Chapter Text
He gives her a brief reprieve from the onset of a truly awkward mood between them when he goes out to check on his sheep. He’s gone so long that she begins to worry; she’s just contemplating another likely disastrous venture into the snow when he comes back through the door, stomping the snow from his boots with more vigour than is strictly necessary.
“Everything okay?” she asks. She’s feeling a little bit (she’s not going to even think it) sheepish (sometimes she even annoys herself) after their moment by the door. She wants nothing more than to return to the more comfortable atmosphere of the time before that had all happened.
“Fine.”
“They’ll be warm enough?”
“They have wool coats, Granger.”
“Of course.”
“I brought them in, though. Just in case. That’s what I was doing when I found you.”
He’s removed his outer clothing now, draping them over the fireguard next to her own. The removal of his shirt this time has none of the affectation he’d adopted earlier. It’s purely functional but it sets her heart racing all the same.
His body is so strong. He has powerfully built shoulders (probably from all of the firewood chopping) and large hands (does he shear the sheep himself? Does he have lambs? Does he scoop them up in one of his massive hands because that’s—, that vision will definitely live on in her nicest daydreams) and forearms that make her quite absurdly want to sink her teeth into them (does he bottle feed the lambs? Oh God what if he does?). The muscles of his chest and stomach are sculpted and quite clearly defined; but not in that posey way that she sees from the men on the cover of Witch Weekly (does he cuddle them? Whisper encouraging nonsense to these little tiny fluffy baby sheep? The images are ridiculous, but her brain is absolutely going there). They’re functional; they have purpose. Nothing about him is for show anymore. It’s like he’s stripped himself down to only the things which are necessary (he probably carries them around, the lambs, two under each arm and one slung across his shoulder in a show of both strength and sensitivity. This is all a lot for her process). She wonders where she would be if she did the same.
All of his skin is still pale, the scars on his chest (and the one on his arm) standing out starkly in comparison. It’s so smooth, the muscle so firm looking that she’s overcome with the strangest urge to bite into the roundness of his bicep or the dent of his pectoral. And then she could trail her lips along it, and her tongue, and maybe feel the dips between his ribs and taste that delicious muscle at his hip—
He clears his throat and she realises she’s been watching him undress like he’s doing it for her personal viewing pleasure. Which he isn’t, but she’s riveted anyway.
He shrugs quickly into a plain t-shirt and joggers which makes her curiously nostalgic for the flannel. They’re fine - but he doesn’t look the same in them. He looks too ordinary, like every other man she’s ever seen in nightwear. Which he isn’t.
“Are you okay to sleep in that or do you want another—?”
He gestures to the shirt she’s wearing.
“No, this is fine.”
He hands her a toothbrush, still in its packaging, and passes off the toothpaste to her once he’s readied his own, squeezing in the most exemplary manner from the bottom of the tube. At this point, there is nothing about him that doesn’t impress her and it’s such a domestic task; she almost laughs. Almost, because each time she meets his eye her stomach positively swoops. Draco Malfoy, even with a line of toothpaste around his lips could stop the beating of her heart with a well-timed swipe of his dental floss.
And then as she self consciously rinses out her mouth, the washing of his face evokes what can only be described as an uncontrolled explosion of arousal. There is water trailing down his neck. The line of it is jagged, directed by his stubble and his jaw and the ridges of his throat. All things she wants to wet with her own tongue. She is done. It’s too much. She retreats to the bed, waving the white flag of her surrender to her hormones.
“Goodnight, Granger,” he says, settling in beside her. He rests his arm beneath his head which is unfair because the only thing her vagina finds more exciting than looking at his strong arms or his lovely face is looking at them both at once.
She’s doing her best to keep to her side but gravity is also apparently conspiring against her; the dip of the mattress schemes to roll her to him. She perches on the edge, facing away from him and counting the minutes until morning.
-
It isn’t morning when she wakes up. She knows because the darkness is thick; so much blacker than her bedroom in her flat in London where the light from the streetlamps still manages to permeate even her blackout curtains.
It’s also fucking freezing. Or it should be.
The fire has burned down to embers, and there is a cold on her back which couldn’t be more different to the heat which presses up against her front. It takes her a few moments of concentrated recollection to remember where she is, and just whose neck she has her face buried in, whose soft sheets she lies on and whose arms are holding her against him.
The rise and fall of his chest is rhythmic and slow, and his breath filters through her hair to the back of her neck. She doesn’t want to pull away, but she should. Because she’s definitely the one who has encroached on to his side of the bed, and not him on hers. So any aspersions will be cast firmly in her own direction, not that she would be objecting if it was the other way around.
His breathing is steady, and she thinks if she can fall back to sleep she might just get away with it. And that should be enough to stave off her hunger for Malfoy; it’s not like the cuddling isn’t absolutely necessary for their health. He said it himself.
So she wriggles closer, chancing a squeeze of his arm and a hand over his heart. It feels lovely to be surrounded like this. She’s never been much of a cuddler; never one for intimacy of any kind really. She’s more of a fuck and flee type of lover. She’d rather leave out the awkwardness entirely. But that’s not possible here. They’re already through all of that. And this is just sharing warmth, anyway.
She tries to relax, but it’s so cold and she wants to mould herself to him, until she finds she’s flattened herself to his front, slipped her leg between his strong thighs and her hands have ventured beneath his t-shirt. She feels bad about this sleep groping, but not bad enough to withdraw.
Until, just as the tension is leaving her, she realises his breathing has stopped. His chest isn’t moving at all and his breath has stopped distributing its warmth across her scalp. It can only mean one thing.
He’s awake.
He begins to remove his arms from around her, pulling away and she feels especially bereft when she tells him “no.”
“It’s alright Granger,” he says, continuing his gentle extraction. The loss of him is devastating. His warmth. Just that.
He’s getting out of bed and—. Is he leaving? Because right now that feels like the worst thing in the world. It’s already too cold and she’s missing the heat of him and the feeling of his arms around her and his chest beneath her cheek.
“Where’re you going?”
“I’m just going to add some wood to the fire.”
The orange light of the fire illuminates the room as the wood catches. She can only watch in fascination as he turns back to her and his long fingers grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it slowly over his head. There it is again - his chest in all its glory. He’s equal amounts spectacular and terrifying. All light and shadow and clean sharp lines.
Then he takes his trousers off, too, and it more or less breaks her brain. Those thighs, and God his hips—. It’s not normal, to be so taken by such an insignificant line of muscle. Then why do they look so significant, though?
He doesn’t look away as he makes slow progress to the bed. She thinks, maybe he’s giving her a chance to object. He doesn’t look away, and her? Well, she’s physically unable to.
She hasn’t realised she’s sitting upright, drawn towards him and the fire until he’s standing in front of her.
“It’s better. Skin to skin,” he says.
Of course it is.
She nods, and then his hands, those lovely strong fingers are resting on the top button of her— no, his — shirt. The one she wears. She nods again. Was she cold? Because that feeling is gone. Her heart is fluttering and her blood is rushing to her fingers and her throat, pulse jumping and thudding. There’s movement everywhere inside her body.
His fingers make quick work of her buttons, and then he’s breathing out a long breath which does nothing to break the tension which has settled on her spine. His face is cast completely in darkness but his eyes look almost black, and they are focused on the exposed skin of her breastbone, her sternum and her stomach. She can feel them on her like a physical weight.
She watches in frozen fascination the rise and fall of his chest and the parting of his mouth as he lifts his index finger and drags it down the path his eyes have taken. She jumps, even though she wants his touch because the pad of his finger is a rough contrast against her goosebumped skin. A contradiction to the softness in his expression.
The fire crackles.
There is no way on earth she can tell him no this time. Why would she? It doesn’t feel like she’s her and he’s him, here, so far from the rest of their world. Her world now, she realises. Hermione Granger isn’t used to giving in. But she doesn’t feel like Hermione Granger when she’s with him. She is both more and less than her name. So is he.
It’s easy in the end, shrugging the shirt from her shoulders. It’s beautiful, watching his face as she does. His nostrils flare and his lips press momentarily together and his chest heaves and he’s transfixed, the same as her. She’s seen his face in so many forms, in cruelty and disgust, and more recently, trepidation and cautious teasing, in concern and concentration. None of those are truly him though. Here he is raw and unmasked. She wonders if she looks the same.
He remains motionless just long enough for doubt to creep in, eyes darting between the flannel of his shirt and the skin she’s bared to him. He must see it in her face because before she can grab the blanket he’s there, crowding her backwards and down into the mattress, laying his body (his hard, smooth body) over hers and letting his weight press her down.
She doesn’t know why she feels relief at that.
Hermione knows where this is going because as his thigh pushes her own apart and his hips push down against her stomach she can feel it in the wetness which is growing between her legs (and on his underpants, oh, but then he’s going to know, she wants him to know, so it’s not so concerning really) and the unmistakable evidence of his own lust, pressing hard against her stomach.
Her breathing is coming quicker now, and it could be because of the weight of him on top of her or just because her body is begging for more; for his lips and his fingers and his dick, which she can peel pressing against her stomach but not inside, where she really wants it.
She almost asks him for it. For the kiss, the one she refused. Is it still the same one, so many hours later? But she’s distracted by the arm that wraps itself beneath her and squeezes, arching her spine towards him and then the words won’t form because of the resulting sensation that blooms and grows between their hips, both covered by his shorts, but he’s pressing and grinding and his breath is hot against her neck and later she might be embarrassed but right now all she can do is moan. It’s not even a conscious choice on her part. She’s devolved.
His calloused palm is gripping at her waist, and his other is dragging down from its place on the pillow, over her collarbone and between her breasts and down, covering the width of her stomach almost entirely, scorching as it goes. Then he stops at the band of the boxer shorts that cover her, fingers pulling at the elastic.
“Yes?” It’s so low she feels it in her chest.
“Yes,” she whispers.
He yanks them down at the same time his lips come to cover hers. She thought she knew warmth before, but the heat of his mouth is raging over hers, breathing fire down into her lungs and her stomach and everywhere else. It tingles at her fingertips and shoots through her navel, throbs in her breasts.
His lips are soft but his jaw is hard and the texture of his stubble sharp; it’s a cacophony of sensation. She’s gasping for air or more immediately, and his tongue wastes no time in sliding over her own. It’s consuming; it all is, this kiss and the slide of his hand down her legs, the brief loss of contact as he removes the last pieces of material separating them until he’s back and she can feel it all, the hardness of his cock and the curvature of his arse as she grabs him there, spreading her knees and its— he’s right there at her entrance, and his tongue is in her mouth and his thumb is sliding over her nipple and he’s still somehow trying to get her closer everywhere but the one place she wants him.
“Draco,” she says into his mouth. “Please.”
He pulls back, searching, gaze darting over her face. She thinks she’s made it pretty clear she wants him, and this. But the loss is twice as alarming when he rolls away because his heat is gone as well as what she was sure was going to be something important. It’s stupid. Hermione knows that sex is usually just sex. But this wasn’t going to be just that, she can admit it to herself in the dark.
She's grasping for something, anything to say when he settles on his side (because surely he didn’t mean literal naked huddling for warmth?), heart in her throat and wanting nothing more than for this newly created distance to be gone.
And then thankfully it is. He’s pulled her back to him, and smoothed a hand over her thigh, pulling her leg over his hip so his cock is notched against her again (she really hopes she’ll get to have a look at it at some point because it feels like it could be overwhelming, but then everything about this is. Everything about him is) and his teeth are scraping her neck just before his tongue soothes over the scratched skin and his hand is in her hair and suddenly she’s on top of him. She could do anything with him here; he’d let her, she knows.
Calloused fingertips skate over her thighs and squeeze her hips rocking her over his length, over but still not inside, and she thinks she could probably come soon, even just like this. She’s lost to it for a couple of thrusts of his hips until—.
“Granger.”
His fingers squeeze at the back of her neck and he pulls her mouth to his. The muscles of his stomach tense under her hands as he leans up to kiss her roughly then pushes her back to sit upright and over him.
Seconds stretch where he just looks and touches. She whimpers when his fingertips dig into the flesh of her arse, and bites her lip as he weighs her tits in his hands. She thinks there will be time for this later, when it feels less urgent to be full of him.
She pushes herself up onto her knees, reaching down to take him in her hand, cataloguing the length of his cock as she lets it slide through her palm before she pushes down onto it. Her body opens for him so easily, making seemingly endless room for him inside as she takes him slowly, stretching and clenching and fluttering around him as his fingers bruise her hips.
The heat is everywhere now; from the fire at her back and from the bed and his body below, but nothing compares to how it is inside her; in her stomach and her limbs and her chest and cheeks. When he starts to thrust up into her it’s like kindling for the flame; it begins to rise, licking and swirling over her skin and in the places in her body which she thinks will feel empty once she has left him, now.
There is nothing she can do other than to stoke it. She rolls her hips and grinds down onto him, the sharpness of his hips adding to her pleasure then lifts and falls, lifts and falls in perfect synchronicity with his upward movements from beneath her.
She doesn’t even realise she’s chanting his name, and which name, in a hymn of unleashed pleasure as every muscle in her body tenses and trembles and the fire rises further and further and then releases in a wave of sensation so acute that her spine curves over and she collapses onto his chest, heaving breaths and whimpering in the aftermath of her orgasm.
She buries her face in his shoulder as his strong arms band around her and he rolls them both over, she melts into the mattress. He’s kissing her deeply and whispering to her how perfect, how good, she feels. She can only watch and feel, still limp in the aftermath of her own climax as he pushes her knees towards her chest, folding her pliant body back on itself. He towers over her, hands grasping and the muscles of his thighs tense with strain. The speed of his hips increases and then he scrambles for her mouth again, erratic, until he is groaning out his own release and collapsing down on top of her again, warm and loose and so satisfied.
She’s almost asleep by the time he slips out of her, pulling her head to lay on his chest so she drifts away to the steady sound of the thumping of his heart.
–
She wakes up to the feeling of his stubble on her thighs, and probably more importantly, his lips.
She buries her hands in the soft strands of his hair as he licks and sucks and strokes her to another orgasm. She’s unable to ignore the insistent poking of his erection against her when he pulls her back against his chest, grinding against him and bending her body forward until he almost has no choice but to slide inside her, large hands covering her breasts and pressing down on her stomach as his breath warms her ear.
It feels natural, touching him, letting herself come apart in his arms; as easy as breathing. She can’t remember why she fought it so much.
That is until afterwards, when he leaves her in his bed, telling her with tentative resignation in his voice that he's going to call a tow truck for her car. And she nods, heart, plummeting, and agrees that he’d better.
Because this isn’t her life, or her world. This is Malfoy’s. There has never been a time when they’ve lived harmoniously in the same one.
Her clothes are dry when she pulls them on; they retain the heat of his fire and a faint smell of ash. She’ll never think of him as cold now. How odd that she ever did. Her jumper in particular feels about six times softer than when she’d arrived. Maybe there’s something to his strict adherence to a wool-care regimen, after all.
His eyes fall to her tied shoes and fastened coat as he comes back through the door.
“It’s going to be an hour. Do you want some breakfast?”
“Oh, no. Thank you. I don’t really eat in the mornings.”
“Granger, breakfast is the most imp—”
“I know. I don’t have time. I’ve got used to it.”
He frowns then, and whatever easy chemistry they have when they’re naked, is gone. Replaced by a looping question in Hermione’s mind as to how she’s going to tell him goodbye.
He presses a bowl of sweetened porridge into her hands despite her protestations and she eats it, mainly because she knows she should and also because she doesn’t want a lecture from him about the value of a nutritional breakfast.
By the time he’s cleaned the dishes the time has come to leave. Regret sits heavy in her stomach as she takes a last look around the cottage. Is she actually going to miss it? She thinks she might. The peace of it, at least, when Malfoy gives her a break from his derision.
She accepts his offer to walk her to her car as graciously as she can, as she has no idea where it is, and she’s already accepted so much help from him that another debt will hardly make a difference.
The road is still slippery underfoot and it occurs to her more than once to reach out and take his arm but she won’t because she’s still her, and she certainly doesn’t need his assistance to walk.
She regrets it the second time her feet slide from underneath her, bruising her coccyx. To his credit, Malfoy manages not to say anything.
She watches him from the gate as he opens the door to the barn to release his sheep, and they come trotting out, cream and black blurs against the white field.
“Don’t you need a sheepdog for this sort of thing, Malfoy?”
“They listen to me just fine. You just need a firm hand.”
He does, she thinks, have firm hands.
“How old is this thing?” he asks, as they arrive at where she’d left her car. He poses casually against the fence.
“It’s not about the age—”
“Well, it’s certainly not about function. It must be older than you are.”
She can’t deny it. But she’s attached to her little car. She’s not getting into a debate about it with him.
“Thank you for all your help, Malfoy,” she tells him as the truck pulls up behind her car.
“Any time, Granger.”
And she thinks, really? Because the thought of going another ten years without seeing him is suddenly completely unacceptable. It would feel too much like a loss, as little sense as that makes.
“Can I…can I count on you, if I ever find myself stranded in a storm again?”
“Of course,” he nods seriously, “although I’ll really question your intelligence if I have to rescue you a second time.”
She almost gives up. But she never has before, and she won’t now.
“You know, I do think there’s another storm forecast. Next week?”
“Here?”
“Probably.”
“How do you know?”
“Divination,” she says wildly.
His eyebrows shoot upwards. “Ah yes. Famously foolproof. You’d better prepare.”
“Yes. Maybe I should stay here? Just in case there is a need for necessary cuddling. I wouldn’t— You did it so admirably.”
“It is a skill of mine. And any essential clothing removal.” He’s smiling.
“Mandatory blow-jobs,” she says. The recovery driver glances at her askance from his position crouching by her wheel.
“Well, if they’re mandatory—. You’d be very welcome,” he says. There is something in his expression which is so earnest it cracks her heart open a little bit more. “You could bring your delicates. I don’t trust you with their care.
“I’d better. Who knows what might become of them otherwise.”
“Exactly."
Somehow, she’s standing right in front of him, and she doesn’t know who’s moved but she can’t bring herself to care either way.
It’s unsatisfying in a lot of ways, because they’ve both got too many layers on to get as close as they’d like, because after so much time in close proximity all this open space feels wrong somehow, but he pulls her against him all the same and his kiss is just as enthralling as it was last night. Maybe more, in the light of day. She stops thinking rationally fairly quickly after that.
“Do you want this tow, or not?” The poor recovery driver shouts for the third time, some minutes later.