Chapter 35 and 36: Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love

The innocence of the kiss turned to something heavier as Draco made good on his promise to snog the living daylights out of Granger.

She ran her fingers through his hair. He backed her into a tree. She had his collar in her fists and was using that as leverage to either pull him in closer, or pull herself up higher, with the pleasurable result of tongue on tongue.

Draco felt the lack of the ring – he had grown accustomed to the thing keeping him apprised of Granger’s heart rate. He solved the problem by finding pulse points along her throat with his mouth, which gave him a much more immediate and tactile accounting of her feelings.

Her eyes were closed. Her hair caught in birch bark. Her pulse was a delicate, harried flutter against his lips. He could have taken her right here, against the tree, but she was Granger, and all that was good and wonderful in the world, and she deserved better.

Now one of her legs was around him. He hoisted her up higher, one hand on her *rse, and pressed himself against her.

“I think I should like to – perhaps – go back inside,” gasped Granger with a kind of questioning, as though he would say anything but yes, gods, yes.

“I want you,” said Draco into her mouth. “In – all senses of the term.”

“All of them? Well – shall we – shall we begin with one?”

“Yes. The lowest common denominator,” said Draco. He pushed his c*ck into her harder, in case his meaning was not resoundingly clear. “Will you accompany me to my rooms?”

“Don’t you mean your chambers?” asked Granger in a breathy drawl.

Draco took her hand and began to pull her towards the Manor. “Don’t be cheeky, or I shall make you regret it.”

Granger smiled at him.

He stopped to kiss her hard.

They stumbled back to the Manor, hand in hand. They crept upstairs through the back stairway near the kitchens, like naughty teenagers, to avoid being seen by their multitude of guests.

Upstairs, Granger looked about Draco’s rooms curiously, passing through the sitting room, the dressing room, peeking into the bathroom, and, finally, coming to the bedroom.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Granger, looking at Draco over her shoulder.

He was smiling? Oh.

Draco closed the bedroom door behind him and flung up a few wards. “It is – delightful to finally have you here in person.”

“Have I been here in other states?” asked Granger, running her hand up the bedpost, which shouldn’t have been as provocative as it was.

Draco laid himself on the bed. “Many. Dream versions of you, terribly naughty fantasy versions of you…”

“You must tell me about the latter.”

Draco wanted to follow up with something clever and sexy, but Granger chose that moment to shed her shawl and expose her hideous pyjamas.

“Gods,” said Draco, instead of the clever and sexy thing.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Granger. “Don’t you like these? Am I – curdling your j*zz?”

“You are a vision,” said Draco.

Granger ran a seductive hand down her tartan-lined hip. “Aren’t I? Take me, I’m yours.”

“You mustn’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I do mean them.”

“Well then,” said Draco. “Come here. I must divest you of those – things – before we go any further.”

Granger clambered onto the bed. “I thought they added a bit of Scottish panache–”

“The Scots have no panache. Don’t put those words together–”

“They’ve got loads of panache.”

“–I am going to buy you so many inappropriate, Muggley negligée things that you will have a new one to wear every night.”

He began to undo her buttons.

“Likewise,” said Granger, observing his progress. “Theo’s pyjamas inspired me. We can find you something even better. Something with a – a p*nis hatch.”

“A p*nis hatch?”

“Yes, for ease of accessibility – a little opening–”

“Little?”

“I’m sorry – a gaping opening – a veritable chasm – oh–”

Granger’s soliloquy on p*nis flaps was cut off because Draco had freed her br*asts from the hideous pyjamas and now had his mouth upon them.

She lay next to him and ran her hand down his front and opened his fly, and any witticisms Draco had been ready to launch vanished, except for stroke me like a bedpost, which did not seem strong enough to share with the class.

But that was fine. He did not need to share anything with the class. His face was in Granger’s t*ts and his mouth was occupied with a n*pple and his brain power was reduced to zero as all of his blood was currently in his c*ck, which was enjoying the sensation of Granger’s hand, slipped into his trousers, caressing it and squeezing gently at his b*lls.

“As it turns out,” said Draco, “the Malfoy attractant formula is simply – you.”

“Yes,” breathed Granger. “You feel as though you’re ready to do a – a p*netration test–”

She squeaked out a laugh and fell off the bed.

Draco pulled her back up. “Really.” He put her hand back on his c*ck. “As you were, Granger.”

“See,” breathed Granger as she slipped her hand back into his trousers. “This is why we need a p*nis hatch. I’m going to get a bloody cramp.”

“We both ought to divest ourselves of – everything,” said Draco, kicking off his trousers.

“Yes.”

“Shower?” asked Draco.

“Bath?” countered Granger.

“Oh?”

“I quite like the – jets,” said Granger, working her way down Draco’s buttons.

“Oh.”

Draco shuffled off to run the bath, tripped upon the pants around his ankles, and threw them at Granger’s head when she laughed.

“They’ve got little broomsticks on them, this time,” came Granger’s amused observation.

She joined him in the bathroom as the enormous tub began to fill.

“Let’s have a look at yours,” said Draco, tugging at her pyjama bottoms.

“I shall disappoint you – I’m not wearing any knickers.”

“That is anything but disappointing.”

He stood behind her and watched them both in the mirror as he pulled the things off her. Now she was naked, and he was naked, and all he wanted to do was run his hands over her and watch her reactions, the arching as he squeezed at a n*pple, the sighing as he kissed at her neck. Gods, the feel of her bare skin against his c*ck.

She rubbed her *rse against him and smiled at him in the mirror when he took in a breath. She sent a hand behind her and stroked him. He slipped a hand to her front, to where things were warmest and growing wetter, and began a little rubbing of his own. They both began to breathe harder.

“Bath?” gasped Granger.

“Right,” said Draco.

They clambered into the enormous bathtub with a distinct lack of elegance, given that they were both fixated upon the other’s g*nitals.

They soaped one another up – an excellent excuse to continue to grope at each other. Draco had really intended to get clean and then get her back to the bed for subsequent activities, but she had said this interesting thing about the jets, and he was seized by a powerful and randy curiosity.

“So, the jets,” said Draco, turning on every single one. The bathtub became a frothing whirlpool.

“Yes,” said Granger.

“Show me,” said Draco.

“Wouldn’t you rather participate?”

“I want to watch, to begin. I can join in – later.”

Granger pressed her lips into a little smile, then began to feel about with her hands. Draco watched in a kind of aroused daze, because Granger was in his bathtub, and there was soap dripping off her t*ts, which he had put there, and now she was looking for a jet with which to get herself off, and he wasn’t certain that this wasn’t some glorious erotic dream.

“I’ve got options, in here. Ooh – this one,” said Granger, finding a jet at the end of the tub that gushed out horizontally.

She straddled her jet of choice. “The trick is to position yourself – just so–”

“Oh?”

“The angle matters rather a lot, of course–”

“Of course.”

“And then we let the – heat and the – water do the rest, you know–”

“Right.”

“–doesn’t take very long–”

Draco watched as her explanation became less coherent and, in the following moments, she grew pinker in the cheeks and along her collarbone. Her lips were parted. Her eyes, which had been on her own reflection in the mirror, now met his, dark and inviting. Her breath came faster as the frothing heat between her legs brought her closer.

Draco’s hand was on his c*ck – but lightly, because at this rate, he could come in a minute from the sights and sounds alone.

She ran a hand down her breast and teased at her own nipple.

“F*cking hell, Granger.”

Her answer was a smiling “Mm.”

She gestured to Draco to come position himself behind her – which he, obviously, did with alacrity.

Now he could see the two of them in the mirror. Granger bent over and hooked her fingers along the edge of the tub. The jet frothed at the front of her, while Draco was presented with a very wet and slick way in, just above the water line.

He put his hands on her hips. (They did make excellent handles, by the by.)

The way in was snug. She felt engorged. He watched himself enter her, the way his head opened her up as he nudged himself in, the way her wetness and his mingled when he pulled out again.

The jet roiled against his balls as he pushed himself back in, inch by sweet f*cking inch.

“I’m going to last about – forty seconds.”

Her answer was breathy. “Doesn’t matter – we have – all morning–”

Draco was not certain he had ever seen a more arousing sight than Granger in the mirror, edging along the precipice of her orgasm, her bre*sts moving in time with his thrusts.

He watched her come, her wet hand clutching at the side of the bathtub, her c**t clenching around his c**k in a long, convulsing squeeze. She rode it out with a gasp between teeth, pressing her face into her forearm.

The nerve endings from the head of his c*ck all the way to his b*lls were overloaded by the feel of her, by the heat of the water, by the frothing jet. Draco, unable to withstand any of it, came along with her, thrusting his release in her as far as he could go.

They breathed. Granger shifted away from the jet, which now pushed at newly sensitive areas. Draco’s c*ck slid out of her and dripped s*men and her sticky contributions into the water.

They sank back into the tub, rested their heads on the edge, and panted at the ceiling.

Granger recovered first. She kissed Draco on his mouth where it hung slack and stupid and then amused herself with pressing buttons to discover varieties of soap.

“I, for one, feel clean and ready to crack on,” said Granger. “Drying charm?”

As blood began to make its way back to his brain, Draco began to feel that he might be in for something. Perhaps Granger did s*x as she did everything – thoroughly.

Which was going to be interesting, because he, too, prided himself on his thoroughness in these matters.

They got out of the tub.

“Clean enough to eat off of?” asked Draco, aiming drying charms at her.

“Do you know, I was just thinking that we haven’t had breakfast.”

“I shall ask the kitchens to send something up.”

“Perfect.”

“Strawberries and cream?”

Granger’s eyes grew bright with amusement. “Strawberries optional.”

“Done.”

Draco slipped on a silk dressing gown to give the order as Granger attempted some hair management in the mirror.

She came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, still pink about the cheeks. A basket of toast awaited, and dippy eggs, and fresh-cut strawberries, and a ridiculously oversized bowl of whipped cream.

“An entire bucket,” said Granger, eyeing the thing.

“Henriette was insistent. Shall we have a swim in it?”

“I should’ve let you buy that boat.”

Speaking of boats, Draco ate breakfast with his c*ck at half mast, which amused Granger tremendously when she noticed.

“The dangly bits are escaping,” she said, pointing to Draco’s crotch with a fork.

“I don’t think this counts as dangly.”

“You’re quite right. Rather more turgid than anything else.”

Draco looked down. “These bits wanted to escape last time I was with you in a dressing gown, but you were too busy being scandalised by Soviet irrigation projects.”

Granger laughed. “I needed a distraction.”

“Oh? From what?”

Granger occupied herself with a strawberry.

“From me out of the shower?” pressed Draco. “Was it? Tell me.”

“Never.”

“Are you being coy with me after what you just did in the bath?”

“That didn’t result in suffocating levels of smugness from you,” sniffed Granger.

“So you did want to play with my dangly bits.”

Granger sipped her tea with an infuriating amount of ambivalence.

Draco sat back. “You did. You’d be fervently denying it if you didn’t.”

“Mere conjecture.” Granger looked at him and his smirk. “You smug – ugh – I shall drown you in the whipped cream.”

“I do intend to be face-first in it at some point this morning,” said Draco, his smirk widening. “Well, I’m not going to be coy – I can happily admit that I would’ve shagged you in that hotel room, repeatedly, for three or four days. Only you had to go off and save the world. Insufferable.”

Granger smiled into her teacup.

“Now your smugness is suffocating,” said Draco.

“Good,” said Granger.

“Tell me you wanted to shag me,” said Draco.

“Make me,” said Granger.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Safe word?”

“Neville.”

“Gods.”

“I know.”

“Get on the bed.”

Granger flung her arms towards him with a lazy sort of gesture. He carried her to the bed instead, which was even better. Bridal-style.

Not that he was thinking about brides, or marrying the t*ts off her, or anything.

He deposited her on his bed amongst white sheets and fluffy pillows and stopped to look at her – her plait across his pillow, the press of her breasts where the towel squeezed them together, her half-hidden thighs that he would soon be exposing and enjoying.

“What?” she asked when she noticed him standing and staring.

“Taking in the moment,” said Draco. He undid the twist that held her towel up. “This feels rather like unwrapping a lovely present.”

“I’m not sure who the present is for more,” sighed Granger when Draco, unable to help himself, bent over to press kisses along her clavicle.

“Happy early Christmas to both of us, then,” said Draco.

He floated the vessel of whipped cream towards them, then conjured a blindfold. “Yes?”

“Ooh. Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“The turgid bits have decidedly made their escape.” said Granger, running a fingertip along the underside of his c*ck, which now poked out of the dressing gown.

Draco let her touch, then pulled her hand down. “As – bloody enjoyable as that is – this is meant to be about you, and cajoling out confessions.”

Granger bit her lip and said, “Cajole away.”

Draco tied the silken blindfold around her head and stole a kiss before he began.

Well – he meant to merely steal a kiss, but he felt her tongue against his, and then found himself unable to pull away, and put an elbow into the pillow, and was thoroughly distracted by her mouth.

It was only when he found himself sliding a hand between her thighs that he broke away.

“Right,” he breathed. “The whipped cream.”

“The entire point of the exercise,” said Granger, as breathless as he was.

A silver spoon stood upright in the bowl of whipped cream. Draco loaded it up, dripping slightly with the stuff, and turned to take in the sight of Granger, naked and blindfolded on his bed, her hands over her head. Her lips were swollen and wet, which brought to mind other swollen and wet bits, which put Draco’s head back in the game.

Draco dipped a finger into the whipped cream and held it against Granger’s lips. “Try it. You must tell me if it’s up to par.”

He felt the flick of her tongue against his finger – a rather clever kind of flick, a flick that knew exactly what it was doing. As for the soft s*cking – that sensation went straight to his p*nis.

“Perfect,” said Granger.

Draco bent over her and kissed her, and tasted the residual sweetness. “You’ve got a naughty sort of tongue.”

An equally naughty sort of smile was his answer.

He had intended to place a dollop upon every inch of Granger that he wished to kiss, but discovered as he went that he wanted to kiss every literal inch of her, which would involve dumping the entire vessel upon her, which, while hilarious, would not be as sexy.

He therefore exercised restraint and prioritised. The globs of whipped cream formed a particular shape. He enjoyed her twitches as she flinched when the cool cream touched warm skin.

Granger went silent and was most definitely attempting to work it out, even as she shuddered.

“What are you drawing?” she asked at length. “It had better not be the letter D–”

“Oh, no – far better. It’s a constellation.”

“Oh?”

“The constellation of Draco, to be specific.”

“You are–”

Draco never found out what he was – she cut herself off with a gasp. He had placed cream upon her nipples in two dollops that had absolutely nothing to do with constellations.

“You can’t tell me you’re surprised about that,” said Draco.

“It’s cold.”

“I shall warm it up, sharpish,” said Draco, drawing creamy lines up her thighs, towards the juncture between her legs.

He set aside the cream and began. His mouth followed a trail down from her sweet mouth to her neck, across her collar bones, and to her breasts. The contrast between the cool cream and the warmth of her stiffened nipples was gorgeous.

“Delicious,” said Draco.

Granger, arching her back, breathed out some kind of agreement. Her hands were at her sides, pressed into the mattress. One of her legs twitched up and brushed against Draco’s erection. It was tempting to indulge in a bit of frottage against her, but he refrained.

Instead, he kissed and licked his way down her stomach and then, just when he had reached the interesting bits, and Granger had grown quite still, he stopped, and kissed the cream off of her left thigh.

Granger breathed out. He made his way up soft skin and cream, all the way to the innermost part of her thigh. Granger breathed in, her fingertips pushed into the mattress.

He stopped again and turned his attention to the line of cream going up her right thigh.

The sigh that followed was – frustrated.

“I can feel your smirk,” said Granger as Draco worked his way back up.

“Oops,” said Draco.

“Insufferable – mm–”

Draco had tasted his tart.

“Now I begin my interrogation,” said Draco.

“I must be strong,” said Granger.

“Tell me about the Seneca,” said Draco, teasing at her with a fingertip. He found her slick, a mix of their earlier activities and new arousal.

“Wh-what do you want to know?”

“Why you wouldn’t look at me.”

He pressed his finger into her, one, two knuckles deep.

She groaned out approval, then said, “You already know.”

“I love to hear it.”

“Because you were – stupidly attractive – no one has any right to strut about looking like that, all – steaming and dripping. I didn’t want to look up because I didn’t want to know – didn’t want those pictures in my head – looked anyway, of course, damn you–”

Draco pulled his finger out, had a taste, and resisted the urge to plunge in and finish this right now.

He was no longer certain who the fuck was teasing whom.

“So we could’ve spent three days shagging,” said Draco, brushing his lips against her wetness as he spoke.

“We had a professional relationship,” said Granger.

“So righteous,” said Draco, flicking his tongue where his finger had been. “I’m going to lick that right out of you.”

He did so.

Granger gasped. “But – to be sincere–”

“Yes?”

“The – competence in the crypt was possibly even more of a knicker-soaker–”

Draco paused in his ministrations. “I think we both share that – predilection. Next question: tell me what happened after our – encounter – at the window ledge.”

“F-felt it through the ring, did you?”

“Yes.”

“I had – suspected. I hadn’t come so hard in months.”

“I’ve just changed my mind,” said Draco. He caught one of her hands and brought it inwards. “I don’t want you to tell me – I want you to show me.”

Granger laughed. “Hedonist.”

“Mm,” said Draco, sitting back a bit to give her room to manoeuvre. “First class seats. I’ll have you know that I am stroking myself.”

“Not too much,” tutted Granger. “You must leave me something to play with, after–”

“There will be – a lot to play with,” said Draco, glancing down at his c*ck.

Draco conducted a swot analysis. He watched her touch herself, two fingers pressing small circles around and around – she favoured a light touch, then, and not too much direct contact. She pushed a finger lower, gathered up wetness, and came back up again to continue her rhythmic circles.

Draco took his hand off his c*ck. He was almost ready to come, himself. F*ck.

And she was bringing herself there, too. He watched a new trickle make its way down between her fingers. He pushed her hand away and pressed it into the mattress. “My turn.”

Granger sighed.

He put one finger into her, then another, squeezed at the knuckles by her snugness. He pushed and pulled in a cadence matching the one she had shown him. His tongue found salt and tang and recreated those small circles of hers.

As she began to squirm, Draco found himself sorely missing the ring. But, no matter – he had other indicators.

She wasn’t a screamer. She was a grabber. Her hands found his hair. Her thighs clamped around his ears. She pushed her hips into him as his fingers pulled in and out and his tongue kissed out rhythmic heat against her.

“Exactly – like – that–” was her sole instruction, dutifully carried out by Draco.

The movement of her hips grew erratic. Draco held her *rse to keep her pushed against his mouth.

She convulsed against him, gasped, and came with long contractions against his fingers, four, five, six, of them, as he worked his tongue against her. He felt himself twitch and drip into the sheets. Hot. Fucking hot.

There was a shudder and she was still, panting, flushed from her neck down to her breasts.

Draco pushed himself up carefully, avoiding touching at his c*ck, which, frankly, felt ready to spurt out its own orgasm at the slightest provocation.

He slipped the blindfold off her. Her eyes were dark and dreamy.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” said Draco.

She drifted in her afterglow with a smile and watched him lick his fingers.

Draco fell onto the bed next to her and propped his head up on his fist.

“Some cajoling,” said Granger in a soft voice.

“I feel like you’re going to make me regret it.”

She smiled the Nundu smile.

“Shit,” said Draco.

“You look worried.”

“I am. But – worth it for the wank bank material.”

Granger threw a pillow at him.

“I must call a recess before we continue, given that I’m a soft breeze away from getting off, myself,” said Draco, catching the pillow.

Granger bent towards his erection, put her mouth an inch from it, and breathed her warm breath on it. “A soft breeze, you say?”

“Oi,” said Draco. “That’s – unsporting.”

“Do you want me to stop?” asked Granger, her words feather-light touches of breath against his shaft.

“Yes. No. Fuck.”

Granger gave him a sensible sort of nod. “We ought to take that recess.”

She clambered over him, accidentally-on-purpose brushed her slickness against him, and got off the bed.

Draco laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling with a clenched jaw.

Granger poured herself a glass of water at the table. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Trying not to,” said Draco.

He looked – didn’t look – looked again – at her *rse.

“I should like to bite that,” declared Draco. “Back up over here, won’t you?”

“I think you ought to take your break while you can,” said Granger.

She did not back herself within biting range. Suppressing a grin, she disappeared into the bathroom to wipe off the worst of her sticky spots. Draco rose to drink and have a bite of toast. His p*nis accepted the interlude and began a downward trajectory.

Granger came out of the bathroom, swimming in one of Draco’s silky dressing gowns.

“No,” groaned Draco when he saw the change of attire. “Stay naked. I was admiring.”

“Here,” said Granger, opening the front of the gown a bit. “I shall pull a Malfoy and make an egregious display for you.”

“That is far from egregious,” said Draco, waving his hand at her. “More.”

“Like this?” asked Granger, having opened a modest window to show off her cleavage.

“No. Kindly stop being a nun.”

Granger gave him a little scoff. “That is so rich, coming from you.”

“All the way down. In fact, leave it untied. Offer me glimpses.”

“Better?”

“Yes. We must have you in the next issue of Fantastic Teats and Where To Find Them.”

Granger’s attention was on Draco’s groin. He did not object to the change of subject.

“Have things grown dangly again?” she asked. “Shall we proceed?”

“Examine us, Doctor,” said Draco.

She slipped a hand between the folds of his gown. “Mm. Not exactly dangly, but – a good starting point.”

“And what are we starting?” asked Draco.

Granger tripped off to the bedside table and found Draco’s wand. She gave it to him. “I should like you to conduct a spot of Legilimency on me to find out.”

Well, that was new and exciting. “Oh?”

Granger stood before him. Draco, his eyebrows raised, asked, “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Legilimens.”

It felt surprisingly intimate, entering a mind that was so willing to have him. He felt the warmth of her, the currents of intelligence, the complexities, the knowledge.

She offered a thought to him. The scene was a long-daydreamed delight.

“Ooh,” said Draco, pulling out of her mind, his eyebrows raised.

“Are you game?” asked Granger.

“Obviously.”

“Safe word?”

“Prolapse.”

“You horrid man.”

She guided him towards the bed with a hand around his p*nis.

“And take this off,” she said, tugging at his dressing gown.

Draco did as he was bid. Now it was his turn to recline against the pillows, stark bollock naked.

Properly living the dream, he was.

Granger pointed her wand towards his dressing room and said, “Accio cufflinks.”

A pair of silver cufflinks flew into the room, floated next to Draco’s wrists, and was swiftly Transfigured into handcuffs, chained between the bedposts.

Whatever dangliness remained in Draco’s p*nis quite vanished.

“Blindfold?” enquired Granger.

Draco, feeling preemptively dazed, said, “Fuck, no – I want to watch.”

“Very well,” said Granger.

She settled herself beside him, propped her head upon her palm, and began to trip delicate fingers along his body, slightly languid, slightly exploratory.

“You really are the Platonic ideal of a man,” she said.

“I don’t want to be a platonic anything, with you.”

Granger laughed. With a wave of her wand, she levitated the vessel of whipped cream towards herself and cast a cooling charm on it. “We mustn’t let this go to waste.”

Draco shuddered out a delicious shiver as Granger began to float gobs of whipped cream over him with her wand.

Hers were very focused on his erection, and placed with a great deal of precision along the shaft and upon the head, making of it a ridiculous piled-up penile knickerbocker glory.

“Cold?” asked Granger.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps my plan is to induce shrinkage, so that I might better get my mouth around it.”

“Very – clever,” breathed Draco as she began to lick her way up his stomach, “but I worry that your mouth anywhere near it will have the contrary effect.”

“Oh? I shall have to test it,” said Granger.

Now she coiled her hair over her head, pushed her wand through it in a businesslike fashion, and got to work.

She kissed up the cream that she had dotted across his chest, licked up the daubs she had placed upon his nipples (with much smirking when she felt him twitch), and came up his neck (bliss) to kiss him on the mouth.

Delicious. One of his hands jerked forwards to snatch at the back of her neck and hold her there, only – the handcuffs.

“Oh no,” said Granger.

Draco hooked a leg around her instead, but it was not the same. Her kiss went from deep and sweet with tongue to a feather-light version brushing just across his lips.

He made a sound of discontent when she pulled away.

She moved lower and lower. He looked down and she was there, an elbow propped on the mattress between his thighs, observing the slow melt of cream down his shaft.

He had fantasised about something like this so much, he was, once again, not convinced that this wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be real.

A very real fingertip collected a melting drip of whipped cream halfway down his p*nis, swiped it up his length to the very tip, and was pressed into a mouth.

“Fuck me,” sighed Draco.

“I can confirm that your definition of large met my expectations,” said Granger.

Draco had no coherent response to offer, as she chose that moment to begin kissing her way up his shaft, while gentle fingers tugged at his balls.

She was terribly thorough about it – terribly scientific – every ridge and bump and vein was discovered, and treated to the flick of a hot little tongue, and she hadn’t even got to the head yet, and he felt close. He wanted to hold her by the hair, wanted to grasp at a breast, but he was cuffed, and he suffered deliciously instead.

“Mm,” said Granger. “You were right.”

“Oh?” said Draco in a strangled voice.

“The shrinkage, if any, did not persist.”

“I’m always right – you ought have to – learn th–”

He cut himself off with a groan. The flicks of her tongue became licks and velvety caresses along his length. Her fingers joined in, following her mouth in a slow up and down.

Draco let his head fall back and stared at his handcuffed hands. Now he felt her palm, too, and the other – now both hands were working him over, up and down, while her tongue made a little half-circle just under his head.

He closed his eyes. He would have given – anything – for her to take him entirely into her mouth, at that moment.

She didn’t, obviously. She left the tip untouched. She knew she had him where she wanted him – everything gave him away, his closed eyes, his heavy breathing, the tension running through him, the precome that dripped amongst the cream at his untouched head.

“Glurkk,” he commented sagaciously.

“Tell me about the wank bank material,” said Granger, cupping a palm around his balls. “I’ve a burning curiosity.”

“This is – one of several scenarios,” gasped Draco. “Your mouth on me – but – the real thing is so much better than what I’d been able to imagine–”

She rewarded him with a long series of licks. Her hands continued their slow up and down.

“I actually thought of this when I – not sure I should be telling you this–”

Her hands moved faster – an encouragement.

“–When I cracked one off in your shower – the night I stayed over. Bit of a danger wank, that was – in case you needed further confirmation that I am a horrid man–”

Her hands paused. Draco stole a glance downwards to see her looking at him with a new flush on her cheeks. “Did you really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s – ridiculous, and yet – very hot. Continue.”

“Backless gowns – taking you from behind, heels on. Have wanted to since that party about the orphans–”

He felt the warmth of her laughter against his c*ck and then the welcome wetness of tongue. “What else?”

“You in handcuffs–”

“I shall have to give you cause to arrest me.”

“Good. Biting – obviously, you went to such lengths to prevent a dental misalignment–”

“Mm. We must put it to good use.”

Draco was finding it difficult to concentrate. Her tongue was – wow. “Professor fantasies – can’t decide if you’d be for it–”

The tongue paused. “I might be, with the right man.”

The tongue resumed, accompanied by suckling. Still his head had received no attention. It looked red-purple under the cream.

“I’d better be the right fucking man – I will kill every other man to be the right fucking man–”

She laughed. He hadn’t been joking.

He lifted his hips, as though he might find a way to push himself into her mouth. He managed to bump her on the cheek. The brief feeling of soft skin on his touch-starved head was gorgeous.

“What else?” prompted Granger, wiping a smear of cream from her cheek and resuming her attentions.

“I’m going to need you to tell me I’m a good boy, at some point–”

“Oh?”

“You doing arithmancy – in my study – on my lap – riding me –”

“My. I like that one.”

Now the suckling moved to the underside of his shaft, the exquisitely sensitive part just below the tip. His entire p*nis twitched upwards. A glob of cream fell wetly onto the sheets. His c*ck desperately produced another few drops of precome, mingling with the remaining cream.

“Oops,” said Granger. “Slip of the tongue.”

“T-told you I liked those,” stammered Draco.

She laughed and, finally, took pity on him.

“That concludes my interrogation,” she said, with a terrible amount of satisfaction.

“Thank fuck.”

It had been one thing to imagine her mouth on him, but it was quite another to feel it, the smooth tongue, the sweet pressure of her lips finally encircling his head. He felt himself twitch out another dribble of precome, quickly sucked up.

He strained against the cuffs. He had wanted to take it slow – he had wanted to draw it out. But now her tongue drew warm circles around his head as she moved up and down, and took him as deep as she could. Her hands made up for the rest.

He had wanted to take it slow.

“F*ck – I’m there – unless you–”

She backed off. He had a moment of what was equal parts torture and respite. She looked up at him, wet lipped, next to his glistening head. She waited.

Well. He’d wanted to be undone.

“Fuck it,” he breathed. “Finish me.”

Her mouth was on him again. He was enveloped in heat, simultaneously soft and firm. He felt the light scrape of teeth. The build-up was fast and the release was coming. He was panting.

His hips bucked. Her hands squeezed. Her tongue swept a tight circle at his very tip. She sucked harder. He came with indistinct swearing, in long spurts against tongue and teeth and tightness.

He felt the press of her swallow against the underside of his head and twitched out a final spurt, straining at the chains.

He went slack against the cuffs.

He did not move for two minutes, afterwards, feeling as though his life force had just been drained out of his balls.

He was undone. Very undone.

She really was launching SP*RM.

Granger clambered up the bed, pressed a kiss to his lips – he tasted salt, himself, whipped cream, her – and freed him from the cuffs.

“You are a good boy,” said Granger.

“Too late.”

She was a mix of concerned and amused. “Are you all right? You seem – dazed.”

His c*ck, still hard from overstimulation and ridiculous levels of arousal, dripped against his stomach.

“Ghlph,” was all he managed as he fell back onto pillows.

Granger bustled about with water for him and cast a few cleaning spells on the sheets.

“Tsk,” she said, inspecting the vat of whipped cream. “We’ve hardly made a dent in it.”

“Donate – orphans,” said Draco, reduced to linguistic fragments.

Granger came to stand beside the bed, still in the oversized dressing gown. She twinned her hands before her and tilted her head to the side, contemplating him.

Draco, his gooey brain loosely held together by hormones and one or two remaining neurons, sighed out, “What?”

“I’m pleased.”

“Oh?”

“I had a feeling, after Spain, that we’d be quite compatible – but one can’t be certain until one has conducted a few – er – trial runs, you know.”

“Quite compatible,” repeated Draco.

“Don’t you think?”

“Have you seen me?”

Granger grinned.

“I’d expound upon my findings,” said Draco, “but – you’ve just pumped all of my cognition out of my balls.”

He reached a languid hand towards her. She approached. He slipped it between the dressing gown’s folds and ran it up her side.

“You’re bloody – incredibly – I can’t even string words together at the moment, but–”

She laid herself onto the bed with him and put her head on his shoulder.

An ordinary sort of gesture, all told – only it was Granger, putting her head on his shoulder. His pulse picked up again, not in arousal, but out of a swell of joy.

He kissed the top of her head. He couldn’t remember having kissed the top of anyone’s head in his life, but there it was.

Granger appeared to be thinking things along the same lines. She spoke into his chest in a smiling mumble. “This is absurd. You’re Draco Malfoy.”

“Have we both gone mad?”

“I think so. A little.”

“You’ve just reminded me that I wanted to make you say my name.”

“We have time to correct the lapse.”

Yes. There would be time.

Thank the gods, because Draco was making a list. He wanted to do it on a broom. He wanted a spot of professorial role play. He would have her in the library. Perhaps even the Hogwarts library, if they could bluff their way back in. On the dining table. In his cubicle at work. Definitely in the lab. At the Seneca, yes, of course. And he was going to have her on that window ledge, and every bloody window ledge in this house. And he was going to spaff on her t*ts. And definitely work out that auto-asphyxiation device of hers.

There would be time.

There would be a lifetime, perhaps, or was that too mad to think about?

He thought about it anyway.

~

It had been, all told, a winning start to the day.

They settled into one another’s arms and fell into a nap.

Judging by the angle of the sun, it was only about ten o’clock in the morning when Draco awoke. He took an unusual, groggy delight in feeling warm and sticky, because it was Granger who he felt warm and sticky with.

Her robe had opened and exposed a thigh that looked delicious.

He pushed himself up and kissed it.

Granger, far away in some distant, peaceful dream, slept on.

Draco had been about to lie back down when he realised that he was being watched.

Granger’s cat was at the foot of his bed, staring at him.

“How the bloody hell do you keep getting in here?” whispered Draco. “I’ve got wards up.”

The cat’s blink told him that this was no concern of his.

“Right – well – erm – as you can see, things have – progressed–” said Draco, attempting to cover Granger’s thigh with her robe.

The cat’s long stare informed him that it had indeed taken note, and that any progress was, in fact, its doing, given that Draco was largely a useless imbecile. Draco could offer payment in the form of kippered herring at breakfast.

“…You weren’t really lost, were you, that one time? And the other night – you weren’t really chasing a leaf.”

No, said the cat. Of course not. Draco was a bumbler and at some point a cat simply runs out of patience. The twitch of the cat’s tail informed Draco that, by the by, the consequences would be dire for him, should he bollocks this up.

Frankly, the cat intimidated Draco far more than Potter and Weasley. The cat actually had the gumption to carry out its threats.

Draco pulled a sheet over himself, feeling that the old sausage and beans were rather too exposed, with those claws at this level of proximity.

“I shan’t bollocks it up,” whispered Draco. “I can’t bollocks it. I care for her far too much – it’s a horrid feeling–”

The yellow eyes stared at him.

“What else do you want me to tell you? She has the entirety of my stupid heart – all right? I can’t hurt her – I’d sooner rip out my own soul–”

Still the stare continued.

“I love her.”

That’s what it had wanted to hear.

The cat wound its way towards him on the bed. Draco slid a protective hand in front of his crotch, in case it got any ideas.

The cat observed the movement. Its glance towards Draco told him that, if it were to carry out its revenge, it would go for his eyes, first, anyway. Then nipples. It had sharpened its claws for the purpose.

But, for now, that was unnecessary. They could be friends.

It butted its head at his chest and curled its tail under his chin.

Draco spat out a single cat hair, presumably placed upon his tongue to ensure that he knew his place.

Granger awoke to find Draco scratching her cat’s ears.

“Oh,” she said.

“He’s approved of me,” said Draco, “with a few provisos.”

“Provisos?”

“They’re between him and me. Can’t disclose them.”

“All right.” Granger was smiling widely. “You know, I did have it on good authority that you’re a good man, under all the d*ckheadery, but now…”

“It’s irrefutable, is it?”

“Yes. Theo’s findings have been peer reviewed, as it were.”

The cat began to knead Draco’s thigh, too close his crotch for comfort – another intimidation tactic, no doubt.

Granger saw Draco’s wide eyes and came to the rescue. She picked up the cat and gave it a kiss on its ugly head before sending it on its merry way through the door.

“I still want to know how he’s getting in,” said Draco.

“Should’ve worked that into your provisos,” said Granger. “I am so pleased that you’re getting along.”

“I’m not sure it’s the most egalitarian of getting-alongs.”

“You sound as though he has something terrible on you.”

“He threatened to go after my nipples, should I, in any way, displease you.”

Granger laughed and pressed a kiss onto one of the nipples in question. “I shall keep you safe.”

“Thank you. I can’t decide whether the cat or the Prioress terrifies me more, at the minute.”

“New Boggart, is it?”

“Not quite,” said Draco. He had an entirely new terror, there.

Granger yawned. “Shall we have a shower and give the others a sign of life?”

“No,” said Draco, selfishly.

“I think we ought to, or Harry and Ron might burst in next.”

“It’s one thing for that cryptid of yours to get in, but if those two bumblers got through my wards, I’d know I was losing my touch.”

“You were a bit distracted when you were casting them,” said Granger.

She then proceeded to distract him again by walking to the bathroom and letting the robe slip off as she went.

All other issues lost their significance over chasing Granger’s bare bum.

“Again?” gasped Granger as Draco ran after her and pushed his half-hard self against her.

“Obviously. Still plenty of life left in the old bag.”

As they entered the bathroom, Draco caught sight of himself in the mirror.

His hair looked like a pineapple.

In a moment of real personal growth, he discovered that he didn’t care.

They showered, amongst other naughty things. Then, because Granger desired it, they went downstairs to give the requisite sign of life.

That night, when everyone – but particularly Potter and Weasley – had fucked off, Draco joined Granger in her rooms.

By then, they had got the worst of the randiness out of their systems, and they were able to take it slow, and it was something rather more akin to making love.

There was such pleasure in it. Not raw, carnal pleasure – that had been found several times that morning – but something intimate, and slow, and sweet. They undressed each other with care and caresses. She took off his braces and cufflinks with a soft smile upon her face. He pulled the hairpins from her hair – all except one, out of lingering paranoia. She unbuttoned his shirt; he lifted her top off.

When they were both naked, he lay her onto the pillows with that lovely chaos of hair around her, under the light of a waxing moon. She was the enchantress that he had glimpsed at long ago. He drew his fingers through her hair and felt the impossibility of it, of the realness of this dream-vision. He told her that she was beautiful. She told him to kiss her.

Their kisses yielded secrets. He told her of his Amortentia and she told him of hers, and they found delightful surprises in the other’s answers, of flying, and the sea, and roses, and his hair, and desert sands, and her soap, and his cologne, and honeyed cider, and cherries, bits and pieces and memories and moments that had brought them together. He told her what he thought of when he cast a Patronus. She told him of her puzzle, of paradoxes now solved.

It was a gentle delirium of stupidities and vulnerabilities. They made love in it, whispering wants, long-unvoiced, into the other’s ear. Their hearts thudded and surged. Their mouths reaped and harvested kisses, and, when they spun over the edge together, each gasped out the other’s name.

December’s full moon came and went. There were no further werewolf attacks. The wizarding world sighed in relief – Greyback and his pack had been well and truly eradicated. And, if someone of his ilk did come back, well – there was a cure, now. Lycanthropy was no longer the life-changing affliction that it used to be.

In the days and weeks that followed, normalcy returned to Draco and Granger’s lives. Granger moved back to her cottage – this despite Draco mentioning, with eminent casualness, that he didn’t mind if she stayed at the Manor longer. By which he clearly meant that he wanted to spend the rest of his life there with her, but she was obtuse about it.

Anyway, Granger moved back into her cottage. She returned to her good works at Muggle Cambridge, at her local surgery, and at St. Mungo’s A&E. The sound of a whip cracked over the St. Mungo’s Board of Directors.

Her advancements in magical immunology took wizarding academia by storm and rocketed her to scholarly superstardom. What seemed like every magical research institution in the world endeavoured to poach her from Cambridge. Oxford was particularly insistent and attempted to recruit her with promises of heading her own research institute – and budgets, staff, and resources beyond her wildest dreams. Cambridge scrambled to make a counter-offer to ensure that Granger would stay. The Sorbonne sent in a proposal that bordered on outrageous. Heavyweight American universities entered the fray with offers even more extravagant, which even Draco found rather tempting when Granger showed them to him.

Granger watched the one-upmanship unfurl with a raised eyebrow, said that it was all very flattering, and decided to remain at Cambridge. They gave her the entirety of King’s Hall’s third floor to expand her laboratory and funded a new facility for mass-production of her treatment.

She won an absurd amount of prizes to add to her mosaic. Meanwhile, Muggle universities found an unaccountable influx of interest in their immunology programmes by prospective students with strange and wonderful academic qualifications.

As for Draco, well – he was awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class, for Acts of Outstanding Bravery, for his diverse manifestations of idiocy on the battlefield. He was also given a letter of reprimand for Conduct Unbecoming of an Auror for inappropriate acts with his Principal. It was signed by Tonks, with a post-scriptum enquiring about when the wedding would be. He framed the letter and put it in pride of place on his cubicle wall, next to the Order of Merlin. Granger’s photograph from the original casefile was pinned next to it. She tutted at him when he came in late.

Draco returned to his usual assortment of missions. And, when he wasn’t dealing with naughty witches and wizards, he faffed about with a certain damaged ring. The words carved into it – purity will always conquer – meant something different, now. Purity had conquered, but it had been purity another kind – of purpose, of heart and mind.

As for the Something between Draco and Granger – they saw each other when their schedules permitted, perhaps every second or third day. As December drew to its end, Draco decided that, whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. He did not want to go back to Jotted notes, not when he could kiss meanings out onto her neck. He didn’t want to wake up in separate beds. He didn’t want scheduling. He wanted a Life Together.

It seemed a divine objective, and a terrifying one. He wanted to try this thing with Granger – this next adventure. It frightened him far more than any of the others. More than the Keepers, more than the nuns, more than Greyback’s mania – but it might make things Enough.

A life together with Granger – whatever form it took – wouldn’t be perfect, smooth sailing into a perpetual sunset. This, he knew. They would quarrel often. They’d want to murder each other through new and sensational means. They’d probably call it a mistake, some days. But they would come to understandings. And perhaps, eventually, she would agree to live at the Manor with him, and fill its lofty halls with warmth. Or, perhaps, he would move into her cottage, and do something about the mess of books in that front room. Perhaps, one day, they would have children, and those children would have childhoods free of pain and war. Or perhaps they would simply enjoy each other, and go wherever the wind – or Granger’s do-gooding – took them. Or perhaps they would become gentlemen thieves. Or adopt orphans and instill moral fibres in them.

But he was getting ahead of himself with these speculations. He had to ask her, first.

Draco had a conversation with his mother. He explained a great many things that had heretofore been kept secret – the rings, Granger living at the Manor, his unwise, not-allowed Feelings. He had expected, at the very least, annoyance, if not anger, at his temerity on all fronts. Instead, his mother grew teary, and asked a question.

“And you’re – happy, aren’t you?” she sniffed.

“Yes,” said Draco with unusual sincerity – and a wide, wide smile.

“Then so am I.”

She took him in her thin arms and hugged him.

“And,” said Narcissa into his shoulder, “I will gladly admit that I was wrong – she did exist, after all.”

“Who?”

“The perfect witch you were waiting for.”

~

A few days before Christmas, Draco invited Granger to the Manor for dinner.

Much to his annoyance, he was late getting home that evening, having been occupied with chasing after a lich in Grimsby. He stepped out of the Floo to find the Manor resplendent with Christmas decorations – tinsel of twinned silver and gold, white clusters of candles, and garlands wafting the scent of pine.

Tupey dusted him off. Henriette, a quill behind her ear and a scroll of parchment in her hand, interrogated Draco on a few items for the dinner menu. Draco had little interest in the matter – he had absolutely no appetite, given that his intestines were a knot of nerves.

“Is she here yet?” he asked.

“Colleague Healer Granger went for a walk,” said Tupey. “We told her that you would be late, sir.”

“Colleague Healer Granger,” repeated Draco.

“Sir?”

Draco grasped at his pocket. “My hope is that – my hope is that she won’t be Colleague Healer Granger for much longer.”

Both house-elves turned to look at him with wide eyes. Tupey’s feather duster quivered.

“I hope she’ll become something else – if she’ll have me,” said Draco, feeling rather quivery himself.

Henriette dropped her parchment. Her small hands clasped at her heart.

The elves flung themselves at him. Each hugged one of his thighs.

“You must change, Monsieur,” said Henriette, stepping back and growing businesslike. “You smell like un cadavre.”

“Yes, well – the undead in Grimsby, you know–”

Ten minutes later, Draco had been whipped into the shower and whirled into fresh robes. He was then equipped with life advice from Henriette, such as the importance of being humble and sincere, et surtout! Surtout! not bungling this, Monsieur, or she would be cross.

In spite of her severe words, her eyes brimmed with tears as she helped him with his cloak.

Tupey sobbed into his feather duster.

Draco dearly hoped that he would be giving them a reason to smile soon – otherwise, he would be joining them in the crying.

He stepped outside and found Granger’s footprints in the snow. He followed them, feeling rather like a man on a mission. Possibly the most significant mission of his life. What a feeling – what a hideous, vulnerable, glorious feeling.

The air smelled of just-before snow.

As Draco walked, memories of their year together unwound before him in a soft chronology. The February day in Glastonbury, their quarrel at Ostara, banoffee pie scarfed down like barbarians. Beltane and its seas and smoke. Chocolate by a fountain. Solstice and sun-drenched Provence. Healing and inadvertent disclosures at St. Mungo’s. Lingering too long under wisteria. Lughnasadh’s gentle meander down memory lane. Laughing fits with mud in their mouths and the magic of Mabon. A stolen dance. Samhain and the night in Spain. Triumphs on the battlefield amongst fire and blood. A kiss under sanctified rain.

He felt a sweet sort of sadness that something was over – but there swelled in him, also, a hope that something new and wonderful was about to begin.

There was a strange loveliness to the evening sky. Snow clouds threatened, but the sun danced amongst them, sifting delicate gold here and there through the grey. It washed light and dark over the grounds in a pale, luminous impasto.

Granger’s footprints led to the rose garden’s snow-ivied walls.

Rose bushes, charmed to resist the cold, dripped with icicles that fixed the light into frozen glints. The roses themselves looked even more opulent than usual under their pelerines of snow. Heavy heads bent under the weight of it, glowing lustres of ruby or pink or crimson through the white.

There is something of a fairy tale about roses under snow – in the frosted leaves, in the bending stalks, in blossoms unscarred, touching petal to petal like the lips of lovers. Something of a love story, something of a happily ever after.

Draco picked a rose – a deep red one, the colour of romance, of heart-blood.

The stirring beauty of the rose garden was made more beautiful, still, by the woman walking through it.

She had paced out a circle of footprints around the fountain. Her nose and cheeks were nipped pink by the cold. She smiled as he approached.

In her hands, a sheaf of papers. In his hands, a rose.

“What are you up to?” she asked, when he approached her with it.

“Mischief, as usual,” said Draco. He slid the rose into her hair and stood back to contemplate the effect. “Gilding the lily, really – holding a lantern to the sun.”

Granger eyed him with amusement and suspicion, even as she blushed. She touched her fingertips to the petals. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”

“And what are you up to?” asked Draco.

“Reeling,” said Granger. She waved her papers at him. “I’ve just got back from the lab. We’ve received some preliminary results.”

“Good?”

“More than good – fantastic. Beyond what I could’ve hoped.”

She came to his side and showed him the results, the incomprehensible rows of data that made her so happy. She explained things in a rush of enthusiasm, how these and those numbers were so promising, that this and that anticipated side-effect had occurred only minimally, interspersed with exclamations of “Look!” and “Can you imagine?”

Draco nodded and pretended to understand and said that it was all bloody good news, well done, well fucking done.

Granger beamed. She clutched the results to her chest, spun upon her heel, took in a breath, and let it out in a warm mist.

With a new serenity, she folded her papers and pressed them into her coat. Now she looked at Draco with a soft, smiling delight. A great peace descended on her – the peace that follows years of effort and persistence, when those efforts have, at long last, borne fruit. She had accomplished the impossible. She had achieved a dream.

Draco felt that rush of admiration and affection that had grown terribly familiar, when Granger was around – the press at his heart, the headiness. Extraordinary witch. Incredible woman. Beloved, beloved, beloved.

The sun shone from behind clouds.

“It’s the winter solstice today,” said Granger, looking up at it. “Yule.”

“Is it? What – a Pagan holiday, and we haven’t some asterisky adventure to frolic off to?”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Shall we nip away to the Orkney Islands before dinner?”

Granger laughed. “It’s a fascinating astronomical event in its own right. Solstitium’s literal meaning is ‘the sun stands still’ – and it will. Quite soon, I think. And then the days will grow longer again. A time for new beginnings, according to the old ways.”

“New beginnings,” repeated Draco. “That is – rather convenient.”

“Oh?”

Draco found himself, again, seized by that fool’s courage – as well as the squeeze of nerves.

“I – have something for you,” said Draco.

His voice verged, suddenly, on the shaky. His voice was never shaky. He had wanted to be suave. But this was Granger, ergo, no suave. Blast it all to hell.

Granger turned her attention from the sky to him. Her focus was curious, gentle.

With fingers that felt a bit trembly, Draco took out the ring. It sat in his palm, a simple silver band.

“You fixed it,” gasped Granger in delight. “Well done!”

“I did. I’d like you to – have it.”

She looked up at him. “To wear it again?”

“No. Well, yes. But I mean – have it.”

“Have it?” Granger searched his eyes. “But – these are your family rings.”

Right. He was botching this completely and he was going to have to spell it out for her, even as his heart was doing its utmost to block his throat.

“Yes – of course – you’re right. These are my family rings.” He paused, took a breath, and continued. “And I’d – what I’m trying to say – badly – is that I’d like you to be part of my family. Or – for me to be part of yours. Or for us to make a new one, together – or any iteration you’d like. What I’m trying to ask is – if you’d give it a go with me–”

His voice caught. Now she was beginning to understand. Her lips parted. A few snowflakes drifted down and caught in her hair, on the rose, and left melting kisses on her cheek.

“Potter and Weasley asked me what my – intentions were, with you,” continued Draco. “And I hadn’t an answer – didn’t know I had any. But I do. I want to be with you – in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”

Now there were tears in her eyes.

He forged ahead – it was too late to turn back now. “I love you – I adore you – I want us to be together. Together-together. I, frankly, would like to spend the rest of my life with you, but we can do stupid dates first, or a proper courtship, or – an engagement (though I rather think that we got engaged in March, as much as you would deny it) – or anything you’d like.”

She gasped out a sob that was, somehow, also a sound of delight. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Yes – I am. If you want to – obviously – but I would also be happy simply being with you – whatever that might mean – whatever you’d like it to mean. I don’t bloody know – I’m rubbish at this. Something about you reduces me to a blithering fool. I realise asking for the rest of our lives is probably too much, too fast, so–”

“Yes,” said Granger.

“Yes?” repeated Draco. “You – want to?”

She approached. She held his cold hand in her warm ones, and drew it, ring and all, towards her heart. Tears mingled with the snow-melt on her cheek. “Yes, I want to – yes to everything. To whatever it might mean. Yes to stupid dates, yes to being together-together, yes to – to marrying you, to spending the rest of my life with you. Yes to every blithering word.”

“Are you – certain? I’m – the worst of blitherers – of men in general–”

She cut him off with a kiss and, in a voice choked with emotion, whispered, “I love you,” against his lips.

His head spun. His soul flew. He kissed her back, then his overfull heart surged out wants in a breathless sequence against her mouth. “I want more time with you – I want us to have the same bed. I want you to outwit me daily. I want to give you, gods, so many things. I want quickies in bathrooms – dances – photographs in lockets–”

Tears or snowflakes clung to her lashes. She gasped another yes against his lips.

“I’m the luckiest idiot who ever walked this earth,” said Draco, holding her face, pressing his forehead against hers.

“I can assure you that that title goes to me,” said Granger in a voice that shook.

“You’re Granger – contradiction in terms.”

She laughed amongst the tears. “How do you make me – so happy–”

“Shall we – shall we have one last, grand adventure together?”

She could speak no further. She nodded, then pressed her face into his chest.

She had said yes. She had kissed yeses into his mouth. He wanted to weep, he wanted to crush her, he wanted to drop onto one knee, he wanted everything, all of this stupid love thing, he wanted it rife with cliché, another kiss, another moment, forever and ever–

He felt the warmth of her breath through his cloak. She put her small, shaking grasp around him and made a serious attempt to squeeze the life out of him.

And – his long list notwithstanding – he didn’t want anything more than this. This witch in his arms, doing her utmost to crack his ribs.

He had, at last, found his enough.

The sun was setting. The stars glittered their lovely awakening.

As they had been in this very garden so many months ago, they were, once again, only a man and a woman amongst green boughs and a rustling breeze.

Only, this time, the violent polarities that had kept them apart drew them together. After all, fire loves her darkness. After all, the sinner loves his angel. Autumn, laughing, dances her leaves into the high skies of her winter. The moon spins in gyre after gyre, chasing his beloved sun.

Only, this time, the terrible incompatibilities had grown irrelevant – fallen away – mattered for naught. They were two souls who had come near enough to to feel the other’s glow, but now, at last, they met, touched, tangled.

He slipped the ring onto her finger. He had removed all of the thresholds. She would feel everything. The rings connected. He felt the surge of her heart and she, with a gasp, felt his.

He held her to him, lifted her, and spun her, laughing, amongst swirling nebulae of snowflakes catching the sun.

She was his and he was utterly hers.

In snow-felted twilight, under spilling skies and starshine and a sun standing still, they kissed, they promised, they loved. What cared they about universes colliding? Let them collide. Let their joined heartbeats cleave constellations and startle the eternal stars.