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Hermione heard the commotion unfolding before Lydia called for her. It was coming from front reception, and impossible to miss due to the way sound traveled within the building. Papier-mâché walls, Marnie called them – hilarious in her faint German accent – which Hermione thought was rather too generous of her.

They were understaffed, thanks to the bank holiday and the fact that the ancillary crew were almost all volunteers, but she could hear Seb doing his best to deescalate the situation without making out any particular words. He had such a soothing voice, that Sebastian.

“Min?” Lydia’s voice came skittering down the hall towards the cattery, even breathier than her usual airy register. “Min, could you spare a second to come help with a wee situation up front?”

Hermione had already stepped out to meet her, closing the door quickly against the escape artist kittens and rolling up the too-long sleeves of her jumper as though preparing for battle. They’d been driving her spare all afternoon; she would’ve cut them off at the wrists hours ago in frustration were that not a recipe for having the entire thing unravel and leave her in nothing but an extraordinarily beige bra. It would be going straight in the donation pile tonight, hopefully to be found by someone with unusually long arms and a penchant for itching.

“I’m here, Lydia. What’s going on?”

“Bloke came in, quite tall, quite obnoxious. Seems he’s got a cat in some kind of rough condition, but quite honestly I hear an accent like his and stop listening.”

Hermione laughed. “Bit too much of a toff for you?”

“Worse than whatever you’re imagining.”

“If Seb hasn’t been able to calm him down, I don’t have high hopes for what I can do.”

Lydia eyed her up and down and grinned. “If nothing else, you make for surprisingly compelling back up. I also thought you’d find it a bit funny, the way he tried to throw money at Seb to fix the issue.”

“Money? We could use money.” Hermione’s ears perked up at the mention of cash. They were always short on funds in a way that made her jolt awake from haunting dreams full of maths and accounting in a cold sweat. “Maybe I can wrangle a donation out of him. After we help the cat, obviously.”

“Obviously. Though I’m afraid he doesn’t seem the donating type.”

Lydia backed into the swinging door to reception, likely so she could watch Hermione’s face as an (indeed, exceptionally posh) voice hissed “– that again and I’ll see how you like being poked and prodded at while you’re zipped into a little carrier. She needs help and you’re just standing there badgering her –”

The voice broke off as its owner noticed they had company, though the addition of new people hardly seemed to deter him. “Finally. Maybe one of you lot will prove more useful than –”

Once again his speech ended abruptly, and the rest of reception fell eerily silent. Hermione was distantly aware that not only was he staring at her, but his sudden intensity had caused Seb and Lydia to as well.

And she was staring right back.

At Draco Malfoy.

Hermione’s first impulse was to walk straight back out the door she’d come through and reemerge, like she’d entered stage left at the wrong cue and someone else might be standing there upon a second attempt. She almost just left. Almost pulled her bloody wand, a rare phantom instinct these days. Almost yelped, almost lunged at him, almost burst into hysterical laughter. Nearly bit her tongue off trying not to.

So many compulsions occurred at once that in the process of trying to mitigate them all in front of her very interested audience, she found herself entirely immobilized instead.

Her mouth wasn’t, though.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Granger.”

Malfoy’s voice hit a weird, uneasy register as he said her name, one that made Lydia’s eyes pop comically wide in Hermione’s direction. Seb’s golden brown hair, tied back and boasting a frizzy halo to rival her own, filled her gaze as she averted her eyes and the world blurred. She could only hazily make out his hands placed on the carrier sitting atop the desk, as though he was mid benediction. A cat-christening. A catechism?

Hermione might be going mildly insane. The puns were always the first indication.

“Malfoy,” she said, her tone remarkably steady given that her vision was still a bit wonky and her heart seemed to have relocated to the cramped quarters of her trachea. Also, her tongue bloody hurt. She really had bit it in the initial shock. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“What a charming understatement.”

She took a deep, slow breath through her nose. It would be exceedingly hard to explain herself if she strangled a man unprompted in her place of work. The headlines alone would be obscene. Shock Soho Strangulation: Victim Remembered as ‘Pretentious, Very Blonde.’

“What – what brings you in today?” For the sake of avoiding her coworkers’ questions later, the more normal she could be the better. She’d likely already blown it with her first outburst, but she was determined to rein herself in.

“How do you two –” Lydia started, but Malfoy had already set in again. Not with anger so much as the sort of single-minded desperation that in their usual clientele meant something dire had occurred with their pet. Whatever was wrong was clearly more upsetting to him than encountering Hermione in the wild had been, a rather sobering thought.

He apparently hadn’t sensed how much danger he’d briefly been in.

“Please, could you just take a look at the cat? It’s a relief to see someone capable here, but it took me too long to trap her and we’ve already been wasting time while she’s in pain, so. Forgive me if I’m a bit…frustrated.”

Had there been a compliment buried in there? And a sort of gesture at an apology, too? Hermione’s hands had gone slightly numb.

“I’m –” Sebastian started reflexively, but Hermione stepped forward to rest her palm on his shoulder, a mechanical instinct. Malfoy had latched onto her with his unsettling silver gaze, riveted to her face as she assessed him. Had she been confusing him with someone else, his eyes alone would have proven her wrong. Whatever sodding luck had brought him to a muggle animal shelter, her shelter, on a dripping wet Monday night, he was here now and she needed to deal with it.

“Sebastian is quite capable,” Hermione said, unwilling to throw him under the bus to appease Malfoy’s tantrum. Seb could be a bit of a dolt at times, but he was lovely and good at his job.“I’d thank you not to be unkind.” Christ, she sounded like someone’s stuffy nan. “It seems as though there’s been a communication error. What’s happened to your cat?”

She could feel Lydia burning twin holes through her skull with her eyes; wounds she’d have to attend to later.

“It’s Molecule,” Malfoy said, his words coming out all on top of one another, the posh edge softened in the rush. “She’s not mine. I mean, she is. Or at least she’s not anybody else’s. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I think she’s ill. She’s stopped eating her favorite foods, and she’s not been acting at all like herself. I was so close to getting her inside with me last week, but she kept resisting at the last minute, and I had to trap her to get her into the carrier tonight. She needs seeing to. Something isn’t right.”

Whatever grey matter in Hermione’s brain had kept her safe through six harrowing years of school and one harrowing magical war had apparently taken control. Her mind was entirely empty except for the issue at hand, leaving the perfect slot for Customer Service Hermione to take the wheel.

“Cats can be fickle creatures. She may be just fine, but let me take a look.” She bent to peer through the expensive cat carrier and was greeted with a terrified, gorgeous tortie backed all the way into the far left corner. “What did you say her name is?”

“Molecule.” Malfoy’s cheeks pinked slightly.

“Right. Of course. Hullo, sweet Molecule.”

“She needs help,” Malfoy insisted again, though he was no longer on the verge of shouting. “She’s the greediest of all of them and now she won’t bloody eat.”

Lydia echoed Hermione’s next thought precisely. “All of them?”

“All of the cats I feed.” This tidbit left Hermione with approximately sixty-four new questions, but it appeared no further information was forthcoming. Being chronically nosy could be such a burden. No, not nosy. Curious. Perfectly reasonable to be curious. Given the circumstances. Etcetera.

She couldn’t resist further inquiry, given how very reasonable it was. “They’re all outdoor cats?” As with most cities, parts of London were saturated with feral colonies. They needed to eat, but they needed more than that, too, and Hermione was desperate to know how far his feline charity went.

“A few have got collars. I think some people on my street let their cats out to wander and get into fights and steal food.” He looked visibly disgusted at this. “Otherwise, I’ve been able to trap quite a few to have them fixed, then re-released or put into a program for adoption.”

Fascinating. “And Molecule?”

“Like I said, I was working on it.” He took a slow breath. “I would’ve preferred to earn her trust, but I had to trap her once she started acting like this.”

Lydia interjected again. “How did you end up bringing her here? I don’t think we’ve had you in before.”

Malfoy’s head turned towards her slightly, though his eyes were still on Hermione. Unnerving, that. “My usual vet’s closed for the bank holiday. I’ve a neighbor who recommended this place when I ran into him on the street.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and Hermione could tell he was trying quite hard not to snap at them for still standing around and asking him questions whilst he was so worried. Patience had never been a notable talent of his. “Do you normally treat your patrons to the third degree? As I told him, whatever I need to pay you, I will. I know it’s a holiday. Please, just take a look.”

“Of course.” Malfoy might deserve a bit of suffering, but Molecule didn’t, and Hermione felt the need for detente urgently approaching. “Let’s take her back and see what we can figure out.” She reached for the carrier as Seb backed off, still eying Malfoy like he might detonate at any moment.

The wariness wasn’t misplaced. Malfoy made an aborted movement towards her, or perhaps towards Molecule, but pulled himself up short at the last moment. He was breathing rather heavily. “You’re qualified?”

Hermione’s primary instinct was to make an unforgivably stupid O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. joke that would’ve broken several ministerial decrees and lost her any chance of Malfoy taking her seriously, not to mention respect for herself in the process. She was saved by Lydia springing to her defense before she could open her mouth.

“Hermione’s fully qualified, thanks very much. She’s got a degree in vet tech. Went to school for two years just so she’d be able to help us out even more than she already did.”

Sweet, sweet Lyd. Hermione could’ve lived without Malfoy learning quite so much about her, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t already known she was a rabid overachiever.

“Of course. Of course she did. Alright. Okay,” Malfoy said, and followed Hermione into the back without further comment.

They made an odd parade, the four of them. Apparently Seb and Lydia weren’t keen to miss whatever drama was about to unfold in the warrens of Soho CaHo (a horrible name – short for Soho Cat Home – which Hermione had no hand in choosing). They filed into an exam room one by one, making the already cramped space feel particularly claustrophobic.

“Do we need an audience for this?” Malfoy’s drawl was so familiar and so strange. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention, her breath shallow.

“Yes, you do.” Lydia said at the same time as Hermione said, “no.” She yelped as Hermione surreptitiously pinched the back of her arm, right above her tiny tattoo of a wheel of cheese. “Bloody hell, Min.” As usual, they wouldn’t be winning any awards for subtlety.

“Seb, I think someone should stay up front, no?”

He shot Hermione a disgruntled look, only eclipsed by Lydia’s smugness at being allowed to stay. Despite her interjections, she’d been doing a passable job of holding back the questions that Hermione knew she was burning to ask.

More importantly, Hermione didn’t want to be alone with him.

Seb backed out of the room, eyes narrowed in a way that perfectly communicated I want every detail later and also just a reminder we’ve a load of heavy objects up front I could use as a weapon against this nonce. Lydia settled herself in the chair usually meant for the client. Meant for Malfoy. He shot a pointed look in her direction, lip curled in the suggestion of a sneer, but he made the visibly herculean effort to keep it in and only gestured impatiently at the carrier Hermione had set on the exam table.

“Well?”

Hermione ignored him in favor of washing her hands and easing the carrier open. Molecule hadn’t made a peep so far, but her personal rule of thumb with cats was to expect the unexpected. Perhaps the opposite of her rule of thumb for one Draco Malfoy.

She should probably be losing her mind over the absolute strangeness of standing within spitting distance of him for the first time in seven years, but it was as though the thought slid right out between her ears whenever she tried to examine it. Brain soup. She’d deal with it later when she could have a breakdown in the privacy of her own bathtub.

“Hi darling,” she murmured to the tortie, easing one hand in to see how she reacted. Molecule only turned her enormous eyes on Hermione, allowing for a clear view of the way the markings on her face were split by a streak of white that ran clean from her right ear to underneath her chin. She was frozen for a long moment before starting to move, creeping past Hermione’s hand and sniffing the edges of the carrier and the tabletop beyond instead.

“She’s very brave,” Malfoy said, his voice low. “She’s only a bit shy. Give her a minute.”

Maybe this wasn’t Malfoy, after all. Perhaps he had a muggle clone who loved half feral cats and would never have insulted a majestic hippogriff. Molecule revealed her little fangs and hissed almost silently as Hermione moved her hand closer.

“Careful, Granger. Seems she doesn’t like your vibe.”

Only her concern for the cat in front of her kept her from whirling on him. The satisfied sneer in his voice was apparently her sleeper cell activation trigger. No, this was definitely the Malfoy she knew. Except – “my vibe?”

“It’s a bit full on, no?”

Lydia made a tiny, choked noise from her corner.

Hermione was saved from the devil on her shoulder by Molecule choosing that moment to radically reverse course. She pushed her little head quite aggressively against Hermione’s still proffered hand, eyes closing to tiny slits as a delighted Hermione seized the opportunity to scratch gently behind her ears and under her chin. Molecule positively melted into the touch. “Still a bloody nuisance, isn’t he, sweetheart?” she murmured to the cat. Hearing a tsk behind her, she turned just enough to make brief but disorientingly intense eye contact with Malfoy over one shoulder. “Seems she likes my vibe after all.”

He tore his eyes towards the exam room’s dingy ceiling and sighed. Impressive, making a breath of air sounds so condescending.

“Oh, she’s a darling,” Lydia said, already laying it on thick. “You haven’t been able to bring her inside yet? Surprising, that. Look how much she’s loving the attention.”

“Yes, well. She hasn’t let me touch her just yet.” Lydia’s attempt to provoke him had paid off, but Malfoy seemed less annoyed with her than he was distressed by this particular shortcoming.

“Maybe she doesn’t like your vibe.”

“Lydia,” Hermione said. She managed to avoid laughing, a near thing, as it would have rather undermined the warning.

Malfoy continued on like Hermione hadn’t spoken at all. “I was trying to respect her boundaries. Criminal, I know.”

“Oh, certainly. You seem big on respect.”

“And you seem big on – whatever it is you do here. Harassment? Nattering?”

“Two of my many skills,” Lydia agreed serenely. “From how you were speaking to Seb up front, seems you aren’t above a nice bit of harassment yourself.”

“Oh, I see. Is it harassment to want care for my cat, then? He – Seb – just kept asking if I’d had an appointment.” Ah, Sebastian. Wasn’t the best at reading the room sometimes, but to be fair he was handicapped by the fact that his dimples usually did half the job for him.

“And did you have an appointment?”

“Do you offer pop-by veterinary services here or not? If the answer is no, you may want to take that advert off Google. And your front window, for that matter.”

Off...Google. Malfoy knew how to use a computer?

“Oooh, he bites back. You know, while we’re answering questions with more questions, I’ve got one: how exactly do you two know each other?” Lydia was on a roll now, settled back in the chair with her legs spread and arms crossed.

“Who says we do?”

Hermione didn’t actually see Lydia’s eye roll, but she could practically hear it. She’d stubbornly pretended to ignore their entire exchange, focusing instead on running her hands over Molecule’s body in a gentle assessment, encouraged by the cat’s slow-building purr. The feel of it under Hermione’s palms was grounding and desperately welcome.

“Right,” Malfoy said after a loaded silence. “Stupid question.”

“It was.” Another uncomfortably quiet moment passed. “For the record, I find it quite interesting that neither of you have given me a real answer yet. Curious, that.”

“We know each other from secondary,” Hermione said, cutting Lydia off before she could wade any deeper into the fucked up, haunted bog this line of questioning would get them all stranded in. She scooped Molecule gently into her arms, and the cat pressed her tiny head against Hermione’s shoulder and rumbled out a purr like an engine turning over. “Exactly, darling girl. Oh, you’re so good.” She turned around slowly, crooning as Molecule’s claws kneaded gently into her bicep. She was clearly a much greater fan of this wonky jumper than Hermione was.

Malfoy, leaning against the far wall in an impossibly long and lithe sort of way, gaped at the cat cradled against her.

“How did you do that?” His eyes had gone all soft, and there was raw longing on his face. The sight of it made Hermione itch. She felt like she was in danger of coming apart at the seams as his eyes darted between her face and Molecule. As if sensing his yearning, the cat paused to stretch one paw out towards him, batting lightly at the air before she tucked it back against Hermione’s chest and resumed her furious kneading. “Seriously, how?”

“It’s her Meowdas touch.”

Malfoy threw Lydia a look so scathing it transported Hermione dizzily back to sixth year.

“No, really,” Lydia insisted, ever faithful, gesturing to where Molecule was still rumbling in Hermione’s arms. “That’s what we all call it. Cats love her. Even the aggro ones who come in here looking for cosmic justice and a cage match. She’s the only one who can handle them sometimes. We figure it can only be explained by magic.”

Malfoy’s eyes snapped to Hermione, but she managed the tiniest shake of her head to quell him. No, of course she hadn’t told Lydia or any of her coworkers the truth. She’d never, even when it ached in the deepest, loneliest part of her that they didn’t and couldn’t ever fully know her. Nor was she using some sort of magical coercion to make animals respond to her as they did. She didn’t even understand it herself. It hadn’t always been this way.

He tilted his head to one side, eyes roving over her face. “I see. Well, in that case. Could you use your magical touch to actually help Molecule? I don’t know what exactly is wrong with her, but I’ve a hunch she’s got worms. Her belly has gotten rounder like the wormy kittens do, and I haven’t been able to get her to take the dewormer due to…” he trailed off, flipping one elegant hand in a frustrated gesture.

“The fact that it tastes disgusting and she won’t let you touch her?” Hermione knew the struggle well. Cats liked her, yes, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t had to get quite creative at times to get them to accept treatment and medication.

Malfoy’s face twitched near his left eyebrow, but he only nodded, his lips flattened to a thin, unhappy line.

The room was uneasily quiet again, aside from Hermione’s quiet cooing to Molecule while she took her through the standard processes – weighing her, checking her vitals, physical exam, drawing blood, the works. She’d not shirk her duty here, though she was already quite certain of the primary issue.

“Well, Malfoy,” Hermione said at last, setting Molecule free from being poked and prodded (which she’d handled with several side eyes and quiet protests but otherwise endured like an angel). “We won’t know the full work up results until her tests are processed, but I can tell you right now: yes, she’s almost certainly got worms. It’s a safe bet with most outdoor cats. But that’s not all.”

Malfoy stood sharply at attention off the wall, the panther-like grace of the lounge transferred into a tightly honed tension. The sight of it made Hermione’s heart pound uncomfortably, perhaps from an echo of long ago fear and fury, but his face was drawn only with worry. She forced herself to settle. He wasn’t directing that lean, coiled attention at her for any reason except desire for Molecule to be alright.

“Poor thing, she’s only a baby herself,” Hermione said. “She’s pregnant.”

Hermione had spent years of her life forgetting how much she disliked baths with an alarming frequency.

It always sounded nice. To soak, and relax, and let everything ease from her and into the frothing suds. In practice, however, she was only ever content for three and a half minutes while both she and the water were at the perfect temperature. Beyond that point, she started feeling overheated and fussy and waterlogged. Like she was simmering. Being reduced into stock for a hearty stew.

Tonight, she’d done herself the favor of foregoing this particular cycle of frustration, instead sitting inside in her bathtub, knees to her chest as she let the shower run over her. She stared blankly at the frilly purple bath curtain she’d gotten on offer at Selfridges, mind whirring and stuttering. Wasteful, immensely so, to let the water go on for ages like this, but she could suffer the guilt some other time. She was utterly knackered by the entire evening, and her brain was no longer empty. No. Now, she was bloody fixating.

After Malfoy and Molecule had finally departed – as though the two of them hadn’t arrived and neatly cleaved Hermione’s lovely little life in two – Lydia’d followed Hermione around the building like an incurably nosy shadow. She peppered her with questions and eyebrow raises and innuendo as they fed the cats currently boarding overnight, administered meds, performed all the usual closing duties.

“Tell me again where you went to secondary?”

“Tiny boarding school in Scotland,” Hermione murmured, attempting to woo a bedraggled old tuxedo cat named Robin to take his pill. She’d wrapped it in a bit of Lidl’s own premium ham, but the way he gazed at her and settled down with his paws firmly tucked underneath himself meant he saw right through the ruse.

“Was he that much of a tosser during school?”

“Worse than you can imagine.”

“So you weren’t friends, then.”

“Did anything about that interaction give the impression that we were?” The ham finally worked, though Robin made it clear Hermione had only succeeded because he’d decided to let her.

“Fair point. Dunno, I thought maybe you were friends and had a dramatic falling out. Were you more than friends, then? Or did one of you have a wee crush and pine away unrequitedly? I’d bet he – ”

“Stop talking. Absolutely not.”

“You say that like you didn’t see the set of thighs he had on him. I’d be more than friends with a pair of legs like that.”

“Please, you’d be more than friends with a jammie dodger.”

“Ouch, critical hit, Min. C’mon. It was glaringly obvious there’s some sort of sordid history there between you.” Hermione raised an eyebrow at her over one shoulder, and Lydia held up her hands in appeasement. “Weird to imagine you two just…in a classroom, or revising together. There must’ve been more to it than that.”

“It is a bit weird, I’ll give you that, but I will not give you ‘sordid.’” Hermione tried not to protest too hard, as she knew from long experience it would only make Lydia latch on harder. Sordid wasn’t precisely the word for it, but there was history – and it was weirder than she could possibly explain to Lydia (or to Sebastian, whom she knew would have several questions of his own. Whether he asked them or not was a different story). “We ran in very different circles.” Understatement to the point of absurdity, that.

It was disconcerting that Lydia had picked up on the threads of that past so easily, though it shouldn’t have been a surprise. They hadn’t laid eyes on each other in years, but she supposed history itself didn’t tend to give credence to any particular length of time. History couldn’t be changed, it could only get further away, but seeing Malfoy tonight had made that distance feel compressed, nearer and heavier and as present with her in the shower as the grime she’d been unable to scrub or magic off the battered porcelain.

“He couldn’t stop looking at your arse, by the way. How’s that for sordid?”

Hermione had nearly dropped the finicky bag of kitten kibble she’d been wrestling to put away in storage. “Oh, please. He wasn’t.” He wouldn’t.

“You weren’t looking at him. Purposefully, I might add. But I was.” Lydia sang the last bit, utterly pleased with herself.

“I can promise you that man has never once been interested in my arse. Besides, he was only worried about that sweet cat.”

This did its intended job, briefly distracting Lydia from her hunt. “Poor darling. I hope we’ll see her again. She’ll take to living inside in no time. I’ve never seen a cat more ready for the posh life.”

“Well, she picked a good person to give it to her, I’ll tell you that much.”

It occurred to Hermione, there under the water, that she didn’t actually know if this was true anymore. Malfoy would certainly always be posh – it was coded into him on a genetic level as much as impossibly blonde hair and traces of mustelid DNA were.

But: if he was living in muggle London now, or at least close enough to have another veterinary office and access to feral cats and, from the sounds of it, muggle neighbors, she couldn’t fathom what that meant about the shape of his life. He’d certainly been in nice clothing, but not absurdly so. He’d – oh. He’d been in bloody denims. And they fit him infuriatingly well. Lydia was wrong, she had looked. Did he live in a regular flat with his regular trousers, then? Did he own a microwave? A television? Even Molecule’s name suggested more than a passing understanding of muggle science.

She couldn’t picture anything beyond the dank, miserable interior of a certain drawing room and all of its elegant hatred when she thought of Malfoy at home.

God, her brain hurt.

Much easier to think about how happy Molecule would be now. Malfoy had told them he’d be looking after her at least until she had her kittens, and had asked to come back in for her next check up. Hermione was surprised, given mention of his usual vet, and had nearly told him not to. She’d survived one encounter, but the thought of more had her stomach roiling. Still, he’d seemed determined that they’d be the ones to see Molecule through her pregnancy, for reasons unknown and unfathomable.

Though most cats didn’t need vet visits during their pregnancy, Hermione did want to check on her worm situation and, depending on what the blood work revealed, some other treatments as well. So, Malfoy would be back in on Friday. Four and a half days to steel herself for seeing his all too familiar face again.

Actually – he looked different. His hair was shorn on the sides, and while his face was still angular and uncomfortably reminiscent of his father’s, his mother’s influence and perhaps a more robust diet than when she’d last had a good look at him had softened it. He’d grown into himself. In retrospect, the understated (but clearly well tailored) button down shirt and dark wash denims he’d been sporting seemed as alien on him as the ways his face had changed in the seven years since she’d last seen him, walking through the Ministry atrium and towards his house arrest.

How on earth had he ended up in her workplace? In her London?

She’d been ruminating on that exact question when Lydia caught her attention again as they were shutting off the lights in the back rooms. “Min. Min.” Lydia had clearly been trying to get a response from her for a while. By that point, Hermione had been desperate to go home and dissociate, feeling herself splitting apart like an overripe plum. She hadn’t experienced this kind of bone deep weariness since she’d been in the thick of therapy after the war. Her defenses were down.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just thinking about…” she couldn’t come up with a single suitable lie.

“The shape of Lord Malfoy’s cheekbones? They are disgustingly striking for such an arsehole.”

“Don’t call him that,” Hermione said, skin prickling along her spine.

“Arsehole? I think it’s rather fitting.”

“Lord Malfoy.”

“Oh. Is that his father, or something? Do you know his family?”

“Not exactly how I would describe it, no.”

She could feel Lydia studying her, but she only wiped her sweaty palms against her jeans and herded her towards reception, shutting off the last light as she did so. “Come on, Lyd. I’m too tired to play Line of Duty with you right now, though you make for a very determined interrogator.”

“I hate to say it, but you seem rather shaken, Min. It’s a bit disconcerting.”

Hermione had wanted to tell Lydia just how little she knew about Hermione on the whole. How many years she’d spent shaken and terrified and on the run and full to the brim with nightmares. That Lydia had no idea what Hermione had survived. Lydia didn’t deserve that, though. They were friends, and it wasn’t Lyd’s fault that she could never fully understand the things Hermione had endured. The barrier was on Hermione’s side, and she had to own that, even if it wasn’t fair to her either.

“I’ve been called far worse than disconcerting,” she said, shooting Lydia a small smile and grabbing her keys and worn leather bag from behind Sebastian’s chair at the front desk. His boyfriend, a stocky, gorgeous man named Khalid with the world’s most enviable eyelashes, had come to collect him twenty minutes prior, though Seb had made a point to come give Hermione a big hug goodbye before leaving. Interrogation was more Lydia’s style, but Hermione knew that Seb had seen more than she would’ve liked with his kind eyes.

Her skin felt numb under the rush of the shower.

Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four. Breathe out for four.

What had her mind healer said? Hermione had a heightened instinct to look for and respond to threats. She misinterpreted. So she had to take a step back, identify whether the sick feeling in her gut was really a sign of any legitimate malice, or whether she could let her shoulders relax and regain a sliver of hope she might sleep for a few hours tonight. Analysis was a relief. A safe shelter in her brain.

So, consider:

Malfoy. It was shocking to see him. Reminiscent of some of the worst moments of her life. He was still obnoxious, clearly, though she found it rather sweet (may lightning fucking strike her down) that he’d been such a prat because he was worried for another creature. That was certainly new.

And then:

The shock itself was nagging at her, worth circling back to examine. It pulsed hotly in her mind, raw and explosive. The surprise had come in the most unexpected of forms, that was certain. Had she made a list of people who might wander into her life in muggle London, Malfoy would’ve been orbiting twin moons in a galaxy where the list didn’t exist. Even so, the more she thought about it as she finally smoothed leave-in conditioner through her sopping wet hair, Malfoy himself didn’t feel like a threat. No. She had always been able to handle him, in the way one endured a particularly sore hangnail.

The threat, as it were, was anyone at all waltzing into her life from the wizarding world. Malfoy-shaped or no. Seeing her amongst her friends. Tying threads between the safe cradle of space she’d carved out for herself, by herself, and the one she’d largely stepped out of.

It wasn’t that she avoided the magical world, nor her magic itself, though she only really used it in her flat. For one thing, it was as much intrinsically a part of her as her near fatal stubborn streak and incredibly keen sense of hearing. She felt ill if she went without using it for too long, and goodness, she had tried. A few times, in her darkest eras in the post-war years, when it felt as though she didn’t really deserve to have it.

More practically, there was no point in roughening her hands in sudsy water to wash dishes when she could do it with a flick of one wrist. She would never be a woman who dusted, if it weren’t something she could do with a swish and hard downward curl of her wand. She’d illegally expanded her bedroom closet to craft a potions station, as she preferred her own brews to most muggle medicines, and regularly went to Diagon and Hogsmeade for supplies, or to Neville’s greenhouse at Hogwarts. She saw Theo and Harry at least once every two months, usually in their quiet back garden for tea spiked with brandy. In the summer she and Luna met frequently for picnics or to go see the terrible romcoms Luna had a soft spot for at the Cineworld in Leicester Square. She knew she still featured in the news whenever she did appear in wizarding public, the populace apparently hungry to dissect her complete reticence to speak and appear at events and wander the Ministry as though on endless tour in the way Ron had adopted with singular gusto.

All the more reason it mattered to her that they didn’t follow her into muggle London, to her precious flat, her job, her veterinary program, her corner store, her favorite tiny, second hand bookshop. They wouldn’t even have had to try very hard, but the miniscule barrier of stepping beyond wizarding territory to follow her was apparently tantamount to a 40 metre high, impenetrable wall. Wizards were many things, but willing to push their own boundaries of comfort was not one of them on the whole.

By the time she at last turned the water off – the thought of her forthcoming water bill had her shivering more than the cool air against her damp skin – she’d managed to find a weird sort of peace about the whole thing. The clotting fear had gone down the drain. It wasn’t Malfoy she’d ultimately been so frightened by, it was everything his presence represented.

And then again: he’d been perfectly at ease in the muggle world. Her world. He hadn’t made too much of a scene, given how easily he could’ve. He hadn’t been unkind or aggressive, at least towards her, or even especially curious about her presence beyond what she could do for Molecule.

No, she was no longer frightened. She was curious. A much more dangerous thing.

To her credit, Lydia had largely left Hermione alone about the whole bizarre incident of the prior Monday evening. She had dropped several comments, notably “you should wear those trousers at Molecule’s next appointment, Min. Your arse looks fantastic,” for which Hermione had very graciously not put her on litter box clean up duty. The most annoying part was that she had wanted to wear those blasted trousers today, but they were off the table as an option the moment Lyd opened her mouth.

By some strange agreement, Sebastian had been mum about the whole thing as well. Rather suspiciously so. Marnie, the shelter director, had given their game away – they mightn’t have been speaking to Hermione, but it was clear they’d had no compunctions about filling in the rest of the staff. “I hear he is very tall,” Marnie’d said over her scalding hot coffee first thing that morning, completely deadpan in her thick accent. Hermione, pretending not to hear her, had promptly ruined the illusion of aloofness by spilling her Earl Grey across reception.

She should’ve known she wouldn’t be so lucky as to have their continued facsimile of silence until Malfoy’s arrival.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t spend the whole week dreading the appointment you have at half five tonight?” Even with an armful of an enormous, dour-faced tabby named Oopsy-Daisy who was very determined she wouldn’t be receiving vaccinations on this cursed day, Lydia had honed in on her target.

“No, I didn’t,” Hermione said, squeezing the air out of the syringe. It sounded truthful enough because it happened to be true. With each passing day the curiosity had only grown more consuming, writhing through her mind any moment she wasn’t otherwise occupied. She was nearly desperate to figure out how the utter fuck Malfoy had come to be so at home in this universe, one that would have been quite literally anathema to his very being not so long ago, and therefore found herself upsettingly eager for his return.

“Right, well. That’s me convinced.”

“Convinced, what, to stop badgering me about it? Now, that would be shocking. Love the lippie, by the way, is it new?” Hermione finished the round of shots and crooned to Oopsy-Daisy, who bared a solitary fang in response.

Lydia beamed at her. “Isn’t it good? I’m obsessed, nicked it off my sister at dinner last night. Looks better on me anyway, I decided.” She tilted her head to one side, dark bangs falling across her forehead. “You’re laying it on thick, Min. It’s not doing you any favors, but I will relish the compliment regardless.” She patted her heart over her neon yellow jumper and smirked.

Malfoy, of course, showed up twenty minutes early.

Hermione hadn’t considered his punctuality on the whole – she’d never had reason to – but even if he was still anxious over Molecule it seemed a bit overzealous. She only knew because Seb texted her at 5:10 red alert, eagle has landed, which Hermione ignored, and managed to hold off on going up front until an impressive 5:23. Speaking of overzealous. Her curiosity was at risk of eating through her stomach lining if she didn’t see his stupid face again and figure out how the hell he’d ended up here. Much as she would’ve liked to have the power to make him wait a bit, she wasn’t keen on an ulcer. That was the only reason she went up there so early to collect him.

His head snapped up the moment she pushed through the door, though he relaxed his face and settled back in his chair so quickly she might’ve missed it.

They looked at each other in silence for just a hair past comfortable. “Your half five appointment’s here,” Seb said from behind her, and Hermione could feel a blotchy blush spread up her throat. Fantastic.

“I see that, Seb.”

“Apologies. Wasn’t sure you’d noticed.” Hermione narrowed her eyes at him over one shoulder, his angelic face completely unperturbed.

“Malfoy,” she said, not breaking eye contact with Seb. “You and Molecule can head into the back.”

She avoided watching him unfold himself from the chair, opting instead to mouth don’t try me to Sebastian as she held the door open and ushered Malfoy through, carrier in hand. That golden halo of Sebastian’s hair was a perfect disguise for the traitor that lay beneath it. “Have fun, kids!” he called as the door swung shut behind Hermione, and then she was alone in the hallway with Draco Malfoy. And Molecule.

They were uncomfortably quiet until reaching the exam room, where Hermione offered Malfoy a chair. He refused it. Or rather, he simply didn’t sit down, just stared at her. He was fiddling with a loose bit of the carrier where he’d placed it on the table but not yet let go. Hermione realized with a pang that he was worried, so much so that it had apparently rendered him mute. He didn’t know what the news of Molecule’s prognosis might be after her test results (nothing especially alarming, for the record. She wouldn’t have made either of them wait nearly five days to find out if the lab work had indicated there was something more urgent to treat).

“It’s good news. She’s largely fine, Malfoy.” His shoulders relaxed fractionally, not that Hermione was looking.

“Define ‘largely.’”

“Blood work came back as I anticipated. She does have worms, but if you’ve been treating her as instructed this week –”

“I have.”

She drew in a fortifying breath. “Since you’ve been treating her this week, she should be well on her way to that clearing up. She’s also got a urinary tract infection, which may have been part of why she was acting so out of sorts before you brought her in, but it’s mild. I’ve a prescription ready to go for you.”

“And the babies?”

Hermione couldn’t stop her grin. “Nothing to be concerned about there. All five of them seem to be happy and healthy. Everybody’s developing nicely.”

“Five?” Malfoy did sit then.

“That’s what the imaging you ordered showed. A right cabal of kittens you’re growing in there, Molecule.” The cat in question showed no fear about emerging from her carrier this time, butting her head against Hermione and rubbing her chin against every edge of the table as she made her rounds.

“I’d like to see the imaging. And I want her fixed after this.”

“Absolutely.”

“She shouldn’t have to go through this ever again. She’s so little.”

“This may surprise you, as I’m certain I’ve never said it before, but I am in complete agreement, Malfoy. She should be able to have the surgery as soon as she’s up for it after giving birth.”

His hands were clutched together in his lap, white knuckled. “I’ve had several of the cats fixed elsewhere, but I’d like to bring her back here for the procedure.”

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity rampant again. “Why’s that? I’m sure your prior vet was doing a fine job of things.”

He met her eyes. “She’s comfortable here. With you.”

Well, Hermione wouldn’t fight him on that. Maybe she could entice him to start bringing the rest of the colony into Soho CatHo in the future. She could learn more about him with repeat exposure, add to her growing dossier.

Ah, shite. Her priorities were all out of whack. They could use the business that he was clearly willing to pay for. That’s why she’d be interested in him coming back with the others. That was the story she’d stick with when Seb and Lydia inevitably questioned her later, and she very nearly believed it herself.

“It’s sweet that you care so much about her comfort. Quite honestly, I didn’t think you were capable of it.”

The silence that followed was extraordinarily loud. Possibly due to the blood rushing in Hermione’s ears.

“I suppose I deserve that.”

She fussed with the prescription, avoiding Malfoy’s eyes. “I – sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s warranted, Granger. No, let me speak,” he said, cutting her off before she could interrupt. “I know you’ve never seen this side of me before. I deliberately made certain of that. But I’m pleased to report that I’ve never been totally heartless.”

“Malfoy, you don’t have to explain yourself –”

“I said, let me talk. Please.” The new urgency in his words stilled her. Sensing their distraction, Molecule leapt from the exam table onto the narrow counter, where she climbed into the small metal sink, curling up and making herself comfortable. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.

“I would tell you that my upbringing didn’t allow for much tenderness, and what you saw in school was a result of the lashing out I did to overcompensate for that, but it would be doing us both a disservice. I was inexcusably cruel, to you in particular. I thought I knew everything about the world, and you were irrefutable proof to the contrary. I reacted childishly, and in later years, violently. It was an unforgivable combination, and remains one of my greatest regrets.”

Hermione did look at him then. She had to. He’d unclasped his hands, placing them deliberately against his knees instead. She had the sense he was forcing himself to remain still.

“You do seem to know much more about the world now,” she said, voice coming out lowly enough it was nearly a whisper.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to ask.”

“That was an observation, not a question.”

“Right, then. I suppose you don’t want to know anything about how I wound up living in muggle London. I’ll just –” he made to get up, and Hermione put her hand out to stop him. Damn the man, he’d figured out exactly how to get to her in no time at all.

“No, please. Of course I – I want to hear about it.”

His mouth flickered through a series of aborted shapes before he sat again, gazing up at her. “What would you like to know?”

She didn’t know where to start. “All of it?”

He smiled at her, a small and completely unprecedented thing. “Two years’ house arrest gave me a lot of time to think about possible futures. After spending the first eighteen months despairing over what I could possibly do with my future in the wizarding world, it finally occurred to me there was an entire other world that might offer me some different options.”

“I’m surprised that it occurred to you at all.” He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “But how – how did you get here?”

“I took a train,” he said dryly. Hermione glared at him. “Actually, much as it pains me to say it, Potter helped me.” The glare morphed into an open mouthed gape. “Don’t look so surprised, he’s got a rotten streak for exacting his vision of justice.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that, believe me. I just didn’t realize his sense of justice included getting you relocated to muggle London.”

“Theo asked him to.” Ah, well. That explained things then. Harry was barmy for Theo, and clinically incapable of turning his boyfriend down for anything. “Potter introduced me to his cousin, and it kicked off from there.”

No way. No bloody way. “Dudley?”

Malfoy looked faintly amused. “The very same. He was renting in Shoreditch and needed a flatmate. He was wildly patient with me. Asked a lot of questions, but also introduced me to all the essential things that meant I didn’t embarrass myself in public too often. Helped me purchase a computer and a phone and managed to mostly explain to me how to use them, got me a library membership, insisted I stop carrying an outrageous number of coins around and get a banking card instead.”

Hermione was going to pass out. Dudley Dursley had taught Malfoy how to live in the muggle world. They’d been flatmates. Malfoy owned a mobile phone.

“He’s a dad, now, did you know that?”

“Dudley?” she asked again, like some kind of demented robot with a programming error.

“His girlfriend had a baby a few months ago. Summer. She’s quite sweet, she’s got a head full of hair just like Dudley’s.”

Malfoy was clearly enjoying watching Hermione fall further apart with every new piece of information.

“Harry will be hearing from me,” she muttered, furious that he hadn’t filled her in about all of this years ago. Dudley Dursley. Christ. “Right. Fine. Okay. What do you do every day?”

“Are you asking if I have a job, Granger? Obviously, I do.”

“That’s not obvious. From what I’ve heard about your vaults, the enormous reparations you paid out barely made a dent.” She was on a roll, now, and it meant she wasn’t as embarrassed about saying that out loud as she ought to have been.

“Ah. I’ll forgive the assumption, then, as you have no reason to think I wouldn’t be a layabout. Everyone else seemed to. Yes, I have a job. I work at the library.”

“You’re not a librarian. You need an undergraduate degree for that. And a postgrad.”

“Yes, thank you for explaining my schooling to me.”

The implication was preposterous. “No. No way. Why would you even want to be a librarian?”

The humor dropped out of his face. “Libraries were my entry into my life. My new life. They opened the world to me. Living in London – this London – was an education, but being able to read books and other texts allowed me to explore so much from home while I was figuring out what came next. I especially liked reading science textbooks. Confused me at first, but they helped the world make sense. Made me think a lot about magic, ironically. Also, muggle novels are regrettably better than magical ones.”

“I won’t disagree.” She fought to keep her voice steady. Her mind was whirling, fluttering, hurling itself at the walls as it tried to keep up with every new revelation. And he wasn’t finished yet.

“I wanted to work with children, and teaching…” his lip curled. “Not for me.”

“You wanted to work with children?” Apparently her major contribution to this conversation was going to be dumbly repeating his words back to him.

“I wasn’t allowed much curiosity when I was young, so I enjoy seeing it in them. Discovered during my internship that they’re…easier for me. Not so bound up in the way adults are.” He made a twirling gesture with one finger.

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t really explain it without sounding mad. I just…don’t always relate to other adults so well, muggle or wizard. Kids are still trying to figure it all out, but adults are so certain they already know everything they need to. Puts me off. May have a bit of a problem with authority, also. Not sure where that would’ve come from.” He scratched the back of his neck, smiling a little ruefully.

An astonishing amount of self awareness he was displaying. And he was just – telling her these things. No reticence. No shame. She’d gone into this expecting a puzzle she’d have to unravel, and he was just telling her where all the parts went instead. It didn’t make any bloody sense, and that had her hackles up.

She leaned hard against the counter where Molecule was still curled up in the sink, the rumble of her purr amplified by the metal, and deliberately sized Malfoy up. “So, what, you’re a cat-loving muggle children’s librarian now? You just…gave it all up? For this? You’ll forgive me for having a very difficult time believing that.”

“That’s exactly what I am. It’s nothing that anyone would ever have expected of me, and that’s the point. There wasn’t much for me to ‘give up,’ as you so elegantly put it. The combination of failing expectations that were entirely impossible to meet from all angles and being hissed out of every place I went was not an enticing vision for the rest of my life. I still have those vaults. I’m still the Malfoy heir. And this life is better in nearly every conceivable way.” There was a palpable bitterness laced through his last sentences, his mouth an unhappy line.

“Right, I see. You didn’t want to stick around and deal with the consequences.”

“Yes. I took the route that allowed me to restart, away from my past. Call me a coward if you’d like, I’ve deserved worse.”

Hermione swallowed hard. That hadn’t been fair of her. If she slowed down to think about it, he’d done a brave and difficult thing, even if his other option had been a notably bad one. The way he’d described it, she’d done the exact same thing, if for different reasons.

“It’s not cowardly. I actually – I understand why you did it. I’m sorry I said that.”

“I can’t believe you’ve apologized to me before I could. Twice, actually. Outdoing me as always, Granger.”

“You were going to apologize?”

“If I could find the words. An apology seems rather too small for what I owe you. For what I stood by and allowed to happen to you.”

Hermione was having a hard time breathing. She felt lightheaded and small. She’d never once imagined this scenario, as the very idea of it was entirely outlandish. Not to mention she hadn’t expected to see him ever again. She had no playbook for this, no careful calculations, no rehearsed words.

“Malfoy.” Apparently she was going to wing it. Historically, not an approach that had gone well for her. “Do you think I would’ve testified at your trial if I hadn’t already forgiven you?” He was looking at her so intently, she thought he might be able to see through to the inside of her brain, the tangled mess of electrical wires inside it. She had the sensation of something unlocking in her chest and knew she should rein herself in before whatever was inside made its escape.

She accelerated instead.

“We were children. Bloody children. All of us. None of us should’ve been responsible for bearing the weight placed on our shoulders. Not one of us should’ve had to learn what it is to fight a war with our bodies and our magic. Do you think a bit of childhood bullying comes anywhere close to the damage that the adults who were meant to protect us involved us in instead? Do you think you’re responsible for what your psychotic aunt did to me?”

She paused to take a deep breath and modulate her tone, realizing she’d raised her voice much further than advisable given how sound traveled in the building. Not to mention the likelihood that at least one of her coworkers had their ear pressed to the door outside. “Do you think I don’t know that you would’ve died had you intervened?” she hissed, irrationally upset by the idea.

Malfoy stood, and Hermione found herself riveted to him as he took a small step towards her. “What I think is that you’re a person capable of enormous compassion.” God, his eyelashes were so long, so gorgeously pale. Molecule raised her head and made an enquiring chirp as he took another step in their direction. “I think one enormous injustice doesn’t cancel out other, pettier ones. I hate that my actions are being excused only because other people hurt you in much deeper ways. And quite honestly, I’ve thought many times that dying would’ve been worth stepping in to stop what happened to you that day.”

There was no air in the room.

“It wouldn’t have.”

“Stopped it?”

“Been worth dying for.”

“Refer back to the point I made about your compassion.” Hermione huffed a little, frustrated by his seeming determination to keep her off balance. “It used to infuriate me, you know. I thought it was a sign of weakness. I know better now.”

“It seems you know better about a lot of things.”

“Maybe. I’m still quite stupid about a lot of it.”

“Like what?” Somehow, he’d come near enough that one more step would’ve brought them close enough for Malfoy to smell the scalding chai latte she’d chugged before collecting him on her breath.

“If I tell you, you might hit me again.”

“Try me anyway.”

Malfoy didn’t answer her, not with words. Later, replaying the entire exchange for the fortieth time, Hermione knew that her body had understood his intention long before her brain caught up. In the moment, however, even as he placed a single knuckle under her chin, Hermione still didn’t understand. Couldn’t. Time and space felt treacly, sweet and thick, impossible to move through in the efficient way she usually did.

As she stood frozen, his hand drifted to cradle the side of her jaw, fingertips sliding into her hair. She did understand then, viscerally and immediately.

“I am sorry,” he said. “For every comment, every bit of nastiness, every time I hurt you and watched you be hurt.”

Hermione stared at him, her heartbeat distended, torn between a blossoming, insane kind of want and a half-formed annoyance. “Don’t say that before you kiss me,” she said, and took a vicious satisfaction in the way his lashes fluttered and his breath caught.

“What should I say instead?”

Hermione was the one to close the space between them.

For once, she’d surprised them both. She didn’t have an ounce of spare attention to appreciate it, though, because she was too busy pushing up onto her toes, grabbing his face between her palms, and dragging his mouth to hers.

Malfoy made a tiny, wounded noise against her. He was so unexpectedly soft, everything about the touch delicious and welcoming for several heady seconds before his fingers tightened against her jaw and his free arm wound across her shoulders to grasp her close to his body. He used his leverage to tilt her exactly where he wanted her, his grip uncompromising even as his mouth stayed gentle and full of careful purpose. She sighed, melting into the unexpected heat of him, and he seized the chance to slip his tongue ever so lightly against the swell of her bottom lip.

Hermione was lost. Hours might’ve ticked by as she let him explore her, explored him in return. He made all kinds of delicious noises against her, a quiet rumble in his chest when she opened her mouth to him and tasted everything he was offering for the first time. She felt devoured, even as she could tell he was holding back. He tasted like spearmint. He tilted her face as he flicked his tongue behind her teeth, groaning lowly when she boldly sucked the tip of his tongue on the retreat.

She had no idea how long they’d been at it. She would’ve stayed there for ages, just letting him guide her and ruin her and drag whatever it was that had been locked up inside her into a writhing, raw need in her belly.

And then Molecule meowed.

She’d entirely forgotten where they were.

Even so, she didn’t pull away, not really. Instead she pressed her face against Malfoy’s chest, laughing a little helplessly as he stroked one broad palm over her hair.

“Fucking hell, Granger.”

“I know.” It was muffled, but she knew he heard her when he laughed too, his mouth to the top of her head.

She had to get herself together. Had to.

She pulled her face back to look at him, his pink cheeks and shining hair, which she’d apparently mussed during her exploration. From the looks of things, she’d been rather enthusiastic.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, slowly disentangling herself from his hold and sucking in a deep breath through her nose. “You’re going to fix your hair, and take this prescription and your cat and leave very casually. I’m also going to fix my hair, and if anyone asks, tell them that you had a bunch of obnoxious questions about Molecule’s care and I endured them like a saint.”

“Counter idea. We do all of that, but also you give me your number. And maybe you let me take you out to dinner later.”

She was never going to calm down enough to face her coworkers after this.

“I’ll take the suggestion under consideration.”

“What if I cook for you?”

“You can cook?”

“I know I’m daft, but not quite daft enough to offer that without being capable. I loathe to disappoint.”

Wonders never fucking ceased.

“So, I’d come to your flat?”

“Would you want to do that?”

“If I come, will you kiss me like that again?”

It was enormously satisfying, the way his eyes widened and his chest heaved at her words. “You’d want me to?”

“Are we going to converse entirely by asking each other questions we don’t answer?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you talking to me, Granger, why would I ever stop?”

Hermione had been lucky in that Malfoy’s late appointment meant most of the staff had left for the day by the time they’d both calmed down enough to get Molecule back into the carrier and for Malfoy to leave the room. She hung back for long minutes after their departure, staring at the clock as it ticked forward and trying to get a hold on herself. It was not a particularly successful endeavor.

She wasn’t lucky enough that Sebastian and Lydia weren’t both waiting for her at reception when she went to collect her things.

“Why do you look like that?” Lydia asked, and Seb slapped a hand over her mouth.

“She means that you look gorgeous, Min. Ravishing. You were in there for rather a long time.”

“Was I? I didn’t notice. The man had a lot of questions, and it took me forever to answer them all.”

“I bet it did,” Lydia said from behind Seb’s palm. He lowered it, wiping it dramatically on his shirt and looking speculatively at Hermione.

“Which is it, darling? You didn’t notice how long you were in there, or it took you forever to answer his questions?”

She looked to the ceiling for strength, pretending supreme annoyance. “Clever, Seb. Do you want to just tell me what you’re implicating, or shall we play a guessing game instead?”

Lydia beamed. “I like games. He looked quite smug as he was leaving, by the way.”

“It’s just that we heard raised voices, and then it got very quiet.” Sebastian added.

She knew they’d been eavesdropping, the brats. At least it seemed they hadn’t made out the details, as that would’ve led to significantly harder questions to answer. “If you must know, he apologized to me for some things that he did when we were in school.”

“Now that seems difficult to believe.”

Suddenly, Hermione couldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t know what the point of this farce was. They were two of her closest friends, and she found she desperately wanted somebody to know. “More or less difficult to believe than him kissing me?”

Their jaws dropped in tandem, and Hermione couldn’t help the semi-hysterical laugh that escaped her as she grabbed for her coat and bag and backed towards the front door. “Are you two able to handle closing duties, since you’ve both decided to stay late for some reason? I can’t stay, I’ve dinner plans. Great. Thanks. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Hang on a second,” Lydia said, jumping to her feet, Seb already halfway around the desk as Hermione pushed the door open, escape only inches away. “You can’t leave us like this. Are you serious? Min, what happened? He kissed you? Where are you going?”

“I’ll call you later,” she promised with a grin, and nearly sprinted down the block towards Picadilly Circus station as they both yelled after her.

She felt frenetic on the train, and on the walk home afterwards, where she took the world’s fastest shower – a much different experience than the one she’d taken on Monday, almost unimaginably so – and fussed with her hair and outfit until she felt completely mad. She settled on the very trousers she’d refused to wear thanks to Lydia’s meddling, along with her favorite jumper. Malfoy had texted her his address, and she was too jittery to get back on the tube, so she called a car instead and stared out the window with her palms sweating as she sped towards West Brompton.

His townhouse must’ve been a far cry from the flat he’d shared in Shoreditch with Dudley. It was much more akin to what she’d have expected of him, and made his choice to live so simply upon his first foray into London even more annoyingly impressive. The place was gorgeous, several stories butting right up to the edge of a verdant park. It was well landscaped, but in the waning light Hermione could make out the streak of several cats racing each other around the edges. Malfoy’s colony. Molecule’s colony.

He’d made her cedar plank salmon for dinner. With a rocket salad and crusty rosemary bread. She could barely eat, delicious as it was, though she did manage to answer his questions about why she’d moved into muggle London, her vet certification program, her friends. The whole thing had a vague haze of unreality to it, and Hermione found as they neared the end of the meal that all of her confidence and adrenaline fueled momentum had washed out of her. She could barely meet his gaze, fidgeting with her fine linen napkin as Molecule begged for a bit of salmon with wide eyes from the lucious carpet beneath her chair.

“I have to ask,” she started, staring down at the cat’s sweet face. A welcome distraction.

“The cats?”

“The cats.”

Malfoy took a long sip of the delicious Viognier he’d poured for them both and dabbed at his mouth with his own napkin. Hermione couldn’t stop herself from following the careful motion, and Malfoy’s little smirk told her he hadn’t missed her eyes on him. “You’re not going to believe this, but that started with Dudley, too.”

Hermione stared at him over the rim of her own glass, hovering halfway to her mouth. “Expand.”

“When I moved in with him, he’d already been feeding two cats that lived in our back alley. I hated them, to be quite honest. Thought they were nasty little creatures.”

“What changed?”

“He got a job at a call center that had him working mad hours, so he begged me to feed them in his place. Told me it’d be cruel to interrupt their schedule, now that they relied on him. I only did it because I owed him, and he was so concerned about the pair of them. A few weeks into it, one of them came up to me and insisted I pet her, quite thoroughly, and it felt like such a massive accomplishment. Turns out they’re not nasty at all. Seems I had…an unfounded prejudice.” He cleared his throat, seeming a little embarrassed by the almost-joke.

Hermione couldn’t help smiling at him. It was so consuming, this new attraction to him. It didn’t feel like there was space for anything else inside of her. Certainly not food.

“So you kept it up when you moved here?”

“And then some. Once I started feeding them, more appeared, and then I couldn’t ignore that it was an issue. One I might be able to do something about. I did some research, started trying to trap them and get them fixed at the very least.”

“You said some of them stay here with you?”

“After surgery, usually, or when they’re particularly ill. I’ve converted a few of the rooms here for them. I haven’t any of them inside with me right now, so Mol gets full run of the house since I don’t have to isolate her for contagion risk.”

“Something tells me you’d have a hard time locking her up regardless.” He raised his glass in assent. “I still can’t believe you’ve got this beautiful townhouse and have given so much prime real estate over to your neighborhood cats.”

Malfoy tilted his head to one side, half acknowledgement, half refutation. “Not so surprising, really. Seems I might have a bit of a complex about being useful, making a difference for creatures who need more help than I. Disgusting, I know.”

“Right, of course. To go along with your ‘avoidance of authority figures’ complex.”

“They pair nicely. Cats don’t raise my ire like other people do. Not sure if you know this, but they aren’t able to speak.”

Hermione gasped. “Whom have I been speaking with for the last six years, then?”

“Oh, Granger, don’t tell me you’ve gone completely barmy. Things were going so well.”

She grinned at him from behind her fork, the clumsy backflips her stomach was doing as he watched her from across the table not assisting with her distracted appetite at all.

Quiet descended over them. Even Molecule had ceased begging, curling up under the table between their feet instead.

“Have you got any complexes, then?” Malfoy asked casually.

“Would be easier to ask me if there are any I haven’t got.”

“Wait wait, let me guess the worst offender.” He contemplated her for a breathless moment. “Martyr complex?”

“You’d think,” Hermione said, charmed in spite of herself. “I fear the god complex is worse.”

He shot her a disapproving look. “That one is earned.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, or how to categorize the way it made her feel, but the silence that followed her lack of a response was entirely overwhelming. She felt suddenly stupid, like she’d been playing at something for the last three hours and the lie of it was about to be laid bare.

She was disoriented to the point that she didn’t notice Malfoy rising from his place, coming around the finely hewn dining table to offer her a hand. She ignored it and stood on shaky legs, not quite able to meet his eyes.

“Granger,” he said, and then again. She was avoiding his eyes. “Oh, come off it,” he added, and though his tone wasn’t unkind, it was jarring enough that she looked at him again. “Don’t do this,” he added. “Don’t. You’re better than this, whatever it is. Get it together.”

The nerve of him. “Piss off,” she said, flipping a hand at him hard enough that it glanced across his chest, where he caught it easily between his own.

“There she is,” he said, unsmiling but somehow giving the impression of one all the same. “I meant it. Don’t go away from me like that. I’d rather you go home than do that.”

“Well, I don’t want to go home.”

“Delighted to hear it.” The smile was real this time, and a little dangerous.

She didn’t know what to say, but the feel of her hand in his and his insistence on annoying her into staying present had brought some of her earlier fire back. She squeezed his fingers, a shade past firmly, partially to hide that she was shaking. Bloody embarrassing, honestly. Probably would’ve been helpful if she’d managed to eat something.

“Be honest with me. Was my cooking that bad?”

“Don’t fish for compliments, Malfoy.” He shot a pointed look at her hardly touched plate, and Hermione’s cheeks pinked. “It’s stupid. I’m nervous.”

“That is stupid.” She glared at him again, and the sight of it only seemed to please him. “What, you’re allowed to say it, but I’m not?”

“Precisely.”

“Excellent. Got any further rules for me?”

She considered, and found she didn’t. “Not at the moment. Have you got your wand handy?” Malfoy did her the courtesy of not looking wary at the question. He led her towards his expansive kitchen, opening a drawer on silent hinges and pulling out a wand she didn’t recognize.

“Fir,” he said, noticing her curiosity. “Bit of an odd choice, given my years of utter indecisiveness, but it decided it suits me.”

“Dragon heartstring?”

“You’d think. Horned serpent.”

“Shocking.”

“What do you need from it?”

“What I need is for you to kiss me again. But I don’t want to taste like salmon when you do it.”

He laughed, the sound a little relieved, his eyes warm as he moved towards her and cast a wordless mouth cleansing charm for them both. Hermione hadn’t known how hot she’d find the demonstration until he did it.

“How many bedrooms did you say this place has?”

“Five, though three of them I use for the cats.”

“You should show me yours,” she said with abruptly returned confidence, and Malfoy drew her in for a crushing hug. He tilted her face up just enough to drop a single kiss on the bow of her upper lip, not nearly enough.

“I like it when you’re bossy,” he said, and took her hand again to lead her upstairs.

His room was as beautiful as the rest of the house, the floor to ceiling windows letting in the last of the sunset and refracting its golden light. Hermione could tell they’d been charmed, likely to let light in but make it harder to see inside from the street, but it was subtle spellwork. The whole space was painted in a dusky blue-grey, his bed big but not enormously so and piled with pillows that were clearly more comfortable than decorative. It was obvious he spent time in here, his ensuite door open to show a counter scattered with products, several books stacked on his bedside table next to a pair of horn rimmed reading glasses, a lovely forest green armchair pointed towards the view with a cozy knit throw draped over one arm.

“It’s gorgeous, Malfoy.”

“It is.” She turned, found him watching her from the doorway.

“Cocky, are we?”

“Criminally so. But I was talking about you.”

“Oh, fuck you, you sweet talker.”

He pushed off the frame, came to her in what could only be described as a saunter. “Forgive me the presumption, but that’s exactly what I was hoping you’d do.”

Oh, blast it. She was feeling rather – shy. Again. She hated it.

The shyness intensified as he came close enough to touch her in front of the ochre setting sun, in front of the London they shared, in front of his broad bookshelves laden with curiosities. His footfalls were silent on the lush carpet, but she tracked each of them with her breath caught hard in her chest. He came close enough to touch her, but he didn’t, except to brush a solitary curl from her forehead. Confronted with the immediacy of the moment, she didn’t know what to do, or what to say to him, how to operate within the reality of their present circumstance.

“You’re making me feel shy,” she blurted. Absolute honesty seemed as good a plan as any. Not that she’d planned to say it at all.

“Am I?” She nodded. “I’m working very hard not to feel enormously pleased about that.”

“You can, if you want.”

“Excellent, thank you. I will.” He took another step towards her, and she stepped back, a dance they continued until Hermione felt the plush of his duvet against the back of her thighs. “Excellent,” he repeated. “Granger, I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I wish you bloody would,” she said, but the second half of the sentence was lost against his sweet mouth.

This time, it didn’t matter how much time ticked by. Nothing mattered except for his hands, roving in inflaming sweeps down her back, across her shoulders, rucking up under her shirt. He gasped against her at the feel of her flushed skin, again as she nipped at his bottom lip and slipped her tongue across his gums. Once more as his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, unbound under her jumper.

“Fuck,” he said against her cheekbone, and Hermione pressed herself into his hands.

“Touch me more,” she demanded, and Malfoy didn’t disappoint. Her jumper was off before she could process the motion, and he cursed again and cupped her in his warm palms. His thumbs skated higher, reverent, circling her nipples until they peaked and he swore wildly under his breath.

“Have you got any idea,” he said, looking up to meet her eyes as she tangled her fingers in his hair, “how bloody delectable you are?” She shook her head, greedy to hear him tell her. “Well, you are. I was obviously surprised to see you on Monday night, but don’t think I didn’t notice it then. You were wearing these denims…” he trailed off, dipping his head to engulf one nipple in his hot mouth, Hermione whimpering as he worried it lightly between his teeth.

“Were you looking at my arse?” Hermione asked breathlessly. “Oh, I can’t tell Lydia, she’ll be insufferable.”

He pulled away with an obscene noise, laving the same attention on her other breast. “The mouthy one?” he asked, grinning as Hermione squeezed the nape of his neck in retribution. “Why’s that?”

“She told me you had been. I didn’t believe her.”

“You should’ve. It’s a weapon.” His hands slid around to cup the arse in question through her trousers, pulling her close until she could feel him hard and intoxicating against her belly. She leaned into the feeling, arching her back so her arse pressed into his hands and her stomach more firmly against him, wriggling a bit to tease him.

“Christ,” he hissed, and Hermione couldn’t help her giddy laugh.

“It’s so bizarre to hear you say that,” she murmured, tugging him down for another mind-melting kiss. “You’ve no right to be taking the muggle lord’s name in vain.”

“When have I ever let a little thing like that stop me?” He dragged his tongue up her jaw, making her tilt her head back to pant as he bit her earlobe, traced his tongue over the shell of her ear. “I’ve no right to be touching you like this, either,” he whispered to the skin along her hairline, and Hermione yanked him back to look at her.

“Turns out I do have another rule for you.” She unbuttoned his lovely, finely tailored shirt, baring his absurdly beautiful chest to her desperate hands and biting her lip at the sight. Right. She’d been in the middle of telling him something important. “Since we’re doing this, you’re not allowed to say things like that. You have the right to touch me. I’m giving it to you. I want you to.”

That seemed to render him to somewhere beyond speech, a power Hermione delighted in. It allowed her to take her time pushing the shirt from his shoulders, mapping the skin of his ribs and around his bellybutton with her fingertips. “Tell me you understand, Draco.”

“I understand,” he breathed. And then: “Draco?”

“I decided I don’t want to call you Malfoy when your cock is in me,” she said, and he lunged forward, barreling them both back until they landed on the bed and bounced before sinking into the mattress.

“In a minute, I’m going to take both of our trousers off,” Draco said between hot, open-mouthed kisses across Hermione’s collarbones, over the tops of her breasts. “And then I’m not going to be able to think about anything except making you come.”

“Why are you talking instead of doing that?” Hermione demanded, holding his head in place as he flicked the tip of his tongue rapidly over her aching nipple and smiled ferally up at her.

“Because I want to know what you like, first. I intend to remove your power of speech –”

“Good luck,” Hermione interrupted, and he bit down on the soft side of her breast to shut her up.

“– so I need you to tell me now.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, feeling a bit uncertain again and sighing as he licked up her sternum. “Like, kinks?”

“Yes, like kinks,” Draco agreed, and then he was kissing her so hard she thought she might pass out for lack of breathing. He pulled away, looking utterly and deliciously disheveled. “If you have them. And anything else you like.”

“I’m not – that interesting,” Hermione gasped out, and then whimpered when Draco pulled away enough to slap lightly at her hip where the swell of her arse began.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “No. You’re anything but uninteresting.”

“Not in bed,” Hermione said. “If you’re expecting something like that from me, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Suddenly, he was looming over her, his knees planted on either side of her and his elbows braced by her shoulders, his body caging hers in. She liked it so bloody much, even as she felt herself wanting to shy away from him.

“No,” he said again. “No, I’m not taking that. I’m not letting you believe that. Nothing about the way you touch me, kiss me, how your body responds to me – none of it is disappointing. I’m fucking gagging for you, Granger.”

“I don’t really have a lot of experience,” she admitted into the soft, intimate space between them. “I don’t really know – I don’t know how to tell you what I like.”

His eyes had gone all molten. “Ah,” he said, and she braced for him to pull away, pull his touch back, admit she’d been right. Instead, he pressed himself along her, gently grinding his cock against her stomach and kissing her neck. “I think I understand. Can I ask you some questions?”

“Yes,” she agreed, wanting more than anything to meet him in the middle of this. She was lightheaded, giddy, nervous.

“You’re being very good for me,” he murmured against her pulse, and she shivered. “There we go,” he added, and pulled back just enough to grin at her. “Do you like that? Being told how fantastically well you’re doing for me?”

“You seem to already know I do.” She felt so off kilter, even with his bed beneath her and his long, powerful limbs hemming her in.

“I had a well-informed hunch.” He shifted his weight to one elbow, brushed his fingertips across her nipples again. “Do you like a soft touch, or something more like this?” The brush turned into a pinch, her back arching hard off the bed and into his hand.

“Both,” she said, “both, either. I like your hands on me.”

“Excellent answer. Can I put my mouth on you? Would you like that?”

“Haven’t you already?”

“I have, but I’m specifically asking about your cunt.”

No one had ever said that word to her before, not in this context. It made her feel hot to the point of insanity, like her edges were bleeding a bit. She nodded frantically, and he gripped her chin in his fingers. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“You can put your mouth on my cunt,” she said in a rush, and Draco was suddenly off her, his heat gone as he fumbled to unbutton both of their trousers at the same time. It would’ve been funny if she hadn’t been so devastatingly turned on. “No more questions?”

“I’ve decided I’ll learn as I go,” Draco said, finally getting his own denims undone and pushing them down until he could step out of them. She couldn’t even process that he hadn’t been wearing pants, that his cock was gorgeous and thick, distracted as he stripped her of her own kit in a matter of seconds and the cool air rushed over her exposed legs.

“God,” she breathed, trying to get a hold on herself, her skin prickling under the change in temperature and his ravenous gaze. In one fluid movement, a far cry from his prior fumbling, Draco dropped to his knees and hauled Hermione to the end of the bed, spreading her open for him and murmuring fuck, fuck, fuck against the soft skin of her inner thigh as he gazed at her. At her – her cunt.

She wasn’t embarrassed. She was entirely focused on the singular intensity of his mouth on her as he slid it up until he was only centimetres from where she was pulsing with want for him, wet enough she could smell it in the air. “Tell me if you don’t like anything I do,” he said, followed by one more “fuck,” for emphasis.

Hermione could only echo him as he leaned forward and licked a searing path all the way from her arsehole to her needy clit.

It was insane, the way he ate her. Consuming, unceasing, like he was the one who’d forgone dinner and was now starving for her. He lathed the flat of his tongue over her clit, fucked it into her, replaced it with two long fingers as he placed tiny licks all around where she was most sensitive. She’d started saying his name at some point, a litany she wasn’t in control of, and they both felt the way she clenched and shivered around his fingers as they curled inside of her. The pressure of them made her writhe, a live wire in the middle of his bed, liable to spark into full flame.

“Good, so fucking good,” he said, the words vibrating against her. Hermione thought she was going to die before she came. She’d never felt this kind of insane, overwhelming attention before, nerves firing in her body that had only just come online and were overriding the rest of her circuit system.

“I think –” she said, her voice wobbling as he traced his tongue maddeningly around where his fingers were buried in her, “Draco, I think –”

“I know, baby.” It was so filthy, the way his voice rasped. “I know. I want you to.” He curled his fingers again, and then somehow managed to move his hand enough that he could press his tongue messily against her arsehole. She couldn’t process the sensation, couldn’t keep it inside of her. It was so much more than her body could contain. Draco’s free hand wrapped around her thigh until his thumb could roll over her clit, catching the underside on its way, and Hermione broke.

She didn’t know which of them was moaning louder. She didn’t know how long it went on, how much she was soaking his lovely duvet, if her body was still in one piece. She couldn’t form a real thought, her whimpers turning into a helpless, frantic laugh as Draco crawled up her body and rolled them both into the middle of the bed.

“I’m going to take you apart piece by piece later,” he said, mouth against hers to catch the end of her laughter.

“Isn’t that what you just did?”

“Not even close, sweetheart. That was only the beginning.”

“Then please, feel free to continue disassembling me.”

He groaned, a hot breath across her collarbone. “Later,” he promised. “Right now, I need my cock in you before I go mad.” Hermione whimpered. “You like that?” he asked, pressing closer to her, sliding two fingers through the slick between her legs and groaning again when her hips bucked. “You like that I’m going crazy thinking about getting inside your perfect cunt? How hard you’ll squeeze me. How hot you are inside. How much I want to bury myself in you, feel you soak my cock, come deep inside you.”

“Oh, my god,” Hermione bit out, and Draco pulled back enough to scan hungrily over her face.

“Can I do that, Granger? Can I?”

“Stop talking,” Hermione cried out, nearly panting with frustration, with her desire for every single dirty thing he said to her. “You’re not the only one going crazy, Draco.”

Despite his urgency, he took his time with her after that. It was sweet torture. He knelt between her legs, pushing her thighs up and back into a delicious stretch, eyes roaming her body as he slid his cock against the mess of her. He’d looked big before, the brief glimpse she’d gotten, and she’d felt the evidence of it against her body. Seeing him against her cunt as he bumped over her clit and made her squirm under him was an entirely other thing. She needed as much of him inside of her as would fit, immediately, even if there was no chance all of it would.

She was wrong about that, too.

He eased into her, fucking the length of him into her with tiny, explosive thrusts. “Granger,” he said, eyes glued to where he was sinking into her, fingers gripped punishingly around her thighs. “You’re going to take it,” he informed her. “I can tell you’re going to take all of me. I know you can do it, you’re so good for me. So fucking good. Oh, Christ, you feel insane.”

“You feel insane,” she said back, an indignant sob, trying to squirm into and away from the overwhelming pressure at the same time.

“This is going to be a problem,” Draco muttered, so low he nearly sounded angry. “Now that I know what this is like, I’m never going be able to leave your gorgeous little cunt.” He pushed her knees further back, intensifying the pull in the back of her thighs, and slid the rest of the way into her body with one smooth thrust. “You shouldn’t have let me in, Granger. I’m going to keep you full up until you can’t fucking bear it. Bloody hell, it’s like you’re sucking me in, I can’t –”

Her head thrashed against the duvet, her pussy rippling and clamping against the welcome intrusion. It was impossible to feel as much as she currently was, to bear this kind of pleasure. “Please,” she said dumbly, trying to sit up enough to get her mouth on his. She needed it. He pressed her back down, met her on the bed for a searing kiss, fucking himself even deeper into her and holding himself there as she pulsed and whined and tilted her hips into the pressure.

“You like that?” he asked again. “You like hearing that I want to keep you on my cock? Feeling how deep I am in you? Going to come, Granger, keep you stuffed full with me.”

“I want it,” she said against his mouth, nipping savagely at him. She wanted to eat him, wanted every part of him inside her that she could get. “I want it.” A tear trailed over her temple, and Draco licked it, kissed the corner of her eye.

“You’ll have it, whenever you want.” He bit her neck, the tender join of her shoulder. “If I didn’t know you loved it so much, I’d make you quit your job, keep you fucked on my cock full time instead.”

Hermione swatted his shoulder, unable to muster any real annoyance at the words. She knew, distantly, he was only saying it. He didn’t really want her to quit her job any more than she wanted him to quit his. But she did want to feel like this all the time. Feel him, so deep inside her, flush against the spots in her cunt that were making her body try to turn itself inside out all at once.

“Shit,” he said, hips stuttering and pausing the languorous rolls he’d started. “Shit, I’m such an idiot. I forgot to ask about protection.” The brief pause allowed Hermione to suck in fresh air, clear some of the fog from her brain as Draco wiped his hands over his face, shook his head in frustration.

“Implant,” she managed between heaving breaths. “Wouldn’t have let you fuck me like this without it.”

“I should’ve asked,” he said. “Christ, I didn’t even think about a condom, I’ve a box in my bathroom. Fuck me, I’m sorry. Was so focused on getting you off my brain shut down.”

Hermione ran her hands up his arms, squeezed the corded muscle there as she deliberately clenched her pussy around him. The hissing sound he made at the sensation was so sexy, she wanted to hear it again and again. “I didn’t ask you, either,” she said. “Not our finest moment, maybe, but I don’t regret it. I’m protected. So long as you’re clean?” It was worth confirming, even if it was wildly too late.

“I swear it,” he said, and kissed her savagely again, slowly restarting his rut against her. “Since you’re protected,” he added, looking at her speculatively as he reached down to spread her further open to him until he could grind the hot skin of his pelvis against her clit, “I would really like to come inside you.” He moved his hand to press beneath her belly button, both of them moaning as it intensified the pressure of his cock inside of her. “Right here.” It was a whisper, the last part.

“I want that,” Hermione said again, all traces of shyness long since evaporated. “I want to feel it.”

Draco’s hand drifted back down, his hips picking up their powerful roll again, and sat back on his haunches. She missed the feel of him close to her, about to reach for him until he took advantage of the new leverage, spread her labia until her clit was exposed to him, and slapped it. He hissed again as she trembled beneath him, legs stuttering and flailing at the jolt of pleasure without his grip holding them still.

“Can you come like this?” he asked, slapping her clit again. “Can you soak my cock, sweetheart?”

The feelings were so new, so beyond anything she knew how to process, she hadn’t even really been able to tell how close she was to coming versus to something far bigger, a shattering from the inside out, an irreparable splintering of her being into nothing but shards of ecstatic matter. Those words, though, the way he growled them, the firm hit of his fingers against her again followed by a single stroke down the swell of her clit –

She came off the bed entirely, reaching for him, every part of her shaking uncontrollably, gushing around him and crying out as she came for him again. He collapsed forward, pressed his chest to hers, anchoring her as she flew apart. He ground hard into her, stayed there as she babbled and shook and clutched at him with her trembling fingers.

“I’m rethinking asking you to quit,” Draco said, smoothing his unsteady hand down her damp cheek and dropping kisses across the other one. “I want to learn how many of those fucking insane little sounds you can make. I’m going to see how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop. Figure out what makes you scream.” He moved his hips minutely, watching her face as the movement drew out the last ripples of her orgasm and she gasped futilely for breath beneath him.

“I’ll – consider – cutting my hours back,” she managed between heaving breaths, desperate for him to follow through on those impossible promises, for him to come, for this exchange of raw compulsion to be completed, for him to lose himself in her the same all-consuming way she had.

Draco leaned up enough to get the leverage he needed, and then he was fucking her in earnest, hard and deep and impossible to escape. “Granger,” he said, and the word contained a whole host of other unsaid things. “Granger. Fuck, Granger.” He managed to reach between them, thumb soft and deliberate over her swollen clit, a contrast to the increasingly unsteady rhythm of his thrusts. “Exactly like that, sweetheart. God, I’m going to come so deep. I don’t want to stop, I’m so close, you’re so fucking sweet, oh, god –”

Hermione seized under him as she felt the first hot pulse of his come, felt the shout echo through his ribs into hers, felt him mouth frantically at her jaw and moan lowly into her mouth as she milked his cock, locked her legs behind his back, held him so deeply inside of her she didn’t know where her body ended and his began.

Sweet, indeed.

Molecule gave birth a month later.

A month during which Hermione saw Draco four times a week at minimum, accidentally at first, then very much on purpose. A month of Lydia and Seb’s knowing comments, their teasing the best kind of friendship, even when she pretended they were driving her mad. A month of her favorite brown sugar oat milk creamer in Draco’s fridge (she hadn’t known one could lust over kitchen appliances the way she did his), her books scattered around his flat, nine more cats from the neighborhood caught and fixed and three of them adopted to new homes.

Four weeks of curling up on his enormous, comfortable sofa with her head on his lap, a book hovering above her and the pages flipping on their own, Molecule curled up on his other side. An entire moon cycle of orgasms that made her wonder if the sex she’d been having previously even counted, of him following through on every filthy promise he’d made her and then some with a singular, maddening deliberation. Thirty one days of feeling cherished in a way she found she no longer cared to live without.

All five kittens were beautiful. Healthy, funny, and full of spunk. Four girls and one boy, the runt. Draco insisted on naming them, at least until they were old enough to go to their new homes. Particle, Electron, Neutron, and Proton for the girls, and Atom for the little boy.

Molecule, though, sweet Mol with her white stripe and engine purr, she belonged to them. She was staying forever.

Hermione was, too.