

The act was not what he had thought, because up until that moment of his life, Draco knew that having sex with a girl was an interlude stolen from we shouldn’t and we don’t have long… or we are all we have. This girl gripped his shoulders like her hands had formed them. The two of them had uncountable time. She was perfect, he was flying--better than, even. Her breaths were short. Her knuckles grazed his cheekbones. She thought him beautiful. So worth it. Everything good, Draco. Yes!

Before the world turned blinding, her hand warmed the curve of her belly, casting the contraceptive charm. She gasped. That was enough.

Draco made her more promises against her temple as she arched into him, and she repeated them back through his release. Her heels kept him captive with a firm press into the small of his back. He could do little else than rest his forehead against her neck and try to regain his footing on Earth again.

She counted the hairs on his head between lazy fingers. She kissed his skin. Mostly… she hummed.

Draco rested his chin on her sternum.

“Hmmm.”

A smile stretched from one dimple of hers to another. She tugged a lock of hair in agreement.

“So.”

“Granger?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He could not help but shake with laughter. Oh, that? What we just did? Heaven, no? ...undoubtedly.

“So.”

“Yes, Malfoy?”

“I…” he blew out an amazed breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

“Is that so?” She tugged at the shell of his ear. “I guess you proved me wrong.”

“About?”

“My being edible.”

He fixed her with a gaze which made her cover her hands in embarrassment. “Do you want me to address that--”

“I spoke without thinking,” she breathed.

“I’m happy to elaborate--”

“No!” Hermione cackled. “Next time.”

“Next time?” Draco perked up. He tugged her wrist until she peered at him over her sharp little talons. “Is that an order, madam?”

Hermione gripped his chin. “Would you?”

“Would I?” Draco feigned unconsciousness and nuzzled her stomach. “Surely you’ve realized by now that I’m at your mercy. I would put these two lips of mine--” Hermione’s thumb rubbed across his bottom lip in appreciation-- “absolutely anywhere--”

Thump Thump Thump!

Draco thought he might die. Of absolute fright, from the bloody interloper at his door. He winced to see his companion blanche; Draco kissed her gently and pulled himself from her all at once, albeit reluctantly given the way their conversation had been trending. He put a finger to his lips. In a quick motion, he grabbed his wand from the sidetable and cast a gentle cleaning spell on them both. He tugged a shirt of his--something soft with long sleeves--from his drawer and opened the head hole invitingly for her. She smiled and obliged him, slipping her hands into the much-too-long sleeves. Draco tucked her beneath his covers so she could not be seen, and then tossed his bathrobe on, swiping at his hair so it would appear like he had been asleep for ages.

He opened the door a crack.

On the other side, Ron Weasley was scowling. Draco suppressed two opposing feelings:

One… shit. Shit. Blood hell, dammit--oh seven hells, he’s going to know--

And Two… what the fuck are you doing here?

“Alright?” Draco yawned, like he had been asleep for days.

“You seen Hermione?” Weasley growled.

“I’m not her ruddy nanny.”

“Surely her boyfriend would know where she was.”

Draco’s heart stood up and beat a triumphant tattoo, and he pinched himself so hard behind the cover of the door to keep from visibly reacting to the insinuation that he was sure he’d have a blood blister.

“Weasley, has it never occurred to her that she’s of her own mind? Every moment she spends with me is deliberate, and what she does with the rest of her time is her business. Besides--she’s been keeping me up all hours studying. If you find her, don’t tell her where I am. I could use a good hour of sleep before she forces me back to it.”

“Dammit,” Weasley sighed. “Whatever. Enjoy your beauty rest.”

“I reckon I will.” Draco shut the door in the ginger boy’s face without waiting for a further reply. He locked it for good measure, and then silenced the room again. He kept his back to the girl snuggled up in the refuge of his covers until he heard the box spring creak. In a moment, there were hands curving around his waist.

“We really should study,” she whispered. Amusement laced her words.

Draco pulled her elbow so she’d come around him--enough to press her into the door. She was so beautiful with her hair liberating itself from confinement in all directions, happily sporting his shirt and a little love bite at the base of her throat. Her eyes were gold in the soft light. He raised an eyebrow.

“Only if the subject is anatomy,” he said lowly. She stayed his lips with soft fingers as he bent to kiss her again.

“Draco.”

“Mmm.”

“...you didn’t correct Ron.”

He smiled against her palm and shook his head. Her eyes were wide. “Ought I have?”

She shook her own head slowly. “No.”

“Good.” He curled his arms around her waist and lifted her up. Hermione automatically wrapped her legs around him in a hug so fierce and full that he knew the emotion in it. He kissed her shoulder, her neck. “I didn’t lie to him, either. I don’t know where you are or how you got here.”

“Hm. I… I really like it here, wherever this is.”

“Me too.”

She couldn’t leave his room without being seen for a long time, but time became entirely relative anyhow. It was a profound wondering between them, whispered in the wee hours: how long has it been, do you think?

Indeed, it was something to ponder. How long? How much time between their first meeting and the current moment? How long could they stretch the night and snuggle together in a hideaway born from an innocent game of truth or dare?

The answer eluded them both.

Part 6

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[real-jane]

A Week to Atone: Day Zero

(hermione x draco)

summary: hermione and draco make an agreement--draco will do what she wants for one week, as penance for his past treatment of her. and after? who knows?

warnings: draco is pining for hermione, divergence from canon, most students come back after the war, hermione and draco share one singular brain cell

a/n: part 1 of 'a week to atone', my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. i'm moving this little series to tumblr because it's such a better format for short-form series! i will also get back to consistently updating it to get us through the full week of draco's penance ;) enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

If the closest he could get was a brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, Draco was going to savor it.

New school year, laced with the anxiety of returning to the castle after it had survived a catastrophic battle… and she had found him, just for a moment, while the crowd filed into the Great Hall. Two knuckles, three max. Her burgundy lips pursed to whisper something, but no chance to do so unheard. Her two barnacles tore her away towards the Gryffindor tables, leaving Draco to wander over to his respective house’s tables and try to find a hospitable seating arrangement, away from his fellow eighth years. It was not to be--instead, the only seat he could find positioned him with his back to his former cohort of friends, where he could hear every word of their insufferable banter.

But he watched her.

Aphrodite was a roadside attraction on the way to beauty, compared to Hermione. At some point in the months since had last seen her, he had begun to think of her with a choking sort of longing, and it was magnified tenfold to be so near to her again.

She must have ordered new robes--he had seen a set just like the ones she wore in the window of Madam Malkins’ shop, and admired the cut of the high collar. It was a new style, one which didn’t require a button-up shirt or tie beneath it with the way it buttoned at the neck; the house colors could be seen in the intricate piping and thread which finished the garment . Most of the other eighth year girls wore the traditional style, allowing them to show off tops which barely passed decency requirements, and skirts worn scandalously short. Which, though fetching, threatened to send the Headmistress into a fit. The golden girl seemed unconcerned by such a charade. And it had him gulping punch by the gallon to see her so poised, so very much her own figure of grace.

Potter leaned over to whisper something which made her laugh, and the Weasel seemed to be striking up the courage to try the same, angling in like he might, and then shaking his head faintly. She hadn’t even looked at Draco since the brief greeting, but he wished she would chance one glance.

Maybe he had imagined it. The faint touch of her skin… maybe it was an accident. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. This fixation was driving him mad.

It had been… one hundred and twenty-one days. He had been dreaming lately about the press of her forearm against his chest… stopping him from joining the Dark Lord when he had called out to him. What felt hazy and unspecific in his dream-state was crystal clear in his memory of that day that the Great War came to an end. She hadn’t even looked at Draco. Just extended her arm in his path, and faintly shook her head. So, he didn’t go. And when his father had threatened him-- ”Think twice, my boy, or you’re dead to me.” --her hand had found purchase in his jumper and stayed him.

He didn’t know why he had let her keep him there. When the fighting was done, and much of the great castle ruined, she had disappeared into the throng of students, leaving Draco to be set-upon by several members of the faculty, expressing their concern and hollow encouragements, alike.. He had never spoken two words to Hermione Granger without malice in the whole of their acquaintance, but her arm pressing into his chest had… probably saved his life.

He couldn’t stop watching her raise her goblet to her lips to sip, now that they were in the same room again.

“Which of the two do you think the Mudblood’s shagging?” a low voice behind him murmured. Draco’s blood immediately rose into a protective fervor.

“McLaggen said she’s a boring shag.”

“Who does she think she is in those robes?”

“Bet Potter paid for ‘em.”

“She’s not fooling anyone. Barely has tits to fill robes like that, nevermind an arse of any value--”

“Gods, don’t make me think about her naked!”

“Nauseating, isn’t it?”

“Wish she’d do us all a favor and kill herself--”

The time it took to make Blaise Zabini eat slugs and Theodore Nott’s nose collide with the table blurred, but Draco was on his feet with his wand drawn and panting. Pansy shrieked beside Nott as blood gushed from his face, doing what little she could to stop the bleeding with the sleeve of her nobes.

“What have you done, Draco?” Pansy spat.

He said nothing. Just breathed… and then he felt the prickling of hundreds of sets of eyes settling on the back of his neck.

He ran.

***

And then, because he couldn’t go back to his dormitory--not after attacking two of his housemates, in front of the entire student body--Draco suited up into his training kit in the locker room and jogged laps around the quidditch pitch.

It was only after his knees started to buckle from the exertion that he took a pause, bracing himself to catch his breath against one of the goal posts, and he saw her again.

She was seated in the Slytherin stands, tearing off and eating small pieces of a dinner roll. She didn’t really acknowledge him much when she realized that he had seen her. Just nodded. Against his better judgment, and the crippling pang of panic that shot through him, he approached. He paused at the railing which separated the stands from the field and leaned against it. Back to her.

A breadth of silence passed before she spoke.

“Don’t like being back,” Hermione said softly.

“...hmm.”

“The castle looks like it never happened. Apparently there are engraved stones in the courtyard for… everyone who died… but. I don’t like it. Being here. Feels wrong.”

Draco could not have agreed more. He nodded. Couldn’t articulate his agreement beyond that. Hearing her voice was strange, and even more so when the words she spoke were to him.

“You’re playing this term?”

His head spun to gape at her. “...what?”

Her cheeks reddened. “You’re... running on the pitch. So I had assumed--”

“Seeker,” he managed. “Earned my spot back in summer trials.”

“Ah.”

They looked away from each other quickly.

“I’m shit on a broom,” she admitted so softly he almost missed it.

The memory came unbidden of their first year with Madam Hooch, when Hermione could not make her broom obey her commands, no matter how many times she ordered it to do so. A memory which used to live in his mind as a reminder why Gryffindors were useless… now a warm recollection of seven years ago. He huffed a slight laugh. “I remember.”

“Haven’t improved since first year. Brooms shudder in my wake.”

“The world shudders in your wake,” he said. Oh, if only he could stuff those words right back in his mouth. Her face fell, and she twisted her mouth to keep back whatever emotion he had conjured up. “I--that’s not, um. Not how I meant it.”

She sniffed, but she nodded. “How… um. Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I was going to be intrusive.”

“Um. Go… ahead. Go ahead. With whatever you were going to say.” Draco jammed his hands in his pockets and readied himself for whatever payback he had coming.

“How have things… been, for you? Since the battle and everything.”

“Uh--well--”

“Sorry, I don’t even know why I asked--”

“You’re the first to ask, honestly.”

Her eyes found his then, and she looked… hurt. She frowned. “The first?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody asks you how you are?”

“Granger,” Draco sighed. “Do I look like I have any relationship that survived the war? Any at all?”

“You… don’t seem to be on good terms with Blaise or Theo.”

Draco blanched. “You didn’t hear what they said?” he said quickly. She shook her head and Draco carded a hand over his face in relief. “No. I don’t ally myself with purists anymore.” Not a one. Not even his mother, though she wrote him twice a week begging for some kind of conversation to occur.

Hermione gestured to the bench beside her and waited for him to elaborate.

He took the invitation readily, hauling himself up between the bars, but he sat as far from her as he could while still remaining polite. “I probably reek,” he said, more to himself than anything. She didn’t confirm or deny that fact.

Draco looked down at his hands. Like his father, he had long fingers, but he was much stronger than Lucius Malfoy had ever been. The man looked down on sport. It was the one thing that belonged only to Draco, and it showed--especially after a summer of training and fighting to earn his place back on the Slytherin team. It had probably helped his case that the other members of his former posse were disallowed by the Headmistress from rejoining the team. In any case, it was… because of her that he was even there.

“You ruined my life, Granger.” Draco sighed, leaning back against the bench one step higher from theirs. Hermione’s posture was fixed, and she kept her eyes on him, but she was confused and biting back some kind of unbidden emotion. Still, she nodded for him to go on.

“If it weren’t for you, I would have gone to him. I would have. I wasn’t… strong enough to say No to him. I… guess I want to know why you did it.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. Hermione turned her head towards the whole of the quidditch pitch, but her eyes searched as if they were replaying the memory over again.

“There has to be a reason--”

“There isn’t. You were just suddenly… there. Next to me, and I saw you start moving, and independent of my will, my arm raised up to stop you.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s just…” She stopped. “You should have had a choice.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ve been horrid to you. Worse--”

“Yes, well. Even little bullies make mistakes.”

“Granger…”

“Did you want to join him?”

“No! I don’t know--”

“Because I distinctly remember you telling Crabbe not to kill Harry in the Room of Requirement! If anything that proves--”

“That doesn’t prove anything! The Dark Lord gave an order, and I wasn’t about to go against him--he had my mother.”

Hermione stood and plonked herself down on the bench right next to him, in his space, and stuck her finger in his face. “We all did what we had to do!”

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Yes I did.”

“No, you could’ve let me walk across that courtyard--”

“What would I have gotten out of that?”

He grasped her wrist to try to force her out of his personal space, but he couldn’t help but hold fast to her skin at the first opportunity to touch her. “You? I’ve been a loathsome, vile, evil little cockroach, remember?”

“I got my revenge back then. Letting you go back to Voldemort would’ve been excessive!”

Draco winced to hear that name again, hard enough that it frightened this strange companion of his into action. She gripped his shoulder with her free hand. “Sorry, I didn’t think--"

“Stop apologizing to me, for Merlin’s sake!” Then, his hands were on her cheeks, and his pupils flicking back and forth between hers. “Stop,” he said softly. “Please. I can’t bear it.”

She pursed her lips to go on, as she always did, and for the second time that day, Draco took action before his brain could catch up. She hummed in surprise against his mouth, but she was so soft. Pliant, and devastating. He kissed her, and he kissed her. He let all good sense dry up in his mind, and he said what he had been holding onto for one hundred and twenty-one days: thank you.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, and he realized he was pressing his forehead to hers.

He shivered involuntarily to hear her voice, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Managing expectations.”

“Sorry, you’re what?” Amusement colored her tone.

“I have been dreaming about what you did for months now, and trying to muster the courage to write to you, something. And you’re just here. Apologizing to me. I won’t have it.” Draco let himself curl forward, as his body wanted to do, and he pressed his face into the shoulder of her exquisite robes. I’ll only allow myself to dream one minute more, he thought. But her arms came up around his shoulders.

“What is happening?” Hermione whispered.

“Don’t know.”

“Malfoy, look at me--” She urged him to do so by taking his cheeks in hand as he had done hers. Her eyes were shining. “Are you alright? Truly?”

He rose up and sat tall, but her hands stayed affixed to his face. Her thumb even traced his jaw. “I… you’re touching me.”

A slight smile tugged at her lips. “Mhm.”

“People don’t do that. To me.”

“I’m getting that.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders. “May I be intrusive once more?”

“You could knock me over with a quill feather at this point, but go on, if you must.”

“You… you need friends.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You got in a fight at breakfast with your two best friends--”

“Former. And I was justified.” Draco stood, stepping away from her grasp. He leaned against the railing on his elbows. He scratched his cheek. His lips were tingling. “They were slagging off someone.”

“Who would warrant a belly full of slugs and a broken nose?”

Draco glanced at her pointedly. Immediately her cheeks flushed pink, and her fingers raised to her lips.

“I’m glad you didn’t hear them. I doubt they’ll try anything with you directly--cowards, the lot of them. I might have to sleep in the broom shed, but…” he trailed off. “I don’t need friends.”

“Do you want them?”

He rolled his eyes. “Semantics.” Her fingers curled into his elbow and she was there, again, in his space.

“It’s okay if you do, I mean… I’d do it.” Her face was turned up towards his, and she was pleading, and for what he didn’t fully understand.

“I don’t need your pity, Granger. You have two mates that I’m sworn to loathe, and being seen with me would ruin any notoriety you’ve gained from your heroics. It would ruin us both.” But he covered her hand with his, anyway. “Besides… I have seven years of monstrosity to make up to you.”

She shook her head. “Make it up to me in deed, then. One week of doing what I ask of you.”

“A week?”

“One day for every year.”

“And… after this proposed week?”

“We’re friends.” She turned her hand beneath his so she could squeeze it. Her gaze kept falling on his lips, and Draco felt a bolt of pride shoot through him to know that she was just as affected as him. He let himself do what he had done in haste before. She pressed up on her toes to return affection, which was blooming like a rose in the desert--from nothing, for nothing, but somehow they both seemed mesmerised by it.

“I don’t kiss my friends,” he whispered against her lips.

“Not sure how we got here,” she admitted. “I didn’t come here to kiss you. Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it, but...”

“Why did you?”

“You… you were the only person in that hall who looked how I feel. Everyone else seems content to just leave the war behind them, and I just… wanted to see. If I wasn’t the only one still living through it.”

Draco brushed a lock of hair off her temple where it had fallen out of her messy bun. “Surely Potter isn’t unscathed.”

“He’s so zen, it’s infuriating. If he isn’t, he’s not telling me.”

“And the Weasel?”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“The nicknames.”

Draco sighed. “What about Ronald Weasley, then?”

“He’s just Ron. I don’t think it will all really hit him until Christmas, when… the party is significantly smaller. But. For now, he’s same old Ron.”

“Weren’t you two… a sure thing?” He hated himself for intimating that he had observed such a preference in the past, but there wasn’t much room for masking anything with her pressed against him.

“I don’t kiss my friends,” she mimicked, wrinkling up her nose at him. “But no. We weren’t. He thinks I’m brooding.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, but I don’t like being accused of it.”

“Granger… what happens if I say no to your little proposal. Is this spell broken?”

She shook her head, and removed herself from his personal space, though he still held fast to her hand. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He yanked her back to him. “Please don’t.”

“Then… say yes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “One week.”

“Seven days. You do what I say.”

“And…”

“And we both feel better about this.” She gestured between them. “Once the week is up, it’s your choice. We can go our separate ways. If you want.”

“What… what sort of torture do you have in mind?”

“Well…” And then, she bit her lip, studying him through narrowed eyes. “Tomorrow, you have to volunteer to be my partner in Potions. I happen to know that you’re very good, and I need to get an O on my final exams this year if I want to get an internship at St. Mungo’s after graduation”

“Using me? Already?” Draco pretended to be aghast but his heart surged. “But this arrangement, if agreed upon, only lasts for a week. I’d still be your partner the whole term.”

She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Is that a yes?”

“What else do you have in mind?”

“No more hints! Is that a yes or a no?”

“Oh, what the hell. I have no dignity left. Sure, Granger. I’ll be your errand-boy for a week, as my penance, for seven years of unbridled bullying, and general ugliness.”

Hermione took hold of the front of his jersey in her fist and hauled him along the first row of the stands, until they were concealed beneath the large green and black tapestries, which protected the staircase to the upper levels from the elements.

“Where are you taking me?” he chuckled, despite the insistent feeling that he was doing something very wrong by being near to her. Hermione hiked herself up on the railing so they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“Do you want to kiss me again?” she asked breathlessly.

“Is this your first day’s order?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. Tomorrow is day one. Today, I’m just me, and you’re just you.”

“You’ve never been ‘just’ anything,” he replied, but he stood between her knees and looped his arms around her waist to stabilize her. “I like these robes. By the by.”

“I look so silly--nobody else likes them! Ginny said I look like a swot.”

“I’m inclined to disagree with the Weasley’s on principle. You look elegant.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I hope you don’t forget it.”

She sank her fingers into his hair and pulled him forward. Her mouth--those sweet burgundy lips that he had hoped were trying to whisper to him--it was perfect and gentle. He hadn’t kissed anyone in such a long time. Thrice in one day wasn’t his highest record, but he was content to strive for a new personal best if this witch continued to insist on it. She kissed him like tongues were a secondary matter, and like memorizing every part of his lips was all she had ever lived for. She kissed like she had no thought of ever stopping. He knew they shouldn’t, that it was madness that they were, especially now, but Gods… maybe nothing else mattered while they were. Time could pause, and history turn a blind eye, and two people could just kiss like they had all the time in the world.

“Hermione?” Harry Potter’s distant voice called from somewhere on the opposite side of the pitch, likely near the Gryffindor stands. Draco ripped his lips away from hers, but Hermione chased him. She gave him three languid kisses. Then, she hopped off the railing.

“See you at supper,” she murmured. Draco stole another kiss for the road, which made her laugh and bat him away. As she disappeared down the staircase and ran across the pitch, he could hear her speaking to her oldest friend. He squatted down, rubbed his hands over his face, and breathed out. Hard.

Seven days, huh? What’s the worst she could do to him?

Part 2

tag list: @adecila

[real-jane]

AWtA: Public Display

(hermione x draco)

summary: on the second official day of their agreement, hermione and draco are called into the headmistress' office to discuss why four slytherin boys were found scrubbing toilets in moaning myrtle's lavatory.

warnings: none--much fluff abounds

a/n: part 4 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

Draco had snuck out before the girls’ wing of the eighth year common dorm began to stir with morning machinations, but not before draping the quilt over Hermione. She had rolled over, bleary-eyed, and frowned at him. He had merely told her to go back to sleep, that he would see her at breakfast.

As good as his word, Draco waited for the bushy-haired Gryffindor just outside the Great Hall. She had appeared from the opposite direction than the combined common dorm, walking gingerly up to him and offering him her book bag. Draco slung the massive thing over his shoulder. The nerves over fulfilling her challenge of the day had only just begun to rise, but she dragged him into the Great Hall without ceremony. It didn’t give him any time to register whether or not other students were looking at them--of course, they were. When the two reached the Gryffindor table, Draco attempted to liberate a little bit of bench from beneath the table but it was tricky to move with students sitting on either side.

“Did you just try to pull the bench out for me?” Hermione murmured as the Slytherin sat beside her, straddling the bench so he could angle himself away from the rest of the gobsmacked Gryffindors. He smiled innocently, setting her bag between them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The tables were filled with plate after refilling plate of breakfast dishes, and every few people were entitled to share a teapot, which was, of course, charmed to remain perfectly toasty without roasting the tea. Draco overturned a cup. He raised an eyebrow in question

“Hermione,” Harry said, folding his hands on top of the table, “If I may… and all due respect, truly… what the hell is Malfoy doing here?”

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Hermione propped her head on her hands. Draco glared at her, with her sweet little smile. She really was going to make him be answerable to her friends. Well, he supposed he deserved it (after all, he wasn’t really sure what he was doing there either), but all the better if he didn’t show Potter all his cards at once. He mirrored her posture with his head propped on his arm.

“Slytherin tables are full,” he said.

“That’s a bold faced lie.”

“Well, Potter, I’m allergic to the color green.”

“Apparently not your jumper, though.”

“Oh, it’s agony every moment,” Draco said. “But a man can only take so much torture.” He gave Hermione a hard look, which made her cough into her tea.

Weasley snorted. “What happened to your face? Didn’t think you could get uglier.”

“Ronald--!”

“It’s fine, Granger. I can take it. Go on, Weasley--say what you need to say.” Draco took a deep sip of his own tea and waited. The ginger boy leaned in.

“What is your design on Hermione?”

“My design on her?” Draco scoffed. “There’s no design here . No plot. Besides, if there were--don’t you think that she would’ve figured it out? Are you so dimwitted to doubt her judgment--” Her soft hand settled over his and he paused, looking at her in puzzlement. She smiled at him, tight-lipped and grim.

“Alright. That’s enough from all of you. Malfoy is here because I want him to be. End of story. Pass the bacon?” She held out her hand for the platter before Potter. Both Gryffindor boys were at a loss for words, but Hermione seemed to go on as if it did not matter that her friends were ready to hex him at any moment. She reached into her sleeve.

“Here--” She laid his wand on the table beside his spoon. Draco perked up.

“How in Merlin’s name did you get that?”

She raised an eyebrow and sipped her tea. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”

“Granger--”

“Hmm.”

“You would’ve had to get into the dungeons.”

“You’re very sure about that.”

“How’d you do it?” He narrowed his eyes at her. She opened her mouth to reply, but…

“Miss Granger. May I see you in my office, please? Immediately?” The Headmistress’ voice grated just over Draco’s shoulder. Hermione primly stood. She grabbed Draco by the wrist and tugged. “Not you, Mister Malfoy.”

“Malfoy, show her your face please.”

He turned fully to the Headmistress, who gasped with hand over heart. “Yes, alright. Come along, both of you.”

“Guess I really am that ugly,” he muttered, allowing Hermione to tug him off the bench. He saluted Potter and Weasley, who exchanged a look of concern. Then, he slung her bag over his shoulder, and interlaced his fingers with the girl at his side, properly. She was so much shorter than him; she barely came to his shoulder, but she held her head high as they followed the Headmistress through the length of the Great Hall and down the corridor to her office.

Seated inside the office were four slumped figures, all wearing Slytherin robes. Only one turned back to look as they entered--he wore a signet ring and a sullen, pained look.

Headmistress McGonagall slid behind her desk and sat, gesturing to a bench she had created from a trunk to accommodate them.

The head of Gryffindor house and acting Headmistress looked no older than she had been seven years ago when they had all arrived at Hogwarts. She was, however, sporting very similar robes to the ones that Granger had worn of late, except hers were a deep velvet blue. She tipped her head back so she could view them through her pince-nez, all the better to look down her nose.

“Miss Granger, can you please explain to me why these four boys were found scrubbing the girls’ lavatory on the second floor, each suffering from a jelly-legs jinx? Myrtle enlightened me on her version of the story, but ghosts aren’t under my purview.”

“Didn’t you ask them?” Granger was so diabolically innocent; if he weren’t still clasping her hand, feeling the prickle of her nails in his skin, he wouldn’t know that she was perturbed in the least.

“They couldn’t seem to remember how they got there. Myrtle was the one who mentioned ‘the girl what changed into a cat’.”

“Hmm. Could be me. On second thought--I do remember seeing them as they handed over Malfoy’s wand.”

“And where was that?”

“Can’t be sure, really. I can tell you exactly where they attacked him and stole said wand, however. I doubt that they shared that information with you.”

McGonagall sighed and levelled her gaze at Blaise Zabini. “Well, Mister Zabini?”

The italian was silent. He shook his head once.

“And the rest of you?”

“We were just having a laugh with ‘im.” Theo Nott was the one who decided to speak after a hard stare.

“A laugh! Is that what you call a broken nose, ribs, and knocking him fully unconscious?” Hermione rose to her feet. If it weren’t for Draco holding fast to her hand, he was very certain she would’ve lunged at Nott.

“Unconscious? What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Nott?”

Nott said nothing more, and Draco managed to pull Hermione back down to sit. He worried the skin at the base of her thumb, which seemed to calm her.

“So.” The headmistress stood. “It seems that there are two stories here. The one person we haven’t heard from is you, Malfoy. In your own words, please.”

Draco coughed. “I’m not entirely sure what you’d like me to say.”

“Did this alleged attack happen, or were they merely having a laugh, as Nott has insinuated?”

“Well… I think I could probably still snort blood out of my sinuses, if it weren’t for Granger. And she certainly didn’t find it the least bit funny. Did you?” He nudged Granger, who glared at him. She shook her head. “There you have it. She merely returned my wand to me as a kindness, considering those four cretins took possession of it without my consent. I think they got away fairly unscathed, by comparison.”

McGonagall sighed. “You four--you will have detention every night this week with me. After supper. I will alert Professor Slughorn that you will not be able to fulfill any house duties you might have. See Madam Pomfrey for a restorative if you find your legs still suffering from Miss Granger’s jinx. I trust you won’t get lost on the way to the Hospital Wing."

“Sure, Zabini grumbled. “Give us detention, but don’t ask him why he attacked Theo ‘n me on the first day.”

The older woman’s head swung around to raise a questioning brow at Draco. “How do you answer?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “He was defending me--”

“I believe I asked Mister Malfoy.”

The little witch at his side sighed and looked up at him. “She’s right,” he said. “I overheard those two saying things about Granger here, which would make Peeves blush.”

“And what things did they say?”

“If it’s all the same, I don’t want to repeat it in front of her.”

The Headmistress gestured to the boys. “You are dismissed. I will be discussing what happens next with you individually.”

“Next?” Nott scoffed. “Detention isn’t enough?”

“Did I stutter, Mister Nott? You may have gotten away with such behavior in my predecessor’s time as the Headmaster of this great institution, but you’ll find my tolerance for such behavior is less than zero. Now. Be gone, the four of you.”

Each of the Slytherin boys took their leave, none of them daring to look back and sneer as would have been characteristic. Once they had gone, McGonagall stood. “Mister Malfoy, would you please enlighten me in the inner office?” She swept out from behind the desk and through a slim door behind her main office chamber. She did not wait for him to follow.

Draco stood quickly, himself. “Go on,” he said to the girl who still clung to him. “I’ll see you in Potions.”

“Fat chance,” Hermione said. “I’ll wait right here. ‘Sides, I haven’t said my piece yet.”

He smirked at the witch, who had already proven she was not to be trifled with. He squeezed her hand and released her. Headmistress McGonagall pointed to the door once he entered the inner office. The room was a small, circular portion of the turret at the corner of the North West part of the castle. There was a small fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a chair that looked as if it hadn’t had adequate stuffing for a hundred years. McGonagall sat in it.

The woman scrubbed a frustrated hand over her face.

“I had thought we understood each other this Summer, when I laid out the conditions for your return.” Her voice was somber, but held no ounce of animosity in it. Her brow was wrinkled in concern. “I did not foresee your alignment with Miss Granger. Against your own house-members, no less.”

“Is your only concern that I am on speaking terms with Granger?” Draco felt his hackles rising, but she shook her head.

“If anything, that is proof of your…” The word evaded her.

“Sanity?”

She huffed a laugh. “What did they say about her?”

“Due respect, Headmistress, it would be ungentlemanly of me to elaborate.” He rocked back on his heels, hands firmly in his pockets where he wouldn’t fidget.

“Summarize.”

“Suffice to say that they took turns guessing who she might be… shagging--” Draco cringed to say the word in front of the one professor who had ever expressed belief in his rehabilitation, but it was what it was. “--and criticized her robes, and then they suggested everyone would be better off if she weren’t living.”

“And because of that, Zabini belched up slugs and Nott’s face collided with the table?”

“I admit, I let me anger get the better of me--”

“I’m--” She sighed. “I am willing to overlook it. Far be it from me to punish you for coming to Hermione Granger’s defense, you of all people, but… do try to refrain from such tactics in the future, eh?” Her voice wavered, but she pointed at him as if brandishing her wand. “Don’t stoop to their level.”

“Something tells me it won’t be necessary.” He tried very hard not to smile, but the Headmistress let a bit of her professional demeanor slip. But then, her face twisted and she set him with a hard stare.

“Heard anything from your family?”

Draco’s chest ached from the question. No, he hadn’t heard a single word since his mother’s last letter, but he had stopped counting the days. At some point during the course of his Summer away from home, the Malfoy family owl had stopped roosting in the owlery, waiting for him to send correspondence to the people who raised him. He shook his head.

“Alright. You needn’t worry,” she said, as if his having lived at Hogwarts since May, long before the start of term, had been a matter of his parents merely being on vacation, and him needing a place to stay where he could be supervised… as if this whole time, the cause of all his troubles since May was that he worried too much. The truth was very much beyond what comfort she could provide.

“‘S alright,” he said, as if it were.

“Has Madam Pomfrey examined you?”

“She did before breakfast, although apparently Granger patched me up well enough last night; there wasn’t much more Pomfrey could do for me. Bruises will heal in their own time.”

“Last night?” She frowned. “This attack happened yesterday, and I’m only hearing of it now?”

Draco raised his eyebrows innocently. “...yes.”

“Do I want to know why that is?”

“If I told you it was because I didn’t want to bother you with such things, would you believe me?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “For now.” The mantle clock chimed eight times. “You’ll be late for your first class.”

“Right.”

She followed him back out into the main office, where Hermione was waiting with her arms crossed over her body like she was trying to bring herself some comfort. Draco made eye contact and her eyes brightened. He nodded towards the exit, but Hermione stepped towards the massive desk, directly in his path. “Headmistress, why wasn’t Malfoy allowed to take a room in the combined dorm?”

“Miss Granger, that is the private business of him and myself.”

“I’m nosy, and I have made his business mine.”

The Headmistress looked between the two of them. Draco nodded his consent, even as the idea of Hermione Granger having her nose in his business warmed the chambers of his cold, dead heart. McGonagall reached into her desk and retrieved her wand; with a flick, a cabinet drawer at the far end of the room slid open. A single piece of parchment arose from a file and alighted in the Headmistress’ hand. She offered the paper to Hermione.

Draco looked over her shoulder as she read the paper that he himself had scoured so many times, he practically had it memorized. It was a Ministry order. A perfectly fair one, he thought. But it stated: Children of Deatheaters will be disallowed from returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry unless certain arrangements can be made for the safety of their fellow students, including but not limited to the restriction of returning eighth year students to their respective house dorms, and the exclusion from certain special privileges generally afforded to eighth year students. Etc.

“The Minister is clear how he feels about students like Mister Malfoy, an unfortunate fact of which he is already aware.” McGonagall’s face was solemn. “Strictly off the record… I do not agree. But I am still answerable to the Ministry.”

“But--how will they know if you give him a room that isn’t in the dungeons? Don’t you see what they did to him?” Hermione reached for him then, though he stood just behind her. She found the fabric of his sleeve and held fast.

“I am appalled by it.”

“Don’t I deserve it, though?” Draco scoffed. It was too much to hear himself spoken of in this manner but having no say in it himself. All told, as it had happened, he had thought: I suppose I’ve had this coming. He had been unsurprised by their assault on him, and had thought the event so familiar--more familiar than Hermione Granger and Professor McGonagall discussing why he ought to sleep in his own room. Small fingers crept in between his own. When she looked up at him this time, Hermione was sad. He hated the look. It was one of pity.

“Whatever you may think of me, I do not believe any one of my students deserves to be beaten past recognition.” She gathered herself as if the thought was the most insulting thing someone could say about Minerva McGonagall. “When you were here for Summer quidditch trials, it never occurred to me that this would happen. I assumed, foolishly, that the others in your year were of the same mind as you, and I am answerable for that. I have already bent the Ministry’s rule in allowing you to join the quidditch team, but I believe Slughorn would’ve had a coronary if I had forced him to pass up the opportunity of taking on a talented Seeker like yourself. ”

“I am grateful,” Draco said. “Don’t know where I would’ve gone if you hadn’t.”

Hermione shook beside him. “What do you mean?”

“Disowned, Granger.”

“Yes, well. I’m not about to stand by and allow you to live in an inhospitable environment ,” McGonagall said. “Your things will be moved to the combined dorm immediately. Are we agreed?”

Hermione nodded in excitement.

“Alright, go on. Get to class.”

Hermione raced down the stairs and Draco barely kept up, but for her tugging on his hand… they had to run to Potions, and barely made it before the last chime dinged. The only table available was blessedly at the back of the room. The table they had taken on the first day was now occupied by Blaise and Theo, looking very sullen to be sat so near Potter and Weasley. Hermione’s friends cast a regretful look at her--well, more Potter than the other one. Weasley gave him a sneer. While still in the red-head’s sight, Draco raised Hermione’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. The other boy paled as Hermione blushed. He whipped around in his seat.

Draco may have been saved from conversing with both of Hermione’s friends at breakfast, but he was certain more conversations were to come. If Weasley’s reaction was an indicator, he had a touch of the green eyed monster in him. Draco had turned over many new leaves, but this was the kind of achievement he would not concede to the other boy. He was still a Slytherin.

“Now that you’ve graced us with your presence, Mister Malfoy… Miss Granger…” Slughorn tapped his wand on the blackboard beneath the potion for the day. Countenance Care: rids the drinker of signs of aging for three days. “Would either of you care to define what property makes lamb’s ear particularly good for a complexion smoothing potion?”

“Ahem. I believe the reaction of the lamb’s ear leaf with violet essence temporarily synthesizes the skin’s elasticity.” Draco had fairly recently read a book about potions for masking one’s appearance (nevermind why, certainly nothing to do with looking so very Malfoy, and more like his father with every passing day), and Slughorn himself had loaned it out. The professor beamed with pride.

“Indeed! Today we will explore one of my most favorite…”

The lecture trailed on and on, mostly consisting of Slughorn’s anecdotes about why potions which can transform one’s appearance are dangerous and ‘not to be attempted’, and then countering his own argument by going on and on about how delightfully fun it is to brew them.

Hermione released his hand, sometime between Slughorn elucidating the class on the virtue of adding basic garlic to any potion which required an oil of some sort, and actually demonstrating the proper way to prepare lamb’s ear. She had her notes out and was dutifully scratching away. Draco allowed himself to lean back against the wall and observe her.

When had she begun to care so fiercely about his well-being? I have made his business mine. Gods. Now he would be able to sleep in the eighth year combined dorm, in his own room, in his own bloody bed. All because of this blinding girl. What in Salazar’s name had he done to deserve it, from her, no less?

A small portion of parchment slid in front of him. She quickly returned to her notes, but not before glancing at him. Her cheeks were pink. Draco discreetly read what she had written.

You’re staring at me.

The tips of his ears felt like they were on fire. So what if he was? He liked looking at her. She was beautiful. He didn’t have to pretend like it wasn’t true anymore. Draco reached for his own quill at the top corner of their shared table. He wrote his reply.

Still not sure your angle here, Granger.

He slid the thing back to her. Her lips moved as she read his words to herself.

Angle?

You’re not planning to lull me into a false sense of security and then Avada me yourself?

She looked up at him sharply and frowned. “Why would you say that?” she whispered. Draco glanced up at the Professor, who took no note of them as he scribbled on the blackboard.

Draco leaned on the table, grasping his arms at the elbows. He nudged her shoulder with his own.

“You would be well within your rights,” he murmured. Her face was very close to his, well within range to see her eyes dilate as she looked up at him--the honey tones in her corneas held warmth.

“You haven’t left Hogwarts since the last battle, have you.”

He shook his head faintly. “I had nowhere to go.”

Slughorn cleared his throat pointedly.

Hermione tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow, beneath his hand. All she could do in the middle of class was lean her head against his shoulder and give some kind of silent comfort. True, he had been at the school for one hundred and twenty-three days--watched it get rebuilt, ate his meals in the Great Hall with only a few of the professors for company, trained on a school broom, walked endless circles around the grounds--and he had left, just once, to buy his supplies for his eighth year. The Headmistress herself had accompanied him. She had bought him an ice cream.

It wasn’t something he had given himself time to dwell on. In the months following the end of the war, he had rebuilt himself as best as he could. He hadn’t slept well in one hundred and twenty-three days, and he had been painfully lonely. He had read. And that was as much as he could’ve hoped for.

The heat from Hermione’s hand warmed his bicep through his sleeve. He rubbed the skin over her knuckles. She turned her hand in his, palm-to-palm, and grasped his wrist. As Slughorn dismissed the front tables to retrieve their supplies, Draco traced the tendon which led from Hermione’s thumb down her forearm. The classroom was filled with the sounds of their fellow students, so he felt safe to speak again.

“After the battle,” he began, waiting for her to look at him. She lifted her head. “I don’t remember much. I know I spent a long time in McGonagall’s office, just… shellshocked, trying to answer questions I couldn’t really even understand. But.” He shrugged. “She was nice to me. Not nice… civil. She wrote to my father. He returned a howler. That’s what she said, anyhow--she didn’t let me hear it.” Hermione squeezed his wrist in encouragement. “So. I just stayed. I offered to take veritaserum to prove I wasn’t… I don’t know. Still loyal to the cause, or whatever. But she believed me when I said I wasn’t. That was good enough for McGonagall.”

The next row of tables was dismissed, and the scrape of benches on the stones masked her emotional huff. Hermione sat back from him and swiped at her eyes. Miraculous thing that she was… she was crying.

“Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. I mean, I do…”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, it just sort of hit me: have you ever been able to just feel safe somewhere? You’re supposed to be safe at Hogwarts, but that illusion shattered for me in first year.” She sniffled. “And I’m wondering when you’ll get to feel secure. I hope it won’t be long, now that you’ll be in the eighth year dorm. With me.”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but Slughorn dismissed their row to collect supplies. He stood right away, and held up a finger to her in hopes that she might pause. Well… if she stopped crying while he was away from his seat, so much the better for his poor heart. But the cause of it… she wanted him to feel safe?

Draco took measured steps towards the front of the room. She had a funny way of making him feel like he might just find safety. Maybe ‘safety’ was how it felt to know someone was fighting for you, alongside you.

He side-stepped Blaise and Theo’s table in favor of walking around Hermione’s friends. Potter nodded to him. Weasley still scowled. “Alright, mate?” Draco nodded to the ginger, who was promptly elbowed in the ribs by his friend. Potter thumbed towards the back of the room where Hermione was seated, as if to remind him of why they might all get along. Weasley rolled his eyes.

“Alright,” he said dourly. “Oi, Malfoy--are you playing in the match tomorrow?”

“I am. Are you?”

“Keeper. I hope you’ve been practicing.”

“Why is that, Weasley?” Draco glanced at Hermione, who was watching their quiet conversation with a frown. He softened his expression to placate her concern, but he raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve got a killer lineup. Don’t we, Harry?” Potter shrugged. “You’ll want to be at your best. Don’t get distracted.”

Draco stepped back from the table and chuckled. “I will certainly be at the top of my game. I have a good luck charm.” He saluted the two Gryffindors and gathered the ingredients he and Hermione would need for their potion from the closet. When he returned to the table, she had placed a piece of parchment at his workspace with the order of operations for the potion written out. He handed her some of the ingredient bottles and sat.

“What was that all about?” she asked him softly. He smiled.

“Weasley wanted to know if I’m playing in the match against Gryffindor tomorrow. I said that I was.”

“Merlin’s sake,” she groaned. “I can’t wait for the matches to start! It’s all they bloody talk about. Why did you laugh at him?”

“He told me I shouldn’t get distracted.” Draco winked at her. “But I won’t.”

Hermione’s whole expression changed to intense excitement. “Wait… you’re really playing tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“That’s it! Your next challenge.”

“...I have to play in a match I was already scheduled for?”

“No. You have to win. And when you win, you have to find me in the stands and bring me the snitch.”

He laughed in disbelief. “Bloody hell. You know what people are going to think--”

“I don’t care. Do you accept?” She held out her hand to him to shake. He wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Of course. Say--how did you get my wand back?”

Hermione smiled innocently. “Nott handed it to me.”

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

She patted him on the shoulder. “When you’re older.”

Hermione was so gleeful that it made the potion preparation process altogether entertaining. Gods, he thought. He was going to wind up looking like an absolute dope for her, bringing her the snitch like a puppy. He’d do it, though, and make no mistake. It would be a pleasure to beat Weasley. The joy on her face at the prospect of what tomorrow would bring was more exciting than the idea of winning a match, and that… that did not make him feel safe. Instead, Draco felt as if he was on the precipice of something quite dangerous. He was going to dive head-first into the abyss. It just happened that the abyss was a very convincing girl, who retrieved stolen wands and put her nose in his business.

Hermione had forgotten all about being sad for him. He hoped she would have little reason for it ever again.

Part 3

Part 5

tag list: @adecila

message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list! :)

[real-jane]

A Week to Atone masterlist

An 8th Year Hogwarts-era series by realjane

(Hermione Granger x Draco Malfoy)

summary: Hermione gives Draco a week to atone for all the hurt he caused her for the last seven years. Atonement only scratches the surface of what he does for her.

rating: m

warnings: idiots to lovers, hurt/comfort, 'i hate everyone but you' fluff, eventual smut, canon level violence/injuries

a/n: this series is cross-posted on ao3 HERE.

***

Day Zero

Potions Partners

Patching You Up

Public Display

The Loser

Truth or Dare

Things I've Done

updated nov 15, 2021 :)

This story is ongoing! Message, comment, or reblog to join the tag list. :)

Tag list: @adecila @withlovefrombronwynn @persephone13 @ohheyjanie

[real-jane]

AWtA: Potions Partners

(hermione x draco)

summary: draco offers to be hermione's potions partner, per their agreement. the stark reality of their shared history comes to fruition.

warnings: draco teaches hermione how to brew a potion properly, he comforts her during a panic attack, talk about his dark mark

a/n: part 2 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

She smiled all the way back to the castle, as Harry filled her in on which first years had been sorted into Gryffindor, and who looked especially promising for quidditch draft picks, a subject that was as banal as it was unimportant to her. She smiled as they passed under the archway and the massive clock. She smiled as she unloaded her trunk in the eighth year dorm, which afforded her her own room and a striking view of the Black Lake from the east. She smiled as she changed into her denims and a light jumper.

And then she went into the girl’s lav, which was a shared affair amongst the eighth years and looked herself in the mirror--her lips weren’t any more pink than usual, but she knew where they had been--and she was hit with wave after wave of icy regret.

Malfoy now had license to ruin every single moment of her life at Hogwarts--she had handed it to him directly, a boy who had only ever tried to make her miserable. Why had she let him kiss her, and then on every subsequent opportunity after that, taken the initiative to do the same, going so far as to pull him into a more secluded spot to continue? Call it temporary insanity, impulsivity of a moment, and brought on by an impressive amount of civility compared to his usual… attitude.

Yes, she thought, that one will really hold up… I snogged the face off Draco Malfoy because he was uncharacteristically civil. That’s my type! Especially when said boy has spent the better part of seven years, by his own admission, attempting to make my life hell-on-earth. A boy with violent tendencies, and parents who would wish me dead. But a touch of civility, and I’m wooed! By a sweaty wizard, with no friends.

A boy who, for reasons she still didn’t understand, she had grabbed by the jumper one other time, preventing him from being pulled into the clutches of Deatheaters during the last battle. His heart had pounded under her hand that day. Something about feeling his heart beating had made her think, which was dangerous.

Even worse--seeing him again in the Great Hall after months of trying to remember if it had really happened… somehow, it had never occurred to her that he might actually return for an eighth year. But oh, return he did.

She skipped supper. Call it punishment, part of his penance, not to see her after she left him at the quidditch field. Her stomach growled painfully.

Hermione pulled back the covers on her bed, suddenly feeling at once like it was too lonely not to be preparing for sleep amongst the murmurs of her fellow Gryffindors, and far too lonely to be wondering if he would actually take her seriously and show up in their first Potions lesson of the term, ripe and ready to volunteer to be her partner.

She lay awake, well into the night, trying to remember where the impulse had come from to demand seven days of his time… and what in Merlin’s name she was going to ask of him the rest of the week. Maybe she could get him to scrub the toilets in Myrtle’s loo. She chuckled against her will. The sound echoed up into the rafters.

***

Malfoy was the first student in Professor Slughorn’s classroom the next morning. He sat near the back, to her relief, but… Hermione walked in with Harry and Ron shortly before the first bell. When the rest of the classroom was still empty. Her stomach sank like a stone. Malfoy didn’t turn to look at them; he was teetering back on the bench against the wall, reading his potion’s textbook. For a fleeting moment, she imagined walking over to him and knocking the feet of the bench flat, plonking her bookbag down and sitting beside him. But she had laid out her terms. He had to volunteer.

So, she assumed her regular position at the front of the classroom, while Harry and Ron took the table beside her. They were deep in a conversation about whether or not the new quidditch uniforms would come in time for the first match against Ravenclaw, who had apparently acquired a transfer from Durmstrang over the summer. Victor Krum’s little brother. It was a massive deal, and had consumed every moment of their breakfast conversation.

As the other students filed in, the remaining tables were filled with twosomes of eighth years from other houses. Nobody sat with her. She never worked with a Potions partner in years past. She was difficult to work with. So. It was expected. She ventured a glance back over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see Malfoy over the heads of her fellow students. She folded her hands on the table. She bounced her knees.

“Come to order, class!” Professor Slughorn’s jolly voice boomed as he shut the classroom door behind himself. He waved to several enthusiastic Hufflepuffs, and took his place on the raised platform at the front of the room, beside the blackboard.

“What a marvelous first day! I trust you all enjoyed your Summers off with your families, and that none of you were too put out by the events of last May, given that we lost so many--”

Harry cleared his throat, which threw Slughorn off his tangent. The professor scratched his head.

“Anyhow. It is a new year. Eighth year is an exciting time for students of your caliber. Preparations for final exams began the moment you set foot inside this room. Keep in mind that your work here could make a significant difference in your future successes. Every potion that we brew together will be challenging. I advise you to pick your partners wisely, for the wrong partner may mean failure. And yes, everyone will have a partner this term, Miss Granger. Even you.” Slughorn considered her over the rim of his glasses and Hermione felt her entire face alight in embarrassment. She looked away.

“Now--if you are satisfied with your current table mate, then you may sign off on this sheet with your pairing.” Slughorn handed Harry the paper. Both boys signed it under the slot for Table One. Hermione signed the first line for Table Two, and attempted to pass the paper on to the third, but Slughorn held up a hand. “Nah-ah, Miss Granger, as I said: you, too, must have a partner. Who will be your partner this term?”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She had hardly expected Slughorn to make such a thing of her reputation for working alone--and she had made plans to rectify that--but she was taken aback by the way he insisted on singling her out for it.

“I don’t know,” she said softly.

“Who will be Miss Granger’s partner?”

Slughorn opened his question up to the class. Several people snickered, but the room remained largely quiet. Wood clattered on stone. A bench scooted back. Hard-soled boots clacked from the back of the room and approached. Draco Malfoy sat beside her, signed the empty space beside her name, and passed the paper onto the next table.

The professor could not have looked more surprised if Malfoy had set the table on fire. Hermione could feel the intense concern from Harry and Ron to her left, but she didn’t dare look at them. She couldn’t react at all. Just stare down at the table.

“I’ll do it,” Malfoy said softly. “I don’t have a partner, either.”

“How very… gallant, Mister Malfoy.” Slughorn had to coax his eyebrows down from his hairline, but he went on with his instructions for the class. Hermione didn’t hear them; his voice became distant, like an oboe being played badly in a far-off room. Instead, she focused on the heat radiating from the very tall Slytherin who had just met her challenge, and volunteered to be her Potions partner.

For the entire term.

Like she had charged him to do. And if her memory served, he had agreed to do whatever she asked.

“Didn’t see you at supper.”

Hermione started. “Sorry?” she murmured, as if she hadn’t heard him.

“You skipped supper.” Malfoy was fidgeting with his quill, twirling it between his fingers.

“Mmm.”

“Hm.”

They both remained in perfect stasis, staring at the cauldron they would be sharing, neither one seeming to know what to say. When he stood, Hermione snapped back to reality. She looked up at him and he nodded to the supply closet, where their fellow students were gathering supplies for the first potion. What potion that was, she couldn’t be sure. One student from each table took their turn. As soon as Malfoy was out of earshot, Harry leaned over as far as he could in his seat.

“Hermione, are you alright?” His black hair flopped across his forehead, while simultaneously sticking up in many directions. Over the Summer, Ginny had convinced him to at least keep the sides and back fairly short in the simulation of an actual hairstyle. It mostly worked.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she said, shooting him a small smile.

“I’m sure Slughorn will let you switch, if you ask him after class--”

“Honestly, Harry. As if I can’t handle myself with Malfoy.” She glanced at the closet, where Malfoy had just picked the ingredients for their brew. He turned back to her, but upon seeing Harry leaning over to speak with her in confidence, his expression flattened into an unreadable affect. Hermione’s stomach flipped with anxiety. What he must be thinking? Ron shouldered past him, and Malfoy took it silently, even though the red-haired boy gave him a look full of pure ire.

The Slytherin set their ingredients down on the table carefully, mindful to separate ingredients which Hermione assumed could not or should not be mixed until absolutely necessary--she assumed, because she couldn’t pay attention to anything other than the veins on the backs of his hands, and the way they danced.

“Having regrets?”

The question sent her heart into her heels, but Hermione finally managed to look him in the eye. She squared her shoulders. “No, of course not. I never regret anything, as a rule.”

“Hmm,” he replied. He had a terrible habit, it seemed, of merely grunting a response, when actual words would do better.

“Are you?” She felt relatively safe to ask, given that the classroom was alive with a hubbub of chattering and discourse about the proper way to brew whatever this potion was, and also because Ron and Harry were preoccupied with whether or not they needed to slice some kind of nut.

Malfoy couldn’t help the wry smile at the corner of his lips. “No. I am wondering if yesterday was a strange dream. I can’t seem to remember whether or not I woke up yesterday morning, you see, and then… I had quite an interesting conversation on the quidditch pitch, which also involved a fair amount of not talking with a witch who has, thus far, had no reason to be within ten yards of myself. So. You can understand my confusion.”

“Hush,” Hermione said quickly. Seemed like she would be perpetually blushing.

“Thought you didn’t have regrets.”

“I don’t. Lapses in sanity, perhaps.”

“Don’t think you were alone in that… doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself.” He smirked at her in such a self-satisfied way, that Hermione was rendered speechless for the second time. She merely stood, brushed the wrinkles from the front of her robes (the ones he liked), and rolled up her sleeves.

“What would you suggest for the first step?” she asked.

“Slughorn wrote the order of operations on the board,” Malfoy said softly as he rounded the corner of the desk, and came to stand beside her again.

“So he did.” She coughed lightly. “Well, then. You can chop the roots, and I will grind the…” Hermione searched for the small vial which apparently would hold bat talons. “...ah, yes. Thank you.” His fingers brushed against hers as he produced the ingredient.

“As you wish.” Malfoy took a small, slim knife in hand, and proceeded to split a jagged root down the middle. Elbow-to-elbow, they performed their tasks. After a time, Malfoy stirred the yarrow root into the cauldron with five counter-clockwise rotations of his wand. When it came time to add the bat talons, however, he grimaced at her mortar.

“Granger… this won’t do. They’re supposed to be ground until ‘resembling granules of fine sand’.”

“...that’s what I did.”

“This is the consistency of ash.” He pressed the tip of his pinky into the dust and held it up. Of course, he was right. She had purposely worked the pestle against each talon as if they had a grudge. But it meant they would have to be re-ground.

“So, I’ll do it again--”

“Allow me,” he chuckled. “Think you can be trusted to drop a whole bezoar into the cauldron without making a splash?”

“I could stuff a bezoar down your gullet,” she grumbled, but she passed off the bat talons to her partner.

“Next time I’m poisoned, I’ll owl you. Unless you’re planning to off me?”

“I’m considering it.”

He laughed--actually laughed, not because he was relishing her discomfort or chuckling at her expense. Like he was… enjoying himself. Malfoy deposited his perfectly ground bat talons into the cauldron, and gestured for Hermione to drop in the bezoar. She held her hand over the cauldron, but he pressed on her arm until she could feel the steam from the liquid on her forearm.

“Lower,” he said. “So it doesn’t disturb the surface. Ideally, it will drop straight to the bottom, and lay there until the very last stir.”

“What good does that do?”

He blinked at her. “Well… the bezoar eats away at the proteins which synthesize an acidic reaction between the yarrow root and the bat talons. We want that acidic reaction at the very end, to make the draught bubble. If the bezoar splashes into the potion, it will disturb the ingredients and the hellebore won’t intermingle with the… what?”

She was staring at him, jaw unhinged. Hermione shut her mouth. “I’ll just drop it in then, shall I?”

Malfoy nodded. Sure enough, the stone sank with minimal disturbance to the potion, and it could be seen clearly through the grey liquid. “Look at it--” he pointed to the stone-- "see those tiny bubbles around the base?” Hermione leaned over the lip. Sure enough, miniscule bubbles gathered around the surface of the bezoar.

“That’s the acid?”

“Mmhm.” He was very close to her, then. “You… this isn’t your favorite subject.”

“Um. No, no. I can brew adequately, but I… I don’t always know the reasoning behind the order of ingredients.”

“You should read more.”

Hermione gasped, but when she looked up at him, his eyes were glinting. She narrowed her own. “I read plenty, thank you very much.”

“Then, you should read different books. There are plenty of thrilling titles, if you need recommendations.” Malfoy de-veined the hellebore leaves and extracted the sap with the tip of his knife. He gestured to the final ingredient they needed to add, an oblong nut with faint white stripes down the shell. “Know what to do with that?”

Hermione glanced at the blackboard and the final step read thus: mascerate the hazelnut until a pulp. “...how are we supposed to do that? Masceration can take hours.”

“In this case?” He raised the nut to his lips and then popped it inside his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing--”

“Relax,” he said, though his speech was garbled. “When brewing a potion for oneself, it helps if the masceration is done with one’s own… saliva.”

“For… yourself?” Hermione’s head snapped to the board, to the one thing she hadn’t fully taken in yet. The title of the potion.

Draught of Consciousness: for two days of uninterrupted alertness

“Oh. Well. Could come in handy for finals.”

Malfoy turned his back to her for a moment and took the nut from his mouth. He used the pestle to insure that the nut was indeed pulpable, and then began to stir it in. He used his wand. As he agitated the mixture, the liquid began to bubble. It splashed onto the cuffs of his sleeve. When he removed his wand and set it on the table, he turned his back to her again.

“Should’ve rolled up my sleeves,” he breathed. Then, his shoulders hunched forward. Hermione noted the sudden change, and it took everything in her not to reach out for his elbow.

“What is it?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. He frowned deeply. “Don’t look,” he said. He unbuttoned his cuff. As he began to turn back towards her, Hermione looked at the cauldron, watching as the bubbles dissipated on the surface of their potion. He braced his hands on the table to inspect it, and out of the corner of her eyes… Hermione chanced a look.

She regretted it immediately. She couldn’t look away from the bit of skin which peeked out from his sleeve. When her breath caught, his attention snapped back to her, and he blanched.

“I told you not to look,” he spat.

Hermione felt weightless, floating. Panicked. She let her feet carry her out from between the bench and their table towards the professor. She must’ve asked him to be excused, or made some sort of explanation for needing to leave, otherwise he wouldn’t have patted her shoulder and said ‘by all means, we’ll see you next class’ and let her go.

She didn’t know where she was going, but when she came back to herself, she was standing on the wooden bridge, clinging to a post for dear life.

Of course he still had his mark. You can’t just cut out something like that--well, one could, but he hadn’t. It made sense why he didn’t roll up his sleeves to brew a bubbling potion. Why he told her not to look.

She felt her eyes well up, the moment the telltale click of his boots hit the wooden walkway. His pace slowed upon his approach. Hermione couldn’t decide what she felt about him finding her there, whether she wanted to hex him, or have it out with him for seven years of pain at her expense. But she did not expect him to touch her arm.

“Slughorn said our draught ‘exceeds expectations’,” he said softly. Why did he have to sound so sad? He attempted to hand her a small vial full of pink liquid, but she shook her head. “Suit yourself.” He pocketed the thing. Then, he sat against the railing beside her, with his arms crossed, cuffs firmly buttoned, and his back to the considerable view of the whole valley below. Malfoy just looked at her. Studied her face. She hoped he was noting the wet trails down her cheeks.

“If… if you want to call this quits, I understand,” Malfoy managed. “I don’t expect you to put yourself through this if it’s going to disturb you in this way.”

Hermione sniffled. “I’m not disturbed. I’m… heartbroken. Why didn’t we just get to be children?” A sob wracked through her, and her head fell to her chest. Unbidden, the boy beside her stood and she was engulfed in strong arms. “Why did you get branded?” she wept into his chest. “Who let that happen to you? Who let you mark yourself like that--”

“It was my choice.” His voice rumbled between his ribs, beneath her ear.

“No!” She pushed away from him. “I’m--gods, I won’t hear it. I don’t care. I just don’t want to see anything that reminds me of everything that happened--”

“Granger, it doesn’t work like that.” His face was forlorn, brow furrowed so deeply that he looked as if he had a headache oncoming. Malfoy’s mouth was twisted. He was pained by it, too. “But if I could take it off, I would. I… I didn’t want you to see it. But… if you want me to try to get rid of it, I will. I have to do what you say, remember? If you’ll stop crying, for Merlin’s sake.”

Hermione wiped her face on her sleeve, which made him wince and whip a handkerchief from his pocket. He brandished it towards her.

“I look crazy, don’t I?” She snatched the white kerchief from him. It was plain, not the sort of embroidered frippery she would expect of a Malfoy.

He shook his head. “You look much like how I feel.”

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted.”

“Who could blame you?”

She shook her head in disbelief and tried to quiet her breaths, which came fast and ragged. “What are we doing?” Hermione asked the question of herself, but she heard the sigh from him right away.

“Can’t answer that.”

“Why can I stand to be near you, now--and you, me? Why do I not want to banish you from my sight? Or…” She met his eyes, despite the fact that he was blurred in her vision. “Other things?”

He shrugged. “If you find an answer to that, let me know. I’m as puzzled as you.” He raised his hand, outstretched to her. The gesture made new tears flow. Still, she took his hand. Malfoy squeezed it. “Maybe we don’t have to figure that out today.”

“Okay.”

He pulled her until she stood between his knees, and then he sat on the rail again. His thumbs found the wetness of her cheeks, and he smoothed them away. For all intents and purposes, Malfoy ignored her sniffling, choosing instead to take his handkerchief from her and make sure she was done weeping. He pocketed his handkerchief. Then, he leveled his gaze with hers.

“There’s still a lot of time left in the day. Day One of seven, may I remind you.” He smiled softly. “What would you have me do?”

Hermione reddened. “I haven’t thought that far, to be honest.”

“This is supposed to be my penance. So you had better make it good.”

She did think, then. What, of all the things, all the possible tasks, would feel suitable? Not just suitable for a punishment--for Merlin’s sake, if she could ask him to do anything at all, what would it be?

“Far be it from me to tell you what to do,” he said, touching her shoulder, “but I have a feeling you could use some tea.”

“I could,” she groaned. “I’m famished.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

“You what?”  She feigned insult, but his assessment was spot-on.

“Come on, Granger. You are emotional, forgetful, and indecisive. It’s not trauma from the worst years of your life, all bubbling to the surface at once, no no. Don’t be daft. You’re hungry, and you haven’t had any tea.” He raised his eyebrows in question.

Hermione took the bait. “You should get me tea. And…”

“Cucumber sandwiches?”

“No. Chocolate biscuits. And then deliver them to my next class yourself.”

His eyes grew wide. “Well. That’s… horrifying.”

“You have to do it--”

He raised his hands in resignation. “I didn’t say I wouldn't, I’m just saying it’s cruel, and perhaps excessive. Chamomile?”

“English breakfast, two sugars.”

“Alright.” Malfoy stood, looming above her as he did, now that he had had his Summer growth spurt.

“Before you do, can I ask you a question?”

He crossed his arms and nodded, bracing himself for whatever she might say.

“Why did you kiss me, yesterday?”

“If I had an answer for that, I would supply it readily,” he said, though he was flushed. “But having done so three times, I cannot say that I wouldn’t do it again. If ordered to do so, of course.”

“Hmm. But only if ordered.”

“Right.”

“Hmm. Alright.” Hermione turned to go, but was spun on her heels by him grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back to him. He cupped her cheeks.

“Are you better, now?” He was deadly serious, looking over her face for any sign that she was still distressed.

She sighed. “I don’t know. I think I will be. Eventually.”

“Slughorn singled you out. He shouldn’t have done.”

“It’s not as if he mortified me. I have a reputation for being a difficult partner.”

“We have that in common.”

Hermione shook her head. “You were a dream.”

“A dream, eh?” The grin which took up residence on his face could be called shit-eating.

“Not a complete nightmare, at least.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Mm.” Slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away if she so chose, he lowered his face towards hers. He paused, centimetres from her lips. “Give the order. Please.”

“Why?”

“Because it would punish me exceedingly.”

“Liar.”

His kiss was sweet, gentle compared to what she believed him capable of. He did not linger, he merely set her on her feet again once he was certain that she had indeed quieted what panic had struck her during class. She was sure that wasn’t the last they’d speak of things which pained them both. But even more clear was the notion that she wasn’t dreaming. There was a pull. Daft as it was.

Malfoy stepped back from her. “What’s your next class?”

“Divination.”

He scoffed. “Of course it is. Don’t you hate Trelawney?”

“I didn’t give her a chance before.” The way Hermione felt about Sybill Trelawney had changed so immensely after the war. In no small part to the way Headmistress McGonagall had come to her defense against Umbridge. Part of her ‘new leaf’ this year was to give a chance to those she had written off… a pattern she was repeating with Malfoy.

“If you say so. Expect me there, prostrating myself with your tea, shortly after the bell.”

“Will I make you late to your class?” She smiled innocently, but that thought gave her no small amount of glee.

“It’s my free period. Didn’t want to take Divination,” he chuckled. He bowed, and turned on his heel--only to stop in his tracks. Hermione touched his elbow.

“What is it?”

“‘Mione?”

Slowly, Hermione peered around Malfoy’s hulking form. At the end of the bridge, two boys stood with their jaws affixed to the floor. Ron and Harry made startling likenesses of codfish. Hermione pushed at the small of Malfoy’s back.

“Go on,” she breathed.

She watched him retreat, dodging around her two friends as he went off to fulfill her orders. He looked back at her once he had cleared them. He saluted her, as if to say… ‘good luck.’

Hermione clasped her hands together and smiled brightly at the boys. “Let’s get moving, we’ll be late for Divination.” She strode to them. They opened like swinging doors to accommodate her, falling in step beside her hastening gait.

She would not explain herself to them, no matter what they asked. Hermione merely led the way to Divination. And when the class bell rang, and moments later Draco Malfoy appeared with a small tray, balancing a small teapot and saucer of biscuits… both boys could’ve been felled by a stiff wind. The Slytherin boy set the tray on Hermione’s desk, bowed to her for the second time that day, and begged Professor Trelawney’s pardon for disturbing her classroom. Then, he left.

Oh, but it was worth it for the abject silence which followed his departure, and the shock on her friends’ faces. It was indeed embarrassing, as the reddened tips of Malfoy’s ears had matched hers, but… so worth it.

Part 1

Part 3

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[real-jane]

AWtA: Patching You Up

(hermione x draco)

summary: draco shows up injured at the portrait to the 8th year combined dorm, which he was disallowed from joining as punishment for his role in the war. with parvati's help, he makes it to hermione, who has a lot to say about what happened to him.

warnings: draco was beat up, hurt/comfort, aftermath of injury

a/n: part 3 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

“Hermione!” Knocks sounded on her bedroom door.

The witch in question shot out of bed, throwing open the door to her room to reveal the bewildered face of Parvati with her arm raised to knock again. Her brunette hair was askew, with flyaways trying to escape her double braids.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked softly.

Parvati breathed out in relief. “Good. You’re awake. I’m fine. It’s just...”

“Yes? What time is it?” Hermione scrubbed her face.

"I silenced the hallway," Parvati said, ignoring the question. "Figured you wouldn't necessarily want an audience..." She stepped to the side, and gestured behind her. Against the stone wall opposite Hermione’s door sat a slumped figure--a tall person, who was folded in on themselves, but there was no mistaking that shock of white-blonde hair.

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione breathed. She knelt at his feet. He was in a bad way; she leaned his head back against the wall, but he had a gnarly slash through his eyebrow. His eyelid had swelled nearly shut. The purpling beneath the skin on his cheekbone would require a lot more than some bruisewort to break up the burst blood vessels, say nothing of the very real likelihood that his nose could be broken. Given that it hadn’t stopped bleeding, and he was currently ruining a handkerchief.

“Found him outside the portrait, nevermind why,” Parvati whispered, as if speaking at a normal volume would further damage Malfoy. “Didn’t seem to know where he was, but he said your name and then he collapsed. I’m going to have to burn this shirt.” She gestured to her top, which had a smear of a red-brown stain at the shoulder. Hermione knew that Parvati had snuck out between the time that Head rounds ended and Filch’s watch began. The telltale slide of her door unlatching had been the last thing Hermione heard before she fell asleep.

And now… well. That spectacular fascination Hermione had for Draco Malfoy seemed to have reared its head. Or taken a header.

Hermione sighed. “Thanks, Parvati… I’ll take care of him.”

“You sure? He is…” The girl seemed to be searching for the right word, one they both knew, and quite an apt descriptor for who Malfoy had indeed been, prior to May. Instead, she settled on: “...a boy. McGonagall will have a cow if she finds out he’s in the girls’ dorm.”

“Yes, well. I don’t think she’d like it much more if he were passed out outside the door. Help me get him up?” Hermione hooked one of Malfoy’s arms over her shoulder. Parvati did the same. He had not made any indication of being conscious, not until Hermione gripped him around the waist. He let out a faint hiss of pain. She exchanged a worried look with Parvati. They both struggled to stand. Malfoy listed forward.

“Hospital wing?” Parvati asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Couldn’t get him there at this hour without alerting Filch. Besides--do you fancy trying to walk him down three flights of stairs and across the castle? Bring him in here.” Somehow, he seemed even taller when he couldn’t hold himself up. Hermione was at least a head shorter than him, and Parvati even shorter. But together, they made it into Hermione’s bedroom, and rather unceremoniously dumped the injured boy onto her very small bed.

His head lolled against her pillow, and in the moonlight, Hermione could tell that the cut had at least stopped bleeding, though she couldn’t be certain if his nose had. His handkerchief had been lost to the boards beneath her bed. She propped his head up under a second pillow, but it was a great big cranium all told, and she would be sure to tell him once he was conscious again.

She pulled her wand out of her bedside table, touching the tip of the vine wood to his brow. “Episkey,” she murmured. The skin knitted together. He would have a permanent scar through his brow rendering him no less handsome than usual. She performed the same treatment on his nose and cheekbone. The swelling lessened, though he still wasn’t attempting to open his eyes. Hermione sighed.

“Thank the gods I won’t have to stitch him up.”

“I have some mugwort in my trunk. Shall I fetch it?” Parvati leaned back against the door with a peculiar look on her face. Hermione nodded, and the other girl slipped out of the room silently.

“Merlin.” She brushed hairs from his forehead, which had stuck there from the wound. His face needed cleaning, and then renervation was in order, so he could tell her what the hell had happened. He wasn’t in his uniform; he had chosen a simple mock-turtleneck and dark denim trousers, though his characteristic black boots remained. What had it been--she glanced at the little clock hanging over her bureau, it read about half midnight--a mere five hours since she had made eye contact with him across the Great Hall at Supper, attempting to convey how delighted she had been by his tea delivery in Divinations (and asking as many questions as she could about Alexei Krum to keep Harry and Ron well distracted)? What ill could have come to him in that time?

Parvati brought in a small box, which held a smattering of small vials meant for simple medicinal needs, including mugwort. “Thanks, Parvati,” Hermione smiled. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll give this back before breakfast.”

“What’re you going to do with him?” It was hard to see the whole of Parvati’s expression in the dim light, but she crossed her hands behind her back and swayed on her feet.

Hermione glanced at her patient. “I’ll think of something.”

“Mmm. Hermione--?”

“Yes?”

Parvati shook her head. “Nothing. I’ll see you.”

“Goodnight.”

“‘Night.” Once the other witch had slipped from the room, Hermione flicked her wand and locked the door.

It was an appropriate question to ask: what was she going to do with Draco Malfoy?

The mugwort smelled like fresh earth as she wetted her own handkerchief with the stuff. She dabbed at his cheekbone, and then up, across his forehead. Her hand hovered over his eyelid to give it the same treatment, but chilled fingers wrapped around her wrist. She dropped the makeshift rag. Malfoy stirred. His eyes flicked between the open first aid kit, and the bottle of mugwort, and Hermione’s look of concern. He hissed in pain; Hermione’s hand spasmed in his grasp, prepared to reach for her rag again and finish the job she had started.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” he breathed, peering at her through slits.

Hermione blinked. “You’re conscious.”

“Mm.” He squeezed her arm. “Help me sit up?” Malfoy’s hand slid up her forearm to grasp her elbow. She mirrored his posture, countering his efforts as he pulled himself up against the headboard. He winced.

“Gods, my ribs,” he gasped.

“Oh no, here.” Hermione touched his side with her wand where he indicated, and muttered the healing charm (which would do nothing for internal damage more extensive than a small wound, but she’d badger him about it when he had more energy). He instantly slackened in relief. Malfoy patted her forearm.

“Thanks.” He blew out a long breath. Hermione reached over him and flicked her lamp on manually, setting her wand to the side. Malfoy’s hand fell to her leg. Her stomach did a little somersault. She didn’t know what to say. Here was Draco Malfoy, in her room. He watched her.

He gestured to his face, which looked less swollen with every passing moment. “You can ask--”

“Didn’t seem polite.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up and he snickered. “So bloody proper.”

She blushed. “Yes, well. If you are out of danger, I would suggest going back to your room--”

“That’s what got me into this state, Granger.” He scoffed. “I wasn’t two steps into the common room, and boom. Wasn’t very sporting of them, all told.”

“In the boys’ common room?” she gasped. He shook his head.

“Slytherin commons. Wasn’t allowed to live with the eighth years in the combined dorm.”

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t know?” He flattened his palm on her knee as if to comfort her, though she wasn’t the one who had been attacked by her own housemates. Malfoy shrugged, but Hermione felt the anger rising in her chest.

“Anyway. They didn’t even have their wands,” he laughed hollowly. “Someone wearing a ring bashed my eye, Blaise probably. Hurt like hell.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t be sure who kicked me in the ribs, but they had grubby trainers. Quick, see if they left a footprint on my shirt. We can trace it back to the owner.”

“Malfoy--”

“What? I have to go back there. My wand is somewhere in that common room. If I’m lucky, it isn’t a pile of ash in the hearth by now, or being used as a pair of chopsticks.”

“They’ve got your wand--?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “Theo waved it in my face just before I passed out.”

“You have to go to Slughorn.”

“What could he do?” Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell. My ears are still ringing.”

“Here.” Hermione cupped the back of his head to ease the pressure off his neck. Then, she took a small vial from Parvati’s kit. He allowed her to tip the contents into his mouth, and she did her best to ignore how very soft his lips were on her fingers. He groaned.

“What was that?”

“Skele-Gro. With luck you don’t have any bones floating in your sinuses.”

“‘S foul. Thanks all the same. Maybe I’ll actually sleep tonight.”

“You can’t sleep there.” She stood and paced around the foot of the bed.

“I don’t have many other options, Granger.”

“Room of requirement?”

“Rather not, considering our last visit. Can you sit? You’re making me dizzy.” Malfoy patted the bed beside him, not at his feet where she had sat prior. Hermione indulged him, but she was vibrating with anger.

“You should’ve gone to the hospital wing,” she growled. “You had to pass it to get here.” He had the audacity to laugh, though it came out as a wheeze.

“Pomfrey wouldn’t have been half so fastidious.”

“You’re poking fun at me!” She tried to stand but he grabbed her hand.

“Sorry. Really.” He looked down at their fingers, intertwining them in a way she hadn’t fathomed could feel so intimate, but then--that’s how things were when it came to Malfoy. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each finger. She couldn’t help but melt against his side. When he straightened up again, Hermione’s body launched herself at him, of her own volition. She wound her arms around his neck, paying no mind to the soft oof! as he bore it. Malfoy held her for a long while.

“I’m alright,” he whispered when her breath caught.

“You were unconscious --”

“But, you fixed me up. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione sat back just enough to look him in the eyes. In the glow of her golden lamp, his irises shone nearly green.

Malfoy nodded once. “Never better.” He smiled at her, brightly for someone who had so recently been pummelled by his fellow students.

“You have a big head.”

“Mm. You flatter me.” His fingers trailed her jaw.

Hermione shivered unconsciously. “What inspired this attack? Is it payback?”

He cringed. “Uh, well. Yes. And… I hadn’t considered it prior, but it seems that my little charade in Divinations yesterday touched a nerve. The other members of my house now have confirmation that I’ve… defected, so to speak. So. It’s open season.”

“Gods--this is barbaric!”

“You’re quite upset for a few bumps and bruises—“

“If you’re about to tell me to ‘calm down’ Draco Malfoy—“

“Wouldn't dare.”

Hermione frowned. “But you don’t ‘need’ friends, huh?” She took his cheek in hand. “Change in plans.”

“Which plans?”

“Your ritualistic torture for my amusement. I have other ideas.”

“Hang on,” he chuckled, “I was enjoying the torture. “

“Good. Then tomorrow, you have to walk me to breakfast, and all my classes, and carry my books.”

He melodramatically pressed his hand to his forehead. “Oh no, how will I ever survive--”

“And you have to talk to Harry and Ron at breakfast.” For some reason which would give her amusement for a long time to come, he looked more concerned about the prospect of speaking with her two best friends than about the fact that might be attacked once again in the hallways by his fellow Slytherins. He nudged her chin.

“You’re maniacal.” His eyes softened at the corners, though he sobered. “Thank you for patching me up, Granger. If you want me to streak down the castle drive all the way to Hogsmeade to repay you, I’ll ask you to wait at the bottom with a coat, but I’ll do it.”

“What I want,” she said sharply, “is to get at least a few more hours of sleep, without worrying that you’re going to bleed internally. You know, you have such a bad habit of disturbing my sleep!” Hermione poked him in the sternum. And then, as an afterthought: “But that’s not a bad idea… I’ll add it to my list.”

“So far, your challenges have been pretty tame—“

“Tame!? You got pummeled for bringing me a pot of tea!”

“Nothing I’m not used to.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a masochist.”

“Do you?” His voice rumbled under her hand.

“Do I what?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Know better.”

She cleared her throat and patted her chest, prepared to act aghast at his insinuation, but he just shook his head in amusement. Malfoy looked around them, taking in the modest room she would be occupying the entire semester.

“Strange, Miss Granger. Your room. Would’ve thought you were more neat. Even you toss your robes over your chair at the end of the day.”

“I’ll have detention for a week if anyone finds out that you’re here.”

“Well. It’s a good thing I was going to leave under the cover of darkness, anyhow.” He lifted her from his side, slowly swinging his legs until his feet touched the ground. Malfoy paused, shoulder-to-shoulder with Hermione. She felt a bit of panic surge at the idea that he might be heading right back into the viper pit, but all he did was nudge her. She looked down at her knees to avoid his studious eye. Here she was, sat with a boy on her bed, in her favorite tartan sleep pants.

“Just…” Hermione swallowed her nerves. “What if you went to the Hospital wing in the morning?”

He leaned in close. “You worried about me?” His breath tickled her cheek. Hermione turned her head, and her nose brushed against his.

“...Unfortunately.”

“Mmm. It’s nice.”

“If you recall, that is why we're here.”

“Right. So.” He nuzzled her. “Perhaps this is all really your fault.”

Hermione sighed and rested her forehead against his. “Humor me?”

“You know I will.”

It was so easy to tilt up her chin, and she did so. His breath caught. Hermione pulled back sharply. “Sorry, you’re hurt—”

He gave her no chance to continue her apology. If his face still ached, it seemed he wasn’t about to let it stop him kissing her. He always began with a soft peck to her upper lip. It was a question he was giving her a chance to answer. There was no wondering with him, if he felt himself wandering in his mind on other topics. He was present. The only thing he had to do was kiss her. He worried her bottom lip, flickering his tongue against the plush skin. Her fingers curled into his arms, but it wasn’t satisfactory; she broke the kiss for but a moment to stand between his knees instead of side-by-side. For the briefest moment, the thought had occurred to her to pull him back onto the bed, but the idea had been frightened out of her head by panic. Cormac had tried that on her during the brief time that she had allowed him to be within ten feet of her body. She didn’t feel in danger with Malfoy, as she did with Cormac, as if things were on his terms alone. She felt alive. Like things might feel just a little bit easier, in general, if she memorized the sensation of his lips.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. That temporary madness struck her again, the kind which cleared her head of any rationality. Hermione greedily took his hair between her fingers. He hummed in appreciation. What she wouldn’t give for a peek inside his head. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t care. He was warm and sturdy and soft… just like she had dreamed.

A flash of regret hit her square in the chest at the remembrance of the prior day, and the revelation of his Dark Mark. She gasped and broke apart from him, though she still clutched at his shoulders for dear life. He looked puzzled, and his lips were red, as she was certain hers would be.

“Mm—Malfoy, I don’t know—“

“Granger,” he groaned. He pressed his face into her sternum and squeezed her tight. “Please don’t say it. Lord, I want to kiss you, and I am so tired of pretending to be surprised by it.”

It wasn’t so hard to agree, though she did so wordlessly, tracing circles at his nape. Hermione tugged at his collar so he would look at her. When he did so, she smoothed away the concerned wrinkle between his brows. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.

“I was just going to say…” Hermione cleared her throat to make room for the courage to take root, there. “I don’t think you’ll make it anywhere tonight without getting caught. So. If you want, you can… stay here.”

His eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. “Is it worth detention?”

“Look, it’s late and… and I’ll know that you’re alright, if you stay.”

“Hmm. Never slept in the same bed as another person.” He said it so innocently, but it made her heart race.

“You still won’t. I’ll sleep on the rug,” she laughed. Her cheeks flushed, and he shook his head.

“Now that I won’t allow.” He stood up, arms still looped around her back like they lived there. “My mother would disown me if she found out I let a girl sleep on the ground, while I took the bed. You know, if my father hadn’t already done so.”

She kissed him for that. An apology for something that was partly her doing, though she had no idea her fleeting instinct to grab for him during the battle would result in such a thing. He kissed her back as if to say, ‘it isn’t your doing.’

Hermione handed him over her quilt, which had been made of her old Gryffindor house robes by her mother (the delight in the idea of Malfoy sleeping under Gryffindor colors was a joy that would not be matched), and a spare pillow. He knelt down to take his ease. It took bracing himself on the mattress to do so, which meant he was close again. He found his handkerchief under her bed and scourgified it. Then, the boy settled on his makeshift bed.

She allowed herself to observe him… not as himself, per se, but as this strange phenomenon. He hadn’t looked like this boy before her in her Summertime dreams, and not just because he was currently boasting a shiner that would give any heavyweight boxer a run for his money. He was taller now, and strong from training all Summer. His hair was shorter too, more deliberate than it had been in May when had other things to occupy his thoughts.

In every dreamy moment, he had been an enigma to her. Some nights, he had pushed her arm away and taken up his place with his father at Voldemort’s right hand, but every single time, he had looked down at her first and said… thanks. His grey-blue eyes were sad, too. Sad to say it, or sad to go. Sometimes both. In one particular dream, he had asked her ‘why’, and as easy as breathing, she had tugged his arm until he bent close to her face and kissed him. In that particular dream, he had gone to Voldemort anyway, and she had woken up crying.

“Malfoy.” She leaned up on her elbow. He had been staring at the wall, but he rolled over.

“Hmm.”

“Why did you come here, instead of going to Madam Pomfrey?”

Malfoy kept her gaze unblinking. “You’re the only person in this castle who seems to care about me, in any conceivable way. The only thing I could think of when I came to was you.”

“This is… so strange.” She laid her cheek on her hand, which made it easier to gauge his expression as he watched her.

“I haven’t got anyone in the whole world, Granger. Except, suddenly… a You. Strange or not,” he sighed, “I’m not a fool. I know what I’ve done.” He reached out his hand to her. Hermione laced his fingers with hers. “But I’m going to try to make it right with you.”

“Against all logic and reason, it seems I have a mind to let you.” She smiled as his jaw slackened in relief. He rubbed her thumb with his.

“You do not know what it is to be touched so... sweetly, after all that has happened.”

“Don’t I?” Hermione sighed. “I’ve been starved for it.”

“Would you do so, where others could see?”

She felt a prickle that was equal parts anxiety and excitement to consider it--what it might mean to… be affectionate with another person again, as if it were nothing; holding hands down the hallways, kisses for luck before a quidditch match, the whole of it. Her relationship with Cormac hadn’t become known until after it was long over. What would it be like to have something to which other people would be witness?

“Forget I asked, I don’t know why I did it--” Malfoy made like he was going to release her and roll over.

“Wait!” She held fast to his hand. “I was just imagining it. That’s all.”

“You didn’t say anything. That’s not like you.”

She wrinkled her nose up at the jest. “If tonight is any indication, doing so would only put you at risk. Or… or open you up to ridicule.”

“I’m used to it. But if you’re not wanting--”

“Okay.”

He sat up. “You’re serious…”

“Sure. I’ll make it part of your penance, if that’s what you want, though I’m starting to think this is less about atonement for you.” She grinned. He crawled over to her and knelt beside the bed so he could hug her. She laughed into his shirt. “Tomorrow, you have to go to the Hospital wing, and walk everywhere with me, and hold my hand where other people might see you.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll forget about my having a conversation with your mates, in exchange for such a mercy.”

"You wish."

"What did you tell them after yesterday?"

"Nothing. I wouldn't answer their questions," she laughed.

He groaned. "So, I'm assuming I am to do that..."

“At least one part of this has to be torture for you.”

He kissed her hair and sat back on his heels. “What torture it shall be.”

“You are so dramatic. Go to sleep.”

Malfoy bowed. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

“Goodnight. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“I know.”

He slipped under the quilt once again, and Hermione turned out the light. The room was pitch dark, but it wasn’t loneliness which accompanied the dark this time. There was the slightly wheezy breathing from the boy on the floor through his healing nose, and eager anticipation for the morning to come. With it, a new challenge.

She stared up into the darkness. While Malfoy was being looked over by Madame Pomfrey before breakfast, Hermione would be having a conversation with a Slytherin. Either the head of house, or the one with the signet ring splashed in Draco Malfoy’s blood. Whichever she found first. One of them had better have Malfoy’s wand, too; if not, sitting beside Malfoy at breakfast wouldn’t be the biggest surprise she’d manifest tomorrow.

And then on to the Headmistress to demand a few more answers, and get him a room in the Eighth Year dorm with the rest of their classmates, where he could go to bed without worry. Otherwise he might become a permanent fixture in her room. Near her bed, even.

Hermione pulled her covers up to her chin. If he were still awake, there was no way he could see her red cheeks in the dark.

Part 2

Part 4

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[real-jane]

Truth or Dare (Day 4)

Part six of A Week to Atone, an eighth-year Hogwarts-era series

Masterlist

*

Summary:

An innocent game of Truth or Dare puts Draco's regret in harsh perspective, and neither of them can deny their physical pull any longer.

*

“Truth or dare?”

Her brow crooked up to punctuate the question, which had come shortly after their elbows met on the table at breakfast. Draco paused mid-sip.

“Is this a--”

“Just pick.” Hermione pushed away her plate, which instantly vanished.

Draco drank deeply from his cup. “Dare.”

“I dare you to approach Luna at the Ravenclaw table.”

Without the slightest hint of a pause, Draco rose from his seat. His fingertips tickled the hair at her nape as he passed by. Hermione shivered.

“Hermione,” Harry sighed around a mouthful of hotcakes, “Malfoy being around isn’t the worst thing, maybe even tolerable--”

Ron snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“--But surely you realize by now that he will do absolutely whatever you tell him to do, even if you instruct him to take a long leap from the pinnacle of the owlery.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Read more:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33671287#main

[real-jane]

Day Two: Public Display

Part 4 of A Week to Atone: an eighth-year Hogwarts-era Series

Master-list

***

Summary:

On the second official day of their agreement, Hermione and Draco are called into the Headmistress' office to discuss why four Slytherin boys were found scrubbing toilets in Moaning Myrtle's lavatory.

***

Draco had snuck out before the girls’ wing of the eighth year common dorm began to stir with morning machinations, but not before draping the quilt over Hermione. She had rolled over, bleary-eyed, and frowned at him. He had merely told her to go back to sleep, that he would see her at breakfast.

As good as his word, Draco waited for the bushy-haired Gryffindor just outside the Great Hall. She had appeared from the opposite direction than the combined common dorm, walking gingerly up to him and offering him her book bag. Draco slung the massive thing over his shoulder. The nerves over fulfilling her challenge of the day had only just begun to rise, but she dragged him into the Great Hall without ceremony. It didn’t give him any time to register whether or not other students were looking at them--of course, they were. When the two reached the Gryffindor table, Draco attempted to liberate a little bit of bench from beneath the table but it was tricky to move with students sitting on either side.

“Did you just try to pull the bench out for me?” Hermione murmured as the Slytherin sat beside her, straddling the bench so he could angle himself away from the rest of the gobsmacked Gryffindors. He smiled innocently, setting her bag between them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Read more:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32909884

[real-jane]

Patching You Up

Part 3 of A Week to Atone: a Hogwarts-Era Series

Master-list

***

Summary:

Draco shows up injured at the portrait to the Eighth Year combined dorm, which he was disallowed from joining as punishment for his role in the war. With Parvati's help, he makes it to Hermione, who has a lot to say about what happened to him.

***

“Hermione!” Knocks sounded on her bedroom door.

The witch in question shot out of bed, throwing open the door to her room to reveal the bewildered face of Parvati with her arm raised to knock again. Her brunette hair was askew, with flyaways trying to escape her double braids.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asked softly.

Parvati breathed out in relief. “Good. You’re awake. I’m fine. It’s just...”

“Yes? What time is it?” Hermione scrubbed her face.

"I silenced the hallway," Parvati said, ignoring the question. "Figured you wouldn't necessarily want an audience..." She stepped to the side, and gestured behind her. Against the stone wall opposite Hermione’s door sat a slumped figure--a tall person, who was folded in on themselves, but there was no mistaking that shock of white-blonde hair.

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione breathed.

Read more:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32799025

[real-jane]

The Loser (Day 3)

A Week to Atone: A Hogwarts-Era Series

Masterlist

***

Summary:

Draco fails Hermione's challenge to win the match against Gryffindor, but she helps him get over it with an afternoon swim in the chilly Black Lake. She realizes what she's been trying to ignore since the start of the seven-day challenge: attraction is mutual.

***

She leaned against the doorway from the field (which led back to the locker rooms) and waited. The match had ended with a spectacular win--for Gryffindor. Harry had not only caught the snitch, but done so in the first ten minutes of play. Draco had been knocked in the shoulder by a glancing bludger--potentially hit towards him by his own team--and had laid on the field while Gryffindor did a victory lap, staring at the sky.

He had failed his challenge for the day. Not like Hermione begrudged him the loss, but it was the first of the week that his victory hadn’t actually been assured. She had, for lack of a better term, thrown him soft balls those first few days. Holding her hand, bringing her some refreshments… child’s play. Assuring a win for his quidditch team turned out to be a step too far.

When he finally emerged from the locker room, well after Hermione had shooed away her victorious friends to attend their win party, he dragged his feet. His hair was wet from a long post-game shower, and he carried his gear bag like it weighed a hundred kilos. Draco stopped walking when he saw her. Hermione straightened up and smiled with a wee wave. He sighed.

“How’s your shoulder?” She reached for it as he approached, but he dodged out of her grasp.

“Failed, didn’t I?” Draco walked past her. “Shoulder’s no worse off than my pride.”

Hermione skipped to catch up. Once she was in stride with him, he peered down at her. So he was brooding--she could handle it. Couldn’t hold a candle to Ron when he was in a real mood, stomping around and huffing. One sullen Malfoy was nothing.

Read more:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33153067#main

[real-jane]

A Week to Atone: a Hogwarts-Era Series by realjane

Masterlist

***

Summary:

Day One of Draco's week of atonement. Draco follows through with Hermione's challenge, but a bigger conversation is afoot.

***

She smiled all the way back to the castle, as Harry filled her in on which first years had been sorted into Gryffindor, and who looked especially promising for quidditch draft picks, a subject that was as banal as it was unimportant to her. She smiled as they passed under the archway and the massive clock. She smiled as she unloaded her trunk in the eighth year dorm, which afforded her her own room and a striking view of the Black Lake from the east. She smiled as she changed into her denims and a light jumper.

And then she went into the girl’s lav, which was a shared affair amongst the eighth years and looked herself in the mirror--her lips weren’t any more pink than usual, but she knew where they had been--and she was hit with wave after wave of icy regret.

Read more:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32755705

[real-jane]

🥰🥰🥰🥰

Thank you thank you!! Your commentary had me giggling. 💕 welcome!!

A Week to Atone: Day Zero

(hermione x draco)

summary: hermione and draco make an agreement--draco will do what she wants for one week, as penance for his past treatment of her. and after? who knows?

warnings: draco is pining for hermione, divergence from canon, most students come back after the war, hermione and draco share one singular brain cell

a/n: part 1 of 'a week to atone', my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. i'm moving this little series to tumblr because it's such a better format for short-form series! i will also get back to consistently updating it to get us through the full week of draco's penance ;) enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

If the closest he could get was a brush of her fingers against the back of his hand, Draco was going to savor it.

New school year, laced with the anxiety of returning to the castle after it had survived a catastrophic battle… and she had found him, just for a moment, while the crowd filed into the Great Hall. Two knuckles, three max. Her burgundy lips pursed to whisper something, but no chance to do so unheard. Her two barnacles tore her away towards the Gryffindor tables, leaving Draco to wander over to his respective house’s tables and try to find a hospitable seating arrangement, away from his fellow eighth years. It was not to be--instead, the only seat he could find positioned him with his back to his former cohort of friends, where he could hear every word of their insufferable banter.

But he watched her.

Aphrodite was a roadside attraction on the way to beauty, compared to Hermione. At some point in the months since had last seen her, he had begun to think of her with a choking sort of longing, and it was magnified tenfold to be so near to her again.

She must have ordered new robes--he had seen a set just like the ones she wore in the window of Madam Malkins’ shop, and admired the cut of the high collar. It was a new style, one which didn’t require a button-up shirt or tie beneath it with the way it buttoned at the neck; the house colors could be seen in the intricate piping and thread which finished the garment . Most of the other eighth year girls wore the traditional style, allowing them to show off tops which barely passed decency requirements, and skirts worn scandalously short. Which, though fetching, threatened to send the Headmistress into a fit. The golden girl seemed unconcerned by such a charade. And it had him gulping punch by the gallon to see her so poised, so very much her own figure of grace.

Potter leaned over to whisper something which made her laugh, and the Weasel seemed to be striking up the courage to try the same, angling in like he might, and then shaking his head faintly. She hadn’t even looked at Draco since the brief greeting, but he wished she would chance one glance.

Maybe he had imagined it. The faint touch of her skin… maybe it was an accident. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. This fixation was driving him mad.

It had been… one hundred and twenty-one days. He had been dreaming lately about the press of her forearm against his chest… stopping him from joining the Dark Lord when he had called out to him. What felt hazy and unspecific in his dream-state was crystal clear in his memory of that day that the Great War came to an end. She hadn’t even looked at Draco. Just extended her arm in his path, and faintly shook her head. So, he didn’t go. And when his father had threatened him-- ”Think twice, my boy, or you’re dead to me.” --her hand had found purchase in his jumper and stayed him.

He didn’t know why he had let her keep him there. When the fighting was done, and much of the great castle ruined, she had disappeared into the throng of students, leaving Draco to be set-upon by several members of the faculty, expressing their concern and hollow encouragements, alike.. He had never spoken two words to Hermione Granger without malice in the whole of their acquaintance, but her arm pressing into his chest had… probably saved his life.

He couldn’t stop watching her raise her goblet to her lips to sip, now that they were in the same room again.

“Which of the two do you think the Mudblood’s shagging?” a low voice behind him murmured. Draco’s blood immediately rose into a protective fervor.

“McLaggen said she’s a boring shag.”

“Who does she think she is in those robes?”

“Bet Potter paid for ‘em.”

“She’s not fooling anyone. Barely has tits to fill robes like that, nevermind an arse of any value--”

“Gods, don’t make me think about her naked!”

“Nauseating, isn’t it?”

“Wish she’d do us all a favor and kill herself--”

The time it took to make Blaise Zabini eat slugs and Theodore Nott’s nose collide with the table blurred, but Draco was on his feet with his wand drawn and panting. Pansy shrieked beside Nott as blood gushed from his face, doing what little she could to stop the bleeding with the sleeve of her nobes.

“What have you done, Draco?” Pansy spat.

He said nothing. Just breathed… and then he felt the prickling of hundreds of sets of eyes settling on the back of his neck.

He ran.

***

And then, because he couldn’t go back to his dormitory--not after attacking two of his housemates, in front of the entire student body--Draco suited up into his training kit in the locker room and jogged laps around the quidditch pitch.

It was only after his knees started to buckle from the exertion that he took a pause, bracing himself to catch his breath against one of the goal posts, and he saw her again.

She was seated in the Slytherin stands, tearing off and eating small pieces of a dinner roll. She didn’t really acknowledge him much when she realized that he had seen her. Just nodded. Against his better judgment, and the crippling pang of panic that shot through him, he approached. He paused at the railing which separated the stands from the field and leaned against it. Back to her.

A breadth of silence passed before she spoke.

“Don’t like being back,” Hermione said softly.

“...hmm.”

“The castle looks like it never happened. Apparently there are engraved stones in the courtyard for… everyone who died… but. I don’t like it. Being here. Feels wrong.”

Draco could not have agreed more. He nodded. Couldn’t articulate his agreement beyond that. Hearing her voice was strange, and even more so when the words she spoke were to him.

“You’re playing this term?”

His head spun to gape at her. “...what?”

Her cheeks reddened. “You’re... running on the pitch. So I had assumed--”

“Seeker,” he managed. “Earned my spot back in summer trials.”

“Ah.”

They looked away from each other quickly.

“I’m shit on a broom,” she admitted so softly he almost missed it.

The memory came unbidden of their first year with Madam Hooch, when Hermione could not make her broom obey her commands, no matter how many times she ordered it to do so. A memory which used to live in his mind as a reminder why Gryffindors were useless… now a warm recollection of seven years ago. He huffed a slight laugh. “I remember.”

“Haven’t improved since first year. Brooms shudder in my wake.”

“The world shudders in your wake,” he said. Oh, if only he could stuff those words right back in his mouth. Her face fell, and she twisted her mouth to keep back whatever emotion he had conjured up. “I--that’s not, um. Not how I meant it.”

She sniffed, but she nodded. “How… um. Sorry.”

“What for?”

“I was going to be intrusive.”

“Um. Go… ahead. Go ahead. With whatever you were going to say.” Draco jammed his hands in his pockets and readied himself for whatever payback he had coming.

“How have things… been, for you? Since the battle and everything.”

“Uh--well--”

“Sorry, I don’t even know why I asked--”

“You’re the first to ask, honestly.”

Her eyes found his then, and she looked… hurt. She frowned. “The first?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody asks you how you are?”

“Granger,” Draco sighed. “Do I look like I have any relationship that survived the war? Any at all?”

“You… don’t seem to be on good terms with Blaise or Theo.”

Draco blanched. “You didn’t hear what they said?” he said quickly. She shook her head and Draco carded a hand over his face in relief. “No. I don’t ally myself with purists anymore.” Not a one. Not even his mother, though she wrote him twice a week begging for some kind of conversation to occur.

Hermione gestured to the bench beside her and waited for him to elaborate.

He took the invitation readily, hauling himself up between the bars, but he sat as far from her as he could while still remaining polite. “I probably reek,” he said, more to himself than anything. She didn’t confirm or deny that fact.

Draco looked down at his hands. Like his father, he had long fingers, but he was much stronger than Lucius Malfoy had ever been. The man looked down on sport. It was the one thing that belonged only to Draco, and it showed--especially after a summer of training and fighting to earn his place back on the Slytherin team. It had probably helped his case that the other members of his former posse were disallowed by the Headmistress from rejoining the team. In any case, it was… because of her that he was even there.

“You ruined my life, Granger.” Draco sighed, leaning back against the bench one step higher from theirs. Hermione’s posture was fixed, and she kept her eyes on him, but she was confused and biting back some kind of unbidden emotion. Still, she nodded for him to go on.

“If it weren’t for you, I would have gone to him. I would have. I wasn’t… strong enough to say No to him. I… guess I want to know why you did it.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. Hermione turned her head towards the whole of the quidditch pitch, but her eyes searched as if they were replaying the memory over again.

“There has to be a reason--”

“There isn’t. You were just suddenly… there. Next to me, and I saw you start moving, and independent of my will, my arm raised up to stop you.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s just…” She stopped. “You should have had a choice.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ve been horrid to you. Worse--”

“Yes, well. Even little bullies make mistakes.”

“Granger…”

“Did you want to join him?”

“No! I don’t know--”

“Because I distinctly remember you telling Crabbe not to kill Harry in the Room of Requirement! If anything that proves--”

“That doesn’t prove anything! The Dark Lord gave an order, and I wasn’t about to go against him--he had my mother.”

Hermione stood and plonked herself down on the bench right next to him, in his space, and stuck her finger in his face. “We all did what we had to do!”

“You didn’t have to save me.”

“Yes I did.”

“No, you could’ve let me walk across that courtyard--”

“What would I have gotten out of that?”

He grasped her wrist to try to force her out of his personal space, but he couldn’t help but hold fast to her skin at the first opportunity to touch her. “You? I’ve been a loathsome, vile, evil little cockroach, remember?”

“I got my revenge back then. Letting you go back to Voldemort would’ve been excessive!”

Draco winced to hear that name again, hard enough that it frightened this strange companion of his into action. She gripped his shoulder with her free hand. “Sorry, I didn’t think--"

“Stop apologizing to me, for Merlin’s sake!” Then, his hands were on her cheeks, and his pupils flicking back and forth between hers. “Stop,” he said softly. “Please. I can’t bear it.”

She pursed her lips to go on, as she always did, and for the second time that day, Draco took action before his brain could catch up. She hummed in surprise against his mouth, but she was so soft. Pliant, and devastating. He kissed her, and he kissed her. He let all good sense dry up in his mind, and he said what he had been holding onto for one hundred and twenty-one days: thank you.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, and he realized he was pressing his forehead to hers.

He shivered involuntarily to hear her voice, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Managing expectations.”

“Sorry, you’re what?” Amusement colored her tone.

“I have been dreaming about what you did for months now, and trying to muster the courage to write to you, something. And you’re just here. Apologizing to me. I won’t have it.” Draco let himself curl forward, as his body wanted to do, and he pressed his face into the shoulder of her exquisite robes. I’ll only allow myself to dream one minute more, he thought. But her arms came up around his shoulders.

“What is happening?” Hermione whispered.

“Don’t know.”

“Malfoy, look at me--” She urged him to do so by taking his cheeks in hand as he had done hers. Her eyes were shining. “Are you alright? Truly?”

He rose up and sat tall, but her hands stayed affixed to his face. Her thumb even traced his jaw. “I… you’re touching me.”

A slight smile tugged at her lips. “Mhm.”

“People don’t do that. To me.”

“I’m getting that.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders. “May I be intrusive once more?”

“You could knock me over with a quill feather at this point, but go on, if you must.”

“You… you need friends.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You got in a fight at breakfast with your two best friends--”

“Former. And I was justified.” Draco stood, stepping away from her grasp. He leaned against the railing on his elbows. He scratched his cheek. His lips were tingling. “They were slagging off someone.”

“Who would warrant a belly full of slugs and a broken nose?”

Draco glanced at her pointedly. Immediately her cheeks flushed pink, and her fingers raised to her lips.

“I’m glad you didn’t hear them. I doubt they’ll try anything with you directly--cowards, the lot of them. I might have to sleep in the broom shed, but…” he trailed off. “I don’t need friends.”

“Do you want them?”

He rolled his eyes. “Semantics.” Her fingers curled into his elbow and she was there, again, in his space.

“It’s okay if you do, I mean… I’d do it.” Her face was turned up towards his, and she was pleading, and for what he didn’t fully understand.

“I don’t need your pity, Granger. You have two mates that I’m sworn to loathe, and being seen with me would ruin any notoriety you’ve gained from your heroics. It would ruin us both.” But he covered her hand with his, anyway. “Besides… I have seven years of monstrosity to make up to you.”

She shook her head. “Make it up to me in deed, then. One week of doing what I ask of you.”

“A week?”

“One day for every year.”

“And… after this proposed week?”

“We’re friends.” She turned her hand beneath his so she could squeeze it. Her gaze kept falling on his lips, and Draco felt a bolt of pride shoot through him to know that she was just as affected as him. He let himself do what he had done in haste before. She pressed up on her toes to return affection, which was blooming like a rose in the desert--from nothing, for nothing, but somehow they both seemed mesmerised by it.

“I don’t kiss my friends,” he whispered against her lips.

“Not sure how we got here,” she admitted. “I didn’t come here to kiss you. Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it, but...”

“Why did you?”

“You… you were the only person in that hall who looked how I feel. Everyone else seems content to just leave the war behind them, and I just… wanted to see. If I wasn’t the only one still living through it.”

Draco brushed a lock of hair off her temple where it had fallen out of her messy bun. “Surely Potter isn’t unscathed.”

“He’s so zen, it’s infuriating. If he isn’t, he’s not telling me.”

“And the Weasel?”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“The nicknames.”

Draco sighed. “What about Ronald Weasley, then?”

“He’s just Ron. I don’t think it will all really hit him until Christmas, when… the party is significantly smaller. But. For now, he’s same old Ron.”

“Weren’t you two… a sure thing?” He hated himself for intimating that he had observed such a preference in the past, but there wasn’t much room for masking anything with her pressed against him.

“I don’t kiss my friends,” she mimicked, wrinkling up her nose at him. “But no. We weren’t. He thinks I’m brooding.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, but I don’t like being accused of it.”

“Granger… what happens if I say no to your little proposal. Is this spell broken?”

She shook her head, and removed herself from his personal space, though he still held fast to her hand. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He yanked her back to him. “Please don’t.”

“Then… say yes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “One week.”

“Seven days. You do what I say.”

“And…”

“And we both feel better about this.” She gestured between them. “Once the week is up, it’s your choice. We can go our separate ways. If you want.”

“What… what sort of torture do you have in mind?”

“Well…” And then, she bit her lip, studying him through narrowed eyes. “Tomorrow, you have to volunteer to be my partner in Potions. I happen to know that you’re very good, and I need to get an O on my final exams this year if I want to get an internship at St. Mungo’s after graduation”

“Using me? Already?” Draco pretended to be aghast but his heart surged. “But this arrangement, if agreed upon, only lasts for a week. I’d still be your partner the whole term.”

She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Is that a yes?”

“What else do you have in mind?”

“No more hints! Is that a yes or a no?”

“Oh, what the hell. I have no dignity left. Sure, Granger. I’ll be your errand-boy for a week, as my penance, for seven years of unbridled bullying, and general ugliness.”

Hermione took hold of the front of his jersey in her fist and hauled him along the first row of the stands, until they were concealed beneath the large green and black tapestries, which protected the staircase to the upper levels from the elements.

“Where are you taking me?” he chuckled, despite the insistent feeling that he was doing something very wrong by being near to her. Hermione hiked herself up on the railing so they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“Do you want to kiss me again?” she asked breathlessly.

“Is this your first day’s order?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. Tomorrow is day one. Today, I’m just me, and you’re just you.”

“You’ve never been ‘just’ anything,” he replied, but he stood between her knees and looped his arms around her waist to stabilize her. “I like these robes. By the by.”

“I look so silly--nobody else likes them! Ginny said I look like a swot.”

“I’m inclined to disagree with the Weasley’s on principle. You look elegant.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I hope you don’t forget it.”

She sank her fingers into his hair and pulled him forward. Her mouth--those sweet burgundy lips that he had hoped were trying to whisper to him--it was perfect and gentle. He hadn’t kissed anyone in such a long time. Thrice in one day wasn’t his highest record, but he was content to strive for a new personal best if this witch continued to insist on it. She kissed him like tongues were a secondary matter, and like memorizing every part of his lips was all she had ever lived for. She kissed like she had no thought of ever stopping. He knew they shouldn’t, that it was madness that they were, especially now, but Gods… maybe nothing else mattered while they were. Time could pause, and history turn a blind eye, and two people could just kiss like they had all the time in the world.

“Hermione?” Harry Potter’s distant voice called from somewhere on the opposite side of the pitch, likely near the Gryffindor stands. Draco ripped his lips away from hers, but Hermione chased him. She gave him three languid kisses. Then, she hopped off the railing.

“See you at supper,” she murmured. Draco stole another kiss for the road, which made her laugh and bat him away. As she disappeared down the staircase and ran across the pitch, he could hear her speaking to her oldest friend. He squatted down, rubbed his hands over his face, and breathed out. Hard.

Seven days, huh? What’s the worst she could do to him?

Part 2

tag list: @adecila

[real-jane]

Thank you so much 🥺

AWtA: Things I've Done

(hermione x draco)

summary: hermione and draco share their most intimate selves.

warnings: this is gentle, poetic smut. both h and d are over the age of 18.

a/n: part 7 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. this is a long time coming--thank you for your patience. and enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

He didn’t want to make an event of it, touching her.

He hadn’t brought her back to his room to put on slow, thrumming music, and charm her the way Blaise always used to boast he did in his Summertime trysts. Now that she was inside his bedroom, Draco was fairly certain he had lost all sense. Did he want her there? More than he wanted peace, or a restful night’s sleep. Especially after her admission. But Draco was also cognizant of what more might change if she consented to other than just kissing--an act which had him staving off arousal in broad daylight just thinking about her lips. And there was the very real issue that he wasn’t sure how to be intimate with a girl and then convince her to stay around. Even Pansy had grown bored with him once their flash-in-the-pan attraction had finally come to fruition. Hermione was not the sort of girl easily won, nor easily impressed. Gods forbid she cast him aside… he wasn’t quite sure how he’d survive it.

Which is why Draco sat her down on the end of his bed as soon as his door was locked and the room silenced, and knelt at her feet. She smiled at him.

“This is alright, isn’t it?” he asked softly. Hermione nodded.

“Do you like your room?”

“I’ve hardly spent any time here. Someone has kept me up studying all hours.” Draco preened under her touch as she brushed an errant lock of hair from his forehead. He was instantly covered in goosebumps. And then he was dumbstruck by the sharp realization that he could not go a step further until he clarified something--a thought which had taken root in his mind when he had spent an evening on her bed.

“Granger--Hermione...” He sat up on his knees so he could ingratiate himself between hers, a hare’s breath from her lips. “You have… um.” Draco cleared his throat. Why was he so suddenly choked by nerves? “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“It is hard for me to say what I’d like to, but… I want to talk before we move past talking into not talking, more than we already have.”

She was clearly trying not to laugh, and she nodded. “Alright. You want to know if I’ve ever not talked before.”

“It seemed ungentlemanly to ask it.”

“I have.”

“And… you can say, then, what you absolutely do not enjoy, or even that you want to--”

Draco trailed off into the palm of Hermione’s hand, which had stayed his lips, but not his sentiments. Her irises were flecked with bands of gold and bronze, whetted by a single measured blink. Then, she let one sound escape her lips, and Draco’s heart leapt. It was a miniscule whimper, which caused her to cling to his shoulders like she hadn’t meant him to hear it. Her ankles locked behind his back, too. But Hermione whispered her admission against the curve of his temple, and his fingers shook from where he had concealed them in the fabric of her skirt.

“I know who I am,” she murmured. “I may not be… quite as knowledgeable as other girls, and Cormac McLaggen was not gallant, but--”

“That ponce didn’t know what he had,” he scoffed. His breath grazed the soft turn of her neck. Her tendon jumped beneath his lips as she swallowed. Draco was dizzy, and doing a poor job at keeping to his tenuous boundary.

“What if...” Hermione was lost in the headiness of the moment--kissing, but not kissing, embracing but not touching as he wanted to--as she wanted him to. He squeezed her hands--tiny and perfect, soft. He leaned over her until he could rest his cheek on her stomach.

“Hmm?” Tell me, he willed her. Trust me.

When she finally said what was choking at the back of her throat, he had to hold his breath to hear it.

“Do you promise this won’t change anything?”

Draco wound his arms fully around her body. He wanted to absorb her pain, to tell her that what she had said broke his heart. Not only would this--whatever it was going to be--not change how much he needed her, it would afford him maybe the first taste of gentleness he had ever known. No--Draco wanted to give.

It didn’t make him want her less, to know she was worried that it might. It made him want to live up to the challenge he had accepted half a week ago. He never would’ve sought the title for himself, but on the behalf of Hermione Granger, he would be gentle. Maybe not Good like she thought, but… maybe he could make her feel like everything she felt was alright. If she wanted it. Wanted him.

So, Draco remained quiet. He lifted her, kneeling on the bed as he could with her hauled up against his chest; Hermione’s shirt rucked out of her waistband, and she clasped at his shoulders for dear life, and he knelt with one knee between hers. Her gaze flicked between his lips and eyes in confusion. She clearly expected some kind of grand reaction from him… and not the way he pressed himself closer.

“I’ll hold you,” he whispered. “As long as you need.” She melted into his hold. “And if anything will change, it won’t be this.” He kissed her. “This is for us. Nobody needs to know.”

She frowned. “I’m not ashamed of you. If… if people suspect, so what?” Hermione took his face in her hands. “I’ve never been accused of subtlety. But I don’t want you to feel differently.”

“I… Granger, that’s--” Her heart was galloping under his thumb, and it matched the way his own raced. “If you’re worried that being gifted your closeness will make me not want it anymore, bloody hell. I may be a masochist, but that is cruel and unusual.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Okay?” He blinked several times. “Okay… as in--”

“Okay. Alright, I---I trust you.”

“I don’t know why you would, but I will take it.” Draco shifted them like she was part of him, sitting back against his headboard and stretching his legs out between hers. “If it’s all the same… maybe you’d feel more comfortable if we were to continue operating in the Truth or Dare conceit.”

“Thought you said you’d do it without being dared.”

“Surely you have realized by now how much I enjoy being at your mercy. And I happen to know that you like me that way. But if you’d rather skip it--”

The girl on his lap blushed, but she shook her head. “I fear how quickly you’ve figured me out.”

Draco folded his hands innocently behind her hips, and raised an eyebrow.

“Truth or Dare?” she breathed.

“Truth.”

“Do you really like me?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “In all ways.”

“My hair?” He tilted his head back like he needed any time at all to consider just how glorious her beautiful hair was. Draco tilted her chin up, turned her head…

“It’s incredible.” His hands dwarfed her face, but his slender fingers carded through her hair, which made Hermione gasp. The part of him which wanted to please her purred.

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you…” She smiled softly. “To unbutton your shirt.”

Draco’s hands felt foreign to his arms, but he did as she asked. But not before letting his fingers trail from the pleasing curve of her arse and down her thighs. She bit back a shiver. He thumbed the buttons free until the plackets were fully separated. She had seen him sans shirt the day prior, it wasn’t as if that particular patch of skin was new to her, but her eyes narrowed.

Brushing her thumb up his sternum, Hermione gasped. “You, um… I didn’t really notice yesterday. Is this from--” She found the scar, which bisected his chest, massaging it softly.

“Your friend Potter gave that to me in a lavatory,” Draco said darkly. “And--ah! It’s more sensitive skin than the rest, so be gentle.”

“Hmm. Truth or dare?”

“Blanket dare from here on out. Tell me what you want of me.”

“Unbutton mine.”

Draco’s fingers crept between the pleats of her skirt and up her legs once more, until reaching the hem of her shirt. Hermione grasped his wrists for a moment. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“He hurt you.”

“Now, now,” he chuckled, despite the brimming feeling of pride in her wrathful gaze. “You can’t avenge all my demons.”

“Watch me.” She yanked his wrists, and the bottom two buttons of her top popped their threads. Draco wound his hands tighter in the fabric, made bolder by her nails prickling into his forearms--then he finished what she had started. Buttons flew. Hermione gasped, and smiled.

“Plenty of things--people--could’ve ended me before Potter tried,” Draco murmured into the crook of her neck. “Are you going to confund them all?”

Hermione tugged his chin until he looked up at her. “I would do a great many things. For you.”

His irises flicked between hers. “I should have killed my aunt for what she did to you, Granger. Right there in the great room, consequences be damned. I’ll forever see you lying there, whenever I close my eyes--”

He couldn’t speak any more but for her lips on his, and he hummed into her mouth the apology which had sat heavy on his tongue.

“I forgive you,” she sighed, and he realized his hands had made their own way to the curve of her waist and upwards.

Draco remembered himself, then--why he was there, in his room alone with the girl who had been the fixture of every good and bad dream in his memory, ready to rend fabric for a chance to touch her skin. People like him didn’t get third chances. At anything. He had one life, one miserable and meaningless life--but if Hermione Granger wanted to take a bite out of him, then he was the luckiest wizard on that sorry planet. He would be a fool to do else but worship her.

He graced the rounded softness beneath her breasts like he shouldn’t have the right to. She nuzzled his cheek, both of them drunk by the unhurried and yet thrumming energy running from his skin to hers.

“Touch me like there was never a question that you could,” she whispered.

Draco’s heart ached, and she was nestled against the most responsive part of his body… he kissed her, as she asked. With lips that tugged like there was never a war between them. Whispering a prayer to how soft she was.

“The fact--oh my gods,” his head fell back as she grazed the pinpoints of her nails over his scarred torso. “...that I can, that you want me to…”

“So mouthy, Malfoy.”

Against his will, his mirth bubbled out in a chuckle. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish his sentiment before she devoured him--or whatever she had planned, at that point he would let her talk him over the edge of a cliff. He pushed her top from her shoulders, but kept her hands trapped by the fabric at her sides.

“The fact that there was ever a time I couldn’t makes this sweeter.” He hooked a finger beneath the strap of her bra and coaxed it slack, so the cup threatened to fall. Draco kissed a freckle at the upper curve of her breast. Her breath made her skin rise up to meet his lips again, once, twice--he laved the spot with his tongue. “Everything about you is sugar.”

Her left strap met the same fate as the right, and Draco was over-the-moon to discover that the lovely lace bra had a front closure.

“I’m not edible,” she breathed as the little gem snapped between his fingers.

“Debatable.”

Draco ran hot, it was an inevitability of being an athlete in top form and a brooding serpent, but he still rubbed his palms together to ensure his skin was warm enough. For good measure, he grabbed blindly for his wand on the side table, and charmed the room warmer. Hermione was flushed like she was nervous, embarrassed, but she just watched him with those beautiful eyes. He waved his hand. She did as he asked, laying back on his quilt, but she curled her fingers into his shirt and tugged.

If Draco died at the end of the week, he would go to his grave with the memory of her gasp as he pulled the lace from those perfect breasts. He settled between her legs, nevermind the groan that involuntarily escaped his lips to feel how warm she was there. Hermione’s heels settled behind his thighs. She rolled up into him.

“Kiss me,” she breathed. “I’m a little… um--”

“Happily, even if that’s all you want--”

“I’m just nervous, but--mmph!”

Now, Draco couldn’t have that. Nerves consuming her, taking over her mind. No, madam. He took an inventory of the little nervous sounds she made--he loved them almost as much as the certainty in her voice in telling him she wanted more. Her bottom lip was his favorite--lush, more swollen than usual with his attention to it--and her top lip sealed the oaths away that he was ready to make to her. Who was he kidding? He had already made one four days prior. Being at her mercy would be his pleasure--hers. If ‘mercy’ meant touching every inch of her skin.

“Still nervous?” He asked as she pushed at his shirt almost frantically, like the garment had personally offended her.

“I can be nervous and want you. I’m a complex girl. Can you please take this off? It’s robbing me of looking at your Seeker arms.”

“Oh? Even when they belong to a losing Seeker?”

“I can cut it off you--”

Draco nipped at her lips as he did as she asked, tossing the shirt off the bed. “You are... terrifying.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You flatter me.” She pressed one hand over the ugly mark on his forearm, but her fingers flexed as if she were trying to erase it by will. Draco let her make the choice—to look at it, or not. To remark on it, curse at it, making him cover it up again, but…

Hermione did none of those things.

Every day, that marred piece of skin taunted him. When he bathed, changed from his jersey to a jumper, pulled his sleeves up out of rising personal temperature shifts. It held up a dark mirror. You chose this. You chose Him.

The girl beneath him, more real than any one thing he had ever known—more cutting than any mistake he had made—she pressed a kiss to her fingers, and touched the very same ones to his mark.

“I can’t hate it,” she breathed, “because I won’t hate any part of you. I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

He nearly collapsed, and would have done so if she hadn’t pressed spread fingers against his sternum. Draco forced himself to look her dead in the eye.

“Why not?” he begged. “I’ve done nothing to deserve you.” The depth of it ripped at his throat.

“This is not nothing. Please… just focus on what you want, Draco—”

What he wanted was to be a calm sea that carried one lone boat to safety, with no other purpose but to keep her bow pointed true. Oh, if I were an ocean...

He tried to sit back on his heels so he could undo his belt but soft fingers batted his away; Hermione fished the leather from the belt loops. He gasped.

“Your fingers are dangerously close to being inside my trousers--oh, no, there they are.” Draco could not help but grind down against her hand as she palmed him between his very formal trousers--much too formal for this kind of activity--and his briefs. He nodded for her to continue, whether speaking or touching, or… breathing, whatever she was going to do next.

“You’re so…” she trailed off, watching through heavy-lidded eyes at how easily his breath could be taken by worrying the pad of her thumb along the length of him. Draco’s lungs ceased to function entirely. The coil of warmth which made him stand at attention, which had his body in a chokehold every time they kissed… it built like she was the only kindling he had ever sparked, like feeling his body thrumming was only something she could give to him. Say nothing of the tingling that came when her nails tucked into his waistband and left prickling trails to the base of his cock.

“Beautiful,” Hermione said, finally. She pushed the fabric back so it would ease over his arse, and he finally got his faculties back enough to curl his own fingers in the waistband of her skirt.

Draco yanked her closer by the band and sat back enough to grab his wand. “I’ll fix it--”

“It unsnaps,” she breathed. She pulled on his wrist and two hefty snaps gave at her right hip. Draco nearly cheered. He hopped off the mattress to shuck off his trousers and briefs. Meanwhile, Hermione crawled beneath his quilt, opening the covers. Her cheeks were pink.

He slid in and for a moment, it felt like there was an acre of space between them. Even on a single sized mattress, which Draco frequently found his limbs hanging off of. But Hermione reached for him. She hummed happily when his arms wrapped around her.

Draco took her hum for his own. He felt her freeze beneath him at the sound of distant murmurs.

“What?”

“There are people outside…” Her eyes were huge. For a moment, panic got the better of her, but Draco soothed one hand down the length of her body, and she remembered with a shiver that she was there--out of sight, safe, being held. She laughed against his lips. Draco couldn’t help but feel like it was even hotter that she had to take refuge with him for a while, and nobody knew where she was… but he had her, and he got to touch her.

“Don’t think about them,” he whispered.

“Touch me? I’ll forget--oh.”

Draco wasn’t a prolific lover--in fact, the thought of such a thing made him want to stick his head in a fire. But he never could remember a time that he had felt so safe to just be with a girl, feeling the way she responded to him in every atom of his body. But she.

She.

Touch was a gift she gave to him. Draco sank his nerves into the sweetness of her mouth, and his fingers found a similar deep and plentiful softness, which gave way to a wealth of sighs. Her own hands had plans, too. She knew him in one stroke better than anyone ever had. Knees gave way. She called him home.

He remained above her, hovering so she could adjust to him, defying the way she arched to take and give more. Draco was intoxicated. Desperate. Holy.

The act was not what he had thought, because up until that moment of his life, Draco knew that having sex with a girl was an interlude stolen from we shouldn’t and we don’t have long… or we are all we have. This girl gripped his shoulders like her hands had formed them. The two of them had uncountable time. She was perfect, he was flying--better than, even. Her breaths were short. Her knuckles grazed his cheekbones. She thought him beautiful. So worth it. Everything good, Draco. Yes!

Before the world turned blinding, her hand warmed the curve of her belly, casting the contraceptive charm. She gasped. That was enough.

Draco made her more promises against her temple as she arched into him, and she repeated them back through his release. Her heels kept him captive with a firm press into the small of his back. He could do little else than rest his forehead against her neck and try to regain his footing on Earth again.

She counted the hairs on his head between lazy fingers. She kissed his skin. Mostly… she hummed.

Draco rested his chin on her sternum.

“Hmmm.”

A smile stretched from one dimple of hers to another. She tugged a lock of hair in agreement.

“So.”

“Granger?”

“Undoubtedly.”

He could not help but shake with laughter. Oh, that? What we just did? Heaven, no? ...undoubtedly.

“So.”

“Yes, Malfoy?”

“I…” he blew out an amazed breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be hungry again.”

“Is that so?” She tugged at the shell of his ear. “I guess you proved me wrong.”

“About?”

“My being edible.”

He fixed her with a gaze which made her cover her hands in embarrassment. “Do you want me to address that--”

“I spoke without thinking,” she breathed.

“I’m happy to elaborate--”

“No!” Hermione cackled. “Next time.”

“Next time?” Draco perked up. He tugged her wrist until she peered at him over her sharp little talons. “Is that an order, madam?”

Hermione gripped his chin. “Would you?”

“Would I?” Draco feigned unconsciousness and nuzzled her stomach. “Surely you’ve realized by now that I’m at your mercy. I would put these two lips of mine--” Hermione’s thumb rubbed across his bottom lip in appreciation-- “absolutely anywhere--”

Thump Thump Thump!

Draco thought he might die. Of absolute fright, from the bloody interloper at his door. He winced to see his companion blanche; Draco kissed her gently and pulled himself from her all at once, albeit reluctantly given the way their conversation had been trending. He put a finger to his lips. In a quick motion, he grabbed his wand from the sidetable and cast a gentle cleaning spell on them both. He tugged a shirt of his--something soft with long sleeves--from his drawer and opened the head hole invitingly for her. She smiled and obliged him, slipping her hands into the much-too-long sleeves. Draco tucked her beneath his covers so she could not be seen, and then tossed his bathrobe on, swiping at his hair so it would appear like he had been asleep for ages.

He opened the door a crack.

On the other side, Ron Weasley was scowling. Draco suppressed two opposing feelings:

One… shit. Shit. Blood hell, dammit--oh seven hells, he’s going to know--

And Two… what the fuck are you doing here?

“Alright?” Draco yawned, like he had been asleep for days.

“You seen Hermione?” Weasley growled.

“I’m not her ruddy nanny.”

“Surely her boyfriend would know where she was.”

Draco’s heart stood up and beat a triumphant tattoo, and he pinched himself so hard behind the cover of the door to keep from visibly reacting to the insinuation that he was sure he’d have a blood blister.

“Weasley, has it never occurred to her that she’s of her own mind? Every moment she spends with me is deliberate, and what she does with the rest of her time is her business. Besides--she’s been keeping me up all hours studying. If you find her, don’t tell her where I am. I could use a good hour of sleep before she forces me back to it.”

“Dammit,” Weasley sighed. “Whatever. Enjoy your beauty rest.”

“I reckon I will.” Draco shut the door in the ginger boy’s face without waiting for a further reply. He locked it for good measure, and then silenced the room again. He kept his back to the girl snuggled up in the refuge of his covers until he heard the box spring creak. In a moment, there were hands curving around his waist.

“We really should study,” she whispered. Amusement laced her words.

Draco pulled her elbow so she’d come around him--enough to press her into the door. She was so beautiful with her hair liberating itself from confinement in all directions, happily sporting his shirt and a little love bite at the base of her throat. Her eyes were gold in the soft light. He raised an eyebrow.

“Only if the subject is anatomy,” he said lowly. She stayed his lips with soft fingers as he bent to kiss her again.

“Draco.”

“Mmm.”

“...you didn’t correct Ron.”

He smiled against her palm and shook his head. Her eyes were wide. “Ought I have?”

She shook her own head slowly. “No.”

“Good.” He curled his arms around her waist and lifted her up. Hermione automatically wrapped her legs around him in a hug so fierce and full that he knew the emotion in it. He kissed her shoulder, her neck. “I didn’t lie to him, either. I don’t know where you are or how you got here.”

“Hm. I… I really like it here, wherever this is.”

“Me too.”

She couldn’t leave his room without being seen for a long time, but time became entirely relative anyhow. It was a profound wondering between them, whispered in the wee hours: how long has it been, do you think?

Indeed, it was something to ponder. How long? How much time between their first meeting and the current moment? How long could they stretch the night and snuggle together in a hideaway born from an innocent game of truth or dare?

The answer eluded them both.

Part 6

tag list: @adecila @withlovefrombronwynn

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[real-jane]

Harry is the sassiest 😂 Hermione on the other hand? Devious. 😘

AWtA: Public Display

(hermione x draco)

summary: on the second official day of their agreement, hermione and draco are called into the headmistress' office to discuss why four slytherin boys were found scrubbing toilets in moaning myrtle's lavatory.

warnings: none--much fluff abounds

a/n: part 4 of ‘a week to atone’, my 8th-year hogwarts-era series. enjoy! message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list!

series masterlist

Draco had snuck out before the girls’ wing of the eighth year common dorm began to stir with morning machinations, but not before draping the quilt over Hermione. She had rolled over, bleary-eyed, and frowned at him. He had merely told her to go back to sleep, that he would see her at breakfast.

As good as his word, Draco waited for the bushy-haired Gryffindor just outside the Great Hall. She had appeared from the opposite direction than the combined common dorm, walking gingerly up to him and offering him her book bag. Draco slung the massive thing over his shoulder. The nerves over fulfilling her challenge of the day had only just begun to rise, but she dragged him into the Great Hall without ceremony. It didn’t give him any time to register whether or not other students were looking at them--of course, they were. When the two reached the Gryffindor table, Draco attempted to liberate a little bit of bench from beneath the table but it was tricky to move with students sitting on either side.

“Did you just try to pull the bench out for me?” Hermione murmured as the Slytherin sat beside her, straddling the bench so he could angle himself away from the rest of the gobsmacked Gryffindors. He smiled innocently, setting her bag between them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The tables were filled with plate after refilling plate of breakfast dishes, and every few people were entitled to share a teapot, which was, of course, charmed to remain perfectly toasty without roasting the tea. Draco overturned a cup. He raised an eyebrow in question

“Hermione,” Harry said, folding his hands on top of the table, “If I may… and all due respect, truly… what the hell is Malfoy doing here?”

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” Hermione propped her head on her hands. Draco glared at her, with her sweet little smile. She really was going to make him be answerable to her friends. Well, he supposed he deserved it (after all, he wasn’t really sure what he was doing there either), but all the better if he didn’t show Potter all his cards at once. He mirrored her posture with his head propped on his arm.

“Slytherin tables are full,” he said.

“That’s a bold faced lie.”

“Well, Potter, I’m allergic to the color green.”

“Apparently not your jumper, though.”

“Oh, it’s agony every moment,” Draco said. “But a man can only take so much torture.” He gave Hermione a hard look, which made her cough into her tea.

Weasley snorted. “What happened to your face? Didn’t think you could get uglier.”

“Ronald--!”

“It’s fine, Granger. I can take it. Go on, Weasley--say what you need to say.” Draco took a deep sip of his own tea and waited. The ginger boy leaned in.

“What is your design on Hermione?”

“My design on her?” Draco scoffed. “There’s no design here . No plot. Besides, if there were--don’t you think that she would’ve figured it out? Are you so dimwitted to doubt her judgment--” Her soft hand settled over his and he paused, looking at her in puzzlement. She smiled at him, tight-lipped and grim.

“Alright. That’s enough from all of you. Malfoy is here because I want him to be. End of story. Pass the bacon?” She held out her hand for the platter before Potter. Both Gryffindor boys were at a loss for words, but Hermione seemed to go on as if it did not matter that her friends were ready to hex him at any moment. She reached into her sleeve.

“Here--” She laid his wand on the table beside his spoon. Draco perked up.

“How in Merlin’s name did you get that?”

She raised an eyebrow and sipped her tea. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”

“Granger--”

“Hmm.”

“You would’ve had to get into the dungeons.”

“You’re very sure about that.”

“How’d you do it?” He narrowed his eyes at her. She opened her mouth to reply, but…

“Miss Granger. May I see you in my office, please? Immediately?” The Headmistress’ voice grated just over Draco’s shoulder. Hermione primly stood. She grabbed Draco by the wrist and tugged. “Not you, Mister Malfoy.”

“Malfoy, show her your face please.”

He turned fully to the Headmistress, who gasped with hand over heart. “Yes, alright. Come along, both of you.”

“Guess I really am that ugly,” he muttered, allowing Hermione to tug him off the bench. He saluted Potter and Weasley, who exchanged a look of concern. Then, he slung her bag over his shoulder, and interlaced his fingers with the girl at his side, properly. She was so much shorter than him; she barely came to his shoulder, but she held her head high as they followed the Headmistress through the length of the Great Hall and down the corridor to her office.

Seated inside the office were four slumped figures, all wearing Slytherin robes. Only one turned back to look as they entered--he wore a signet ring and a sullen, pained look.

Headmistress McGonagall slid behind her desk and sat, gesturing to a bench she had created from a trunk to accommodate them.

The head of Gryffindor house and acting Headmistress looked no older than she had been seven years ago when they had all arrived at Hogwarts. She was, however, sporting very similar robes to the ones that Granger had worn of late, except hers were a deep velvet blue. She tipped her head back so she could view them through her pince-nez, all the better to look down her nose.

“Miss Granger, can you please explain to me why these four boys were found scrubbing the girls’ lavatory on the second floor, each suffering from a jelly-legs jinx? Myrtle enlightened me on her version of the story, but ghosts aren’t under my purview.”

“Didn’t you ask them?” Granger was so diabolically innocent; if he weren’t still clasping her hand, feeling the prickle of her nails in his skin, he wouldn’t know that she was perturbed in the least.

“They couldn’t seem to remember how they got there. Myrtle was the one who mentioned ‘the girl what changed into a cat’.”

“Hmm. Could be me. On second thought--I do remember seeing them as they handed over Malfoy’s wand.”

“And where was that?”

“Can’t be sure, really. I can tell you exactly where they attacked him and stole said wand, however. I doubt that they shared that information with you.”

McGonagall sighed and levelled her gaze at Blaise Zabini. “Well, Mister Zabini?”

The italian was silent. He shook his head once.

“And the rest of you?”

“We were just having a laugh with ‘im.” Theo Nott was the one who decided to speak after a hard stare.

“A laugh! Is that what you call a broken nose, ribs, and knocking him fully unconscious?” Hermione rose to her feet. If it weren’t for Draco holding fast to her hand, he was very certain she would’ve lunged at Nott.

“Unconscious? What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Nott?”

Nott said nothing more, and Draco managed to pull Hermione back down to sit. He worried the skin at the base of her thumb, which seemed to calm her.

“So.” The headmistress stood. “It seems that there are two stories here. The one person we haven’t heard from is you, Malfoy. In your own words, please.”

Draco coughed. “I’m not entirely sure what you’d like me to say.”

“Did this alleged attack happen, or were they merely having a laugh, as Nott has insinuated?”

“Well… I think I could probably still snort blood out of my sinuses, if it weren’t for Granger. And she certainly didn’t find it the least bit funny. Did you?” He nudged Granger, who glared at him. She shook her head. “There you have it. She merely returned my wand to me as a kindness, considering those four cretins took possession of it without my consent. I think they got away fairly unscathed, by comparison.”

McGonagall sighed. “You four--you will have detention every night this week with me. After supper. I will alert Professor Slughorn that you will not be able to fulfill any house duties you might have. See Madam Pomfrey for a restorative if you find your legs still suffering from Miss Granger’s jinx. I trust you won’t get lost on the way to the Hospital Wing."

“Sure, Zabini grumbled. “Give us detention, but don’t ask him why he attacked Theo ‘n me on the first day.”

The older woman’s head swung around to raise a questioning brow at Draco. “How do you answer?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “He was defending me--”

“I believe I asked Mister Malfoy.”

The little witch at his side sighed and looked up at him. “She’s right,” he said. “I overheard those two saying things about Granger here, which would make Peeves blush.”

“And what things did they say?”

“If it’s all the same, I don’t want to repeat it in front of her.”

The Headmistress gestured to the boys. “You are dismissed. I will be discussing what happens next with you individually.”

“Next?” Nott scoffed. “Detention isn’t enough?”

“Did I stutter, Mister Nott? You may have gotten away with such behavior in my predecessor’s time as the Headmaster of this great institution, but you’ll find my tolerance for such behavior is less than zero. Now. Be gone, the four of you.”

Each of the Slytherin boys took their leave, none of them daring to look back and sneer as would have been characteristic. Once they had gone, McGonagall stood. “Mister Malfoy, would you please enlighten me in the inner office?” She swept out from behind the desk and through a slim door behind her main office chamber. She did not wait for him to follow.

Draco stood quickly, himself. “Go on,” he said to the girl who still clung to him. “I’ll see you in Potions.”

“Fat chance,” Hermione said. “I’ll wait right here. ‘Sides, I haven’t said my piece yet.”

He smirked at the witch, who had already proven she was not to be trifled with. He squeezed her hand and released her. Headmistress McGonagall pointed to the door once he entered the inner office. The room was a small, circular portion of the turret at the corner of the North West part of the castle. There was a small fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a chair that looked as if it hadn’t had adequate stuffing for a hundred years. McGonagall sat in it.

The woman scrubbed a frustrated hand over her face.

“I had thought we understood each other this Summer, when I laid out the conditions for your return.” Her voice was somber, but held no ounce of animosity in it. Her brow was wrinkled in concern. “I did not foresee your alignment with Miss Granger. Against your own house-members, no less.”

“Is your only concern that I am on speaking terms with Granger?” Draco felt his hackles rising, but she shook her head.

“If anything, that is proof of your…” The word evaded her.

“Sanity?”

She huffed a laugh. “What did they say about her?”

“Due respect, Headmistress, it would be ungentlemanly of me to elaborate.” He rocked back on his heels, hands firmly in his pockets where he wouldn’t fidget.

“Summarize.”

“Suffice to say that they took turns guessing who she might be… shagging--” Draco cringed to say the word in front of the one professor who had ever expressed belief in his rehabilitation, but it was what it was. “--and criticized her robes, and then they suggested everyone would be better off if she weren’t living.”

“And because of that, Zabini belched up slugs and Nott’s face collided with the table?”

“I admit, I let me anger get the better of me--”

“I’m--” She sighed. “I am willing to overlook it. Far be it from me to punish you for coming to Hermione Granger’s defense, you of all people, but… do try to refrain from such tactics in the future, eh?” Her voice wavered, but she pointed at him as if brandishing her wand. “Don’t stoop to their level.”

“Something tells me it won’t be necessary.” He tried very hard not to smile, but the Headmistress let a bit of her professional demeanor slip. But then, her face twisted and she set him with a hard stare.

“Heard anything from your family?”

Draco’s chest ached from the question. No, he hadn’t heard a single word since his mother’s last letter, but he had stopped counting the days. At some point during the course of his Summer away from home, the Malfoy family owl had stopped roosting in the owlery, waiting for him to send correspondence to the people who raised him. He shook his head.

“Alright. You needn’t worry,” she said, as if his having lived at Hogwarts since May, long before the start of term, had been a matter of his parents merely being on vacation, and him needing a place to stay where he could be supervised… as if this whole time, the cause of all his troubles since May was that he worried too much. The truth was very much beyond what comfort she could provide.

“‘S alright,” he said, as if it were.

“Has Madam Pomfrey examined you?”

“She did before breakfast, although apparently Granger patched me up well enough last night; there wasn’t much more Pomfrey could do for me. Bruises will heal in their own time.”

“Last night?” She frowned. “This attack happened yesterday, and I’m only hearing of it now?”

Draco raised his eyebrows innocently. “...yes.”

“Do I want to know why that is?”

“If I told you it was because I didn’t want to bother you with such things, would you believe me?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “For now.” The mantle clock chimed eight times. “You’ll be late for your first class.”

“Right.”

She followed him back out into the main office, where Hermione was waiting with her arms crossed over her body like she was trying to bring herself some comfort. Draco made eye contact and her eyes brightened. He nodded towards the exit, but Hermione stepped towards the massive desk, directly in his path. “Headmistress, why wasn’t Malfoy allowed to take a room in the combined dorm?”

“Miss Granger, that is the private business of him and myself.”

“I’m nosy, and I have made his business mine.”

The Headmistress looked between the two of them. Draco nodded his consent, even as the idea of Hermione Granger having her nose in his business warmed the chambers of his cold, dead heart. McGonagall reached into her desk and retrieved her wand; with a flick, a cabinet drawer at the far end of the room slid open. A single piece of parchment arose from a file and alighted in the Headmistress’ hand. She offered the paper to Hermione.

Draco looked over her shoulder as she read the paper that he himself had scoured so many times, he practically had it memorized. It was a Ministry order. A perfectly fair one, he thought. But it stated: Children of Deatheaters will be disallowed from returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry unless certain arrangements can be made for the safety of their fellow students, including but not limited to the restriction of returning eighth year students to their respective house dorms, and the exclusion from certain special privileges generally afforded to eighth year students. Etc.

“The Minister is clear how he feels about students like Mister Malfoy, an unfortunate fact of which he is already aware.” McGonagall’s face was solemn. “Strictly off the record… I do not agree. But I am still answerable to the Ministry.”

“But--how will they know if you give him a room that isn’t in the dungeons? Don’t you see what they did to him?” Hermione reached for him then, though he stood just behind her. She found the fabric of his sleeve and held fast.

“I am appalled by it.”

“Don’t I deserve it, though?” Draco scoffed. It was too much to hear himself spoken of in this manner but having no say in it himself. All told, as it had happened, he had thought: I suppose I’ve had this coming. He had been unsurprised by their assault on him, and had thought the event so familiar--more familiar than Hermione Granger and Professor McGonagall discussing why he ought to sleep in his own room. Small fingers crept in between his own. When she looked up at him this time, Hermione was sad. He hated the look. It was one of pity.

“Whatever you may think of me, I do not believe any one of my students deserves to be beaten past recognition.” She gathered herself as if the thought was the most insulting thing someone could say about Minerva McGonagall. “When you were here for Summer quidditch trials, it never occurred to me that this would happen. I assumed, foolishly, that the others in your year were of the same mind as you, and I am answerable for that. I have already bent the Ministry’s rule in allowing you to join the quidditch team, but I believe Slughorn would’ve had a coronary if I had forced him to pass up the opportunity of taking on a talented Seeker like yourself. ”

“I am grateful,” Draco said. “Don’t know where I would’ve gone if you hadn’t.”

Hermione shook beside him. “What do you mean?”

“Disowned, Granger.”

“Yes, well. I’m not about to stand by and allow you to live in an inhospitable environment ,” McGonagall said. “Your things will be moved to the combined dorm immediately. Are we agreed?”

Hermione nodded in excitement.

“Alright, go on. Get to class.”

Hermione raced down the stairs and Draco barely kept up, but for her tugging on his hand… they had to run to Potions, and barely made it before the last chime dinged. The only table available was blessedly at the back of the room. The table they had taken on the first day was now occupied by Blaise and Theo, looking very sullen to be sat so near Potter and Weasley. Hermione’s friends cast a regretful look at her--well, more Potter than the other one. Weasley gave him a sneer. While still in the red-head’s sight, Draco raised Hermione’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. The other boy paled as Hermione blushed. He whipped around in his seat.

Draco may have been saved from conversing with both of Hermione’s friends at breakfast, but he was certain more conversations were to come. If Weasley’s reaction was an indicator, he had a touch of the green eyed monster in him. Draco had turned over many new leaves, but this was the kind of achievement he would not concede to the other boy. He was still a Slytherin.

“Now that you’ve graced us with your presence, Mister Malfoy… Miss Granger…” Slughorn tapped his wand on the blackboard beneath the potion for the day. Countenance Care: rids the drinker of signs of aging for three days. “Would either of you care to define what property makes lamb’s ear particularly good for a complexion smoothing potion?”

“Ahem. I believe the reaction of the lamb’s ear leaf with violet essence temporarily synthesizes the skin’s elasticity.” Draco had fairly recently read a book about potions for masking one’s appearance (nevermind why, certainly nothing to do with looking so very Malfoy, and more like his father with every passing day), and Slughorn himself had loaned it out. The professor beamed with pride.

“Indeed! Today we will explore one of my most favorite…”

The lecture trailed on and on, mostly consisting of Slughorn’s anecdotes about why potions which can transform one’s appearance are dangerous and ‘not to be attempted’, and then countering his own argument by going on and on about how delightfully fun it is to brew them.

Hermione released his hand, sometime between Slughorn elucidating the class on the virtue of adding basic garlic to any potion which required an oil of some sort, and actually demonstrating the proper way to prepare lamb’s ear. She had her notes out and was dutifully scratching away. Draco allowed himself to lean back against the wall and observe her.

When had she begun to care so fiercely about his well-being? I have made his business mine. Gods. Now he would be able to sleep in the eighth year combined dorm, in his own room, in his own bloody bed. All because of this blinding girl. What in Salazar’s name had he done to deserve it, from her, no less?

A small portion of parchment slid in front of him. She quickly returned to her notes, but not before glancing at him. Her cheeks were pink. Draco discreetly read what she had written.

You’re staring at me.

The tips of his ears felt like they were on fire. So what if he was? He liked looking at her. She was beautiful. He didn’t have to pretend like it wasn’t true anymore. Draco reached for his own quill at the top corner of their shared table. He wrote his reply.

Still not sure your angle here, Granger.

He slid the thing back to her. Her lips moved as she read his words to herself.

Angle?

You’re not planning to lull me into a false sense of security and then Avada me yourself?

She looked up at him sharply and frowned. “Why would you say that?” she whispered. Draco glanced up at the Professor, who took no note of them as he scribbled on the blackboard.

Draco leaned on the table, grasping his arms at the elbows. He nudged her shoulder with his own.

“You would be well within your rights,” he murmured. Her face was very close to his, well within range to see her eyes dilate as she looked up at him--the honey tones in her corneas held warmth.

“You haven’t left Hogwarts since the last battle, have you.”

He shook his head faintly. “I had nowhere to go.”

Slughorn cleared his throat pointedly.

Hermione tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow, beneath his hand. All she could do in the middle of class was lean her head against his shoulder and give some kind of silent comfort. True, he had been at the school for one hundred and twenty-three days--watched it get rebuilt, ate his meals in the Great Hall with only a few of the professors for company, trained on a school broom, walked endless circles around the grounds--and he had left, just once, to buy his supplies for his eighth year. The Headmistress herself had accompanied him. She had bought him an ice cream.

It wasn’t something he had given himself time to dwell on. In the months following the end of the war, he had rebuilt himself as best as he could. He hadn’t slept well in one hundred and twenty-three days, and he had been painfully lonely. He had read. And that was as much as he could’ve hoped for.

The heat from Hermione’s hand warmed his bicep through his sleeve. He rubbed the skin over her knuckles. She turned her hand in his, palm-to-palm, and grasped his wrist. As Slughorn dismissed the front tables to retrieve their supplies, Draco traced the tendon which led from Hermione’s thumb down her forearm. The classroom was filled with the sounds of their fellow students, so he felt safe to speak again.

“After the battle,” he began, waiting for her to look at him. She lifted her head. “I don’t remember much. I know I spent a long time in McGonagall’s office, just… shellshocked, trying to answer questions I couldn’t really even understand. But.” He shrugged. “She was nice to me. Not nice… civil. She wrote to my father. He returned a howler. That’s what she said, anyhow--she didn’t let me hear it.” Hermione squeezed his wrist in encouragement. “So. I just stayed. I offered to take veritaserum to prove I wasn’t… I don’t know. Still loyal to the cause, or whatever. But she believed me when I said I wasn’t. That was good enough for McGonagall.”

The next row of tables was dismissed, and the scrape of benches on the stones masked her emotional huff. Hermione sat back from him and swiped at her eyes. Miraculous thing that she was… she was crying.

“Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying. I mean, I do…”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, it just sort of hit me: have you ever been able to just feel safe somewhere? You’re supposed to be safe at Hogwarts, but that illusion shattered for me in first year.” She sniffled. “And I’m wondering when you’ll get to feel secure. I hope it won’t be long, now that you’ll be in the eighth year dorm. With me.”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but Slughorn dismissed their row to collect supplies. He stood right away, and held up a finger to her in hopes that she might pause. Well… if she stopped crying while he was away from his seat, so much the better for his poor heart. But the cause of it… she wanted him to feel safe?

Draco took measured steps towards the front of the room. She had a funny way of making him feel like he might just find safety. Maybe ‘safety’ was how it felt to know someone was fighting for you, alongside you.

He side-stepped Blaise and Theo’s table in favor of walking around Hermione’s friends. Potter nodded to him. Weasley still scowled. “Alright, mate?” Draco nodded to the ginger, who was promptly elbowed in the ribs by his friend. Potter thumbed towards the back of the room where Hermione was seated, as if to remind him of why they might all get along. Weasley rolled his eyes.

“Alright,” he said dourly. “Oi, Malfoy--are you playing in the match tomorrow?”

“I am. Are you?”

“Keeper. I hope you’ve been practicing.”

“Why is that, Weasley?” Draco glanced at Hermione, who was watching their quiet conversation with a frown. He softened his expression to placate her concern, but he raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve got a killer lineup. Don’t we, Harry?” Potter shrugged. “You’ll want to be at your best. Don’t get distracted.”

Draco stepped back from the table and chuckled. “I will certainly be at the top of my game. I have a good luck charm.” He saluted the two Gryffindors and gathered the ingredients he and Hermione would need for their potion from the closet. When he returned to the table, she had placed a piece of parchment at his workspace with the order of operations for the potion written out. He handed her some of the ingredient bottles and sat.

“What was that all about?” she asked him softly. He smiled.

“Weasley wanted to know if I’m playing in the match against Gryffindor tomorrow. I said that I was.”

“Merlin’s sake,” she groaned. “I can’t wait for the matches to start! It’s all they bloody talk about. Why did you laugh at him?”

“He told me I shouldn’t get distracted.” Draco winked at her. “But I won’t.”

Hermione’s whole expression changed to intense excitement. “Wait… you’re really playing tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“That’s it! Your next challenge.”

“...I have to play in a match I was already scheduled for?”

“No. You have to win. And when you win, you have to find me in the stands and bring me the snitch.”

He laughed in disbelief. “Bloody hell. You know what people are going to think--”

“I don’t care. Do you accept?” She held out her hand to him to shake. He wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Of course. Say--how did you get my wand back?”

Hermione smiled innocently. “Nott handed it to me.”

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

She patted him on the shoulder. “When you’re older.”

Hermione was so gleeful that it made the potion preparation process altogether entertaining. Gods, he thought. He was going to wind up looking like an absolute dope for her, bringing her the snitch like a puppy. He’d do it, though, and make no mistake. It would be a pleasure to beat Weasley. The joy on her face at the prospect of what tomorrow would bring was more exciting than the idea of winning a match, and that… that did not make him feel safe. Instead, Draco felt as if he was on the precipice of something quite dangerous. He was going to dive head-first into the abyss. It just happened that the abyss was a very convincing girl, who retrieved stolen wands and put her nose in his business.

Hermione had forgotten all about being sad for him. He hoped she would have little reason for it ever again.

Part 3

Part 5

tag list: @adecila

message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to the tag list! :)

[real-jane]

Happy to! Thank you 🥰🥰🥰

A Week to Atone masterlist

An 8th Year Hogwarts-era series by realjane

(Hermione Granger x Draco Malfoy)

summary: Hermione gives Draco a week to atone for all the hurt he caused her for the last seven years. Atonement only scratches the surface of what he does for her.

rating: m

warnings: idiots to lovers, hurt/comfort, ‘i hate everyone but you’ fluff, eventual smut, canon level violence/injuries

a/n: this series is cross-posted on ao3 HERE.

***

Day Zero

Potions Partners

Patching You Up

Public Display

The Loser

Truth or Dare

Things I’ve Done

updated nov 15, 2021 :)

This story is ongoing! Message, comment, or reblog to join the tag list. :)

Tag list: @adecila @withlovefrombronwynn

[real-jane]

There is a new installment on its way… 😇

Master-list for A Week to Atone

A Hogwarts-era series by realjane

Part 1 - Day Zero

Part 2 - Day One: Potions Partners

Part 3 - Patching You Up

Part 4 - Day Two: Public Display

Part 5 - The Loser (Day 3)

Part 6 - Truth or Dare (Day 4)

***

Potential prompts for the next seven (or likely more, who am I kidding) installments (please message with other ideas!):

- Astronomy tower: “tell me something nobody knows about you.”

- Good luck kiss: maybe before a quidditch game

- Accidental public kiss

- Forehead/top of the head kiss

- A kiss to make someone jealous

- Somewhere to watch the sun set

- Library (Draco trying to distract Hermione from studying)

- Draco brooding & not letting her kiss him

- “I… uh… I got you something.”

- “Only you’ll appreciate this.”

***

*Dedicated in part to @adecila who has been such a lovely interwebs friend, and provided all of these prompts thus far. :)*