Chapter Text
Day 5 – Mid May, 2007
Hermione awoke with a start. Her panties were damp from her sex dream—about Malfoy. She blushed, hoping that somehow her dragon companion was unaware of her current turned on state. Hermione glanced around to reassure herself that she was still cuddling a dragon, not her former enemy. The sun streamed through the cavern above them.
Hermione’s eyes landed on Draca’s face, praying his eyes were closed, only to find herself staring directly into them.
“Good morning,” Draca purred.
Hermione blushed deeply. She tried to dispel her horniness by thinking of arithmancy equations. It didn’t help much.
“Good morning,” she replied. Hermione folded her blanket to give herself something to do instead of meet Draca’s stare.
“Did you sleep well?” Draca asked.
Hermione stumbled in her folding. She forced herself to think of anything but the image of her moaning in Malfoy’s arms. Draca did his weird chuffing laugh. Hermione whipped her head to his, knowing without a doubt that he knew everything.
“It’s not very nice to read people’s private thoughts,” she huffed, returning to her (unnecessarily) meticulous folding of her blanket.
“Human thoughts are too easy to read. I do it without meaning to,” he replied.
Hermione assumed that was as much of an apology as she would get.
“In any matter, I do not need to read your thoughts. I shared your dream last night.”
Hermione froze. She was right and truly horrified at that news. Also, incredibly fascinated. “You…shared my dream?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze. Hermione instead looked at the scar on his wing. It had already gone down remarkably since the day before.
“Yes, human. Dragons can share dreams. Or give dreams.”
Hermione glanced at him. Irrationally, she thought that Draca had made her dream of Malfoy, but that made very little sense. Draca seemed to dislike Malfoy greatly.
“That’s…fascinating,” she said finally.
“Do you dream often of this man you hate so much?” Draca inquired.
Hermione blushed again. To delay responding, she drank from her water bottle. Hermione scratched at her head—she desperately needed a shower at this point.
“Why do you not shower?” Draca asked.
Hermione, happy to change the subject from her former enemy, replied, “It’s protocol when on a mission.”
“Humans prefer to be smelly?”
“I smell?!” Hermione sniffed at her armpit.
Draca chuffed. “Hermione,” he purred in that silken voice, “you smell delicious.”
Her dream came roaring right back to her—you taste delicious—and Hermione did her best to recall the ingredients in the draught of living death.
“You do not smell bad,” Draca clarified. “Other humans smell bad…usually.”
Hermione tapped her face in thought. Something else to add to her notebook. “Anyway, no. We do not like to smell. It is protocol because all of our important gear is in our clothing.” Hermione patted her many pockets to illustrate. “And our clothing is also fireproof. So, we keep it on in case of an angry dragon.”
Draca looked over her clothes with curiosity. “You do not smell like a human who has not bathed,” he said.
“I’ve been casting spells to clean my skin and clothes. But I need to wash my hair, and spells are never as good as a shower.”
Draca followed her with his eyes as she rose and inspected his wing from underneath. “Shower while I eat today,” he suggested. “You will be safe from angry dragons in the castle.”
“That’s a great idea.” Hermione opened up her healing pack and pulled out the scar paste and disinfectant. “Okay, let’s do the morning cleaning and stretches!”
Draca brought his head beside hers while Hermione disinfected his wing. He followed her movements with interest. This was the first time his face was close to her while she worked and she found his presence distracting. He did not react at all to the disinfectant, confirming that the wound was fully healed. Hermione moved on to the scar paste. Draca’s purring was even louder, since his snout was inches from her face while her hands glided over his scarred skin.
“Do you…like when I touch your wing?” she asked hesitantly.
Draca nudged her shoulder with his snout. “Yes.” Hermione’s heart was beating strangely fast for some reason. “And you like touching me.”
Hermione blushed. She did like touching him. And it wasn’t purely scientific. It was very strange to have a pull toward a dragon. She refused to follow that line of thought any farther.
“Very few humans have the honour of being able to feel a dragon,” she said instead. “Your wing skin is so soft. And I love how you sort of gleam green in the sunlight. And your scales are so hard but smooth—it’s such a contrast to your wings…” She cleared her throat, embarrassed with how much she had gushed. “How does the scar feel?” she asked him.
Draca looked up at his scar with her. “It is stiff. But it does not hurt.”
Hermione nodded. “Good. Let me do the top as well. Can I…can I climb on you again?” she asked hopefully.
Draca nudged her back, pushing her toward his side. “Go ahead, witch.”
Hermione grinned. She summoned her stepladder and climbed onto his back with slightly more grace than the first two times, using his spikes to help herself up. Hermione applied the disinfectant out of habit, then the scar paste. Draca watched her, his head hovering above his wing.
“The brace?” Draca asked hopefully.
Hermione brandished her wand toward it. “The brace is coming off,” she confirmed. “But only if you promise not to immediately take flight. If you do, you might damage your scar—it’s still healing.”
Draca huffed out dark smoke from his nostrils. “…fine. I will not fly.”
“Not until tomorrow,” Hermione said.
Draca growled. He looked away from her moodily. “Not until tomorrow,” Draca confirmed.
Hermione smiled at his dramatics. With the aid of her wand and some tricky maneuvering, the brace came off in a series of clicks. She folded it into itself and floated it down onto the bed. Hermione went to climb down from Draca, but before she could, he was stretching his wing slowly in every direction he physically could. Hermione scrambled to grab hold of something as she started to slide off his smooth, scaly back. She landed between his shoulder blades in the strange almost-saddle and gripped the large spike.
Draca’s body shivered at her contact, as did Hermione’s. It was confusing how entirely at ease she felt seated between his shoulder blades. Draca stopped shivering and returned to stretching his wing. He made his wings bat the air a few times, causing loose gold coins and Hermione’s entire camp set up to topple over.
“Hey!” she shouted.
Draca brought his wings into his body. “I apologize for knocking over your things, Hermione.” Draca looked at her on his back, his head bent at an angle that made little sense for most creatures. “It feels so good to be able to tuck my wing into my side again!” he declared.
Draca flapped his wings again, stirring up more loose coins, sheep fur, and Hermione’s camp supplies. Being in a brace for any amount of time was a nightmare, so she did not protest again. Draca walked a few steps toward Hermione’s things while Hermione straddled his back—like she was a dragon rider. What a hilarious thought!
Draca bent his front paws and lowered to the ground, creating a slide with his body. “Climb down my forepaw,” he instructed.
Hermione obliged. She clumsily slid her way to down his shoulder, using the spikes to help control her slide. He caught her with his neck when she landed on the ground and nearly fell. Hermione righted herself, narrowly avoiding a spike on his neck.
“Thank you.” She righted her camping gear with an easy flick of her wand. “Want to do a set of sun salutations?” she asked.
Hermione did not wait for a response. She began leading Draca through the simple stretches and noted happily that he moved with an ease she had not seen from him since before his injury.
Hermione ate a banana while Draca continued to move around the space with such pep he reminded her of an excited child. He was literally hopping around while he flexed his wings. She filled his trough of water while Draca pranced.
“I need to meet Michelle to get your breakfast,” Hermione said, interrupting what appeared to be a dance that he was doing.
“Let me meet her,” Draca said.
Hermione crossed her hands across her chest. “You promised. No flying until tomorrow.”
Draca growled.
“Drink your water,” she pointed at the trough. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Hermione packed her camp up quickly and stuffed it into her pockets. She apparated to meet Michelle without further ado. The woman stood at the edge of the wards, staring off into space blankly. Hermione walked through the cold wards and greeted her.
“Heya, Hermione!” Michelle grinned and gave her a one-armed hug. “Still alive, I see.”
Hermione laughed. “Yes, Draca hasn’t killed me yet. But he is starving.”
“How is his wing?”
“Almost healed!” Hermione declared. “It’s completely sealed and the scar is fading. Hopefully it won’t impair his flight at all—right now he seems incredibly happy to have the brace off.”
“What is on your neck?” Michelle asked in confusion.
Hermione frowned. “My neck?”
“Yes—there’s a bruise there? Looks pretty bad.”
Hermione conjured a mirror and looked at herself for the first time in a few days. She really needed a shower. Her hair was barely in its frazzled bun. Hermione tilted her head and saw deep ovular bruise on her neck, peaking out from under her shirt. Instead of a complete circle, there were dots of varying sizes that made up the oval. She touched it and winced. How did I not notice this before? She wondered, her neck now emitting a gentle throb alongside her heartbeat.
“I have no idea.”
Michelle leaned forward and inspected it. “Maybe it’s from when you were escaping the dragon with your team? Might have taken a while to appear. That happens to me sometimes. Bruises pop up days after I hit myself—always confuses me.”
Hermione nodded. “Yeah, that must be it…” Except she hadn’t injured herself that day, nor any day since…
Michelle moved on, seemingly content with her explanation for Hermione’s strange bruise. “Rolf and your team are worried. You haven’t checked in in a while?”
Hermione took the cord attached to the sheep. “I knew I forgot to do something last night. I’ve been so distracted learning everything I can about dragons,” she confessed. “I got a little sidetracked.”
“So how many more days do you think you’ll be here?”
“We’ll see how flight goes tomorrow…but, maybe only one or two days.”
“You will not leave,” Draca commented in her mind.
“We might have to come up with some sort of extraction plan,” Hermione muttered. “He’s not too keen on me leaving.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “You’ve become part of his treasure?” she hazarded.
Hermione lifted a shoulder. “I guess.”
“You are more than treasure,” Draca informed her.
Hermoine blushed in response to that. “Anyway, I’ll send an update to the team while he eats. He lets me leave him for a few hours during that time…”
“’Let’s you?’—Merlin, Hermione, you are in trouble.”
Hermione winced. “He won’t hurt me,” she replied weakly. “So…don’t worry too much. I should probably get back…he’s impatient to eat.” Hermione somehow knew that Draca was either physically or mentally pacing, but how she knew that was unclear.
Michelle hugged her again. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of there.”
Hermione hugged her back. “I’m not worried,” she said. And she meant it—she was not worried about being stolen and horded by a literal dragon. She really ought to be, though. Mixed up sense of priorities, that one.
Hermione wished Michelle a good day and told her to say hi to Mel. Hermione crossed the wards and made her way back to Draca’s den. Much like the last time, she dropped the sheep’s rope and all but ran out of the cavern, casting silencing charms behind her.
Hermione returned to one of the large bedrooms on the second floor. The bedroom was missing a significant chunk of wall and Hermione stared out at the beautiful Snowdon mountains for several minutes. Then, she pulled out her toilet from her camping supplies.
The toilet was a clever bit of magic used for camping where you sat on a portable toilet, did your business, and it disappeared with no mess or fuss afterward. Hermione was beyond thankful for it, since she would hardly describe herself as a camper. She had been using the bathroom every time she entered her tent, casting silencing charms and wards so that Draca could not hear her.
The team did not come supplied with a shower since it was hammered into them how important it was to never get fully naked—even toilet trips were limited. So, Hermione set about making herself a shower.
She transformed a large tub out of her metal pot and affixed a drain leading from the tub out the hole in the wall. Hermione cast a privacy ward around her on the extreme off-chance that a human somehow was wandering by in the castle or on the grounds outside. She placed the tub in front of the in tact wall, to give herself more protection from both wandering eyes and any potential dragon attack. She did believe that Draca would defend her from any incoming dragons—which was the real reason she was caving and taking a shower.
Satisfied with her work, she began peeling off her clothing. Hermione dug about in her supplies until she located a spare shirt which she transformed into a fluffy towel. Hermione placed the towel on the (magically cleaned) dilapidated bed. She pulled out some shampoo, conditioner, and soap. Hermione taped her wand to the crumbling wall. Finally, Hermione cast aguamenti and water rained down on her.
She gasped at the cold temperature. The water was not freezing, but it was a far cry from warm. She attempted to heat it with wandless magic and succeeded up warming it a few degrees at least. Hermione untied her hair from its crinkling and matted bun. She let the water cascade down her skin until she was used to the cool temperature. Hermione dug through her supplies with wet hands, trying to find her hair comb. After getting everything a bit damp, she finally located it. Hermione hooked the comb over the side of her tub and began to shampoo her hair.
She scrubbed at her scalp and slowly detangled her hair with her hands. She moved on to conditioner and let it sit while she lathered her body with soap and scrubbed at her dusty skin with her nails. Hermione combed through her tangled curls patiently until they were smooth and coiled. She washed the conditioner and soap from her body. Hermione luxuriated in the feeling of water running over her for a few more seconds before ending the spell and carefully drying off.
She wrapped herself in a towel while she cleaned her clothing three times to make sure that the spells really set in. She considered actually washing them, but that would require her removing all of her belongings from the pockets, which would take eons to both take out and put back in. She contented herself with donning a fresh pair of knickers and sports bra before pulling on her questionably clean clothing.
Hermione disappeared her makeshift shower and instead transfigured herself a seat in front of the picturesque landscape revealed through the crumbled wall. Hermione pulled out her magical notebook and her pen and opened it for the first time in two days.
Hermione—are you still alive?
Hermione. Check in.
Hermione. We will send a team if we do not hear from you soon.
A team is being prepped.
Just got word from Michelle—would have been nice if you answered one of my messages.
Hermione winced as she read through the frantic notes. Rolf was usually far calmer, but she supposed even he had his limits. Hermione scrawled out a quick apology. She didn’t explain why she hadn’t checked in, knowing that it would do her no favours, and instead decided to press right into the problem at hand.
Sorry. We need to figure out an extraction plan. Should be ready tomorrow or the next day. He appears fully healed. Waiting a day to be sure. We’ll try flying tomorrow. He has…started to collect me.
Rolf responded, as we feared. A dragon collecting a human as treasure. It is unheard of.
Hermione remembered Draca saying she was more than treasure and her body heated. Hermione absolutely refused to think that she had some sort of attraction to a literal dragon—it was no—No—not thinking about it, she reminded herself astutely.
Rolf continued writing, his script appearing quickly across the page: We’ll need a distraction. How far can he read your thoughts?
Hermione wrote, No idea. At least 1km. He doesn’t appear to be listening now though, because he’s not objecting to me leaving…might be because he’s busy eating.
Rolf wrote what Hermione was thinking, You’ll leave in two days, when he eats next. You can apparate to the ward line, then portkey home.
Hermione nodded. She wrote back, Sounds like a plan. But if he can trace me all the way back to Scotland, we may be in trouble…
Rolf didn’t write for a while. Then, Oliver will come meet you at the ward line. He’ll portkey you to a safe house.
Not Oliver, Hermione wrote back, Draca does not like him.
Draca? Rolf asked. Is that the dragon?
Hermione really hadn’t been updating him. Whoops. Hermione wrote, Yes. Send someone else. Lee. Or Michelle could do it.
Rolf disagreed: Michelle is needed at the sanctuary. Lee will come. He says he’s happy you’re not dead.
Hermione chuckled, imaging Lee’s face. She wrote back, Okay. I’ll check in tomorrow at some point, then again in the morning in two days to make sure we’re still a go.
Rolf wished her a good day and Hermione put away her magical notebook. She pulled out her muggle notebook and spent some time leisurely reading through her notes from the last five days. It had felt like she had learned so much, but when she read through the meagre five pages, there was almost nothing there. She sighed. She wanted to stay longer. She could learn so much.
But she knew if she stayed, she ran the risk of never being able to leave. And of feeling even more oddly drawn to the dragon in her care…
Hermione put away her notebook and wandered the castle some more, trying to think of what dragon facts she wanted to prioritize in her limited time with Draca. She came upon the unopenable door again. Hermione spent some time trying to get it open once more. Something niggled at her brain when she looked at the door, making her think that it was not a structural issue that was making it impossible to open but something else entirely.
But it couldn’t be magical. This was a muggle castle. All the rotting paintings were stationary. There was no trace of magic in the place—apart from Draca’s wards. So, why would the door not budge?
Hermione made her way back to Draca’s lair. She asked him if he was done when she got to the first floor. He took a moment to respond, but replied in the affirmative.
Hermione re-entered the cavern and looked up at the sky. The sun was obscured by thick clouds. It looked like it might rain. She wondered how she was going to stay dry with a giant hole in the ceiling.
“It will not rain on you,” Draca informed her. “I have spells. That is why my bed is always dry.”
“How do you cast wards?” Hermione asked again.
Draca walked toward her, his massive body shaking the floor slightly. Instead of responding to her question, he nudged her with his snout and blew warm smoke out of his nose.
“Thank you for the food, Hermione,” he rumbled. He rubbed his head against her chest a few times, then wrapped his neck around her body, pushing her toward the bed as he had done before. “Come sit.”
Hermione sat on his bed, nestled into his side, only this time, his wing was tucked against him instead of stretched out over her head. Because of her height, it did not interfere with her leaning against him, but it was odd having it sitting above her head instead of stretched out like a tarp.
“I like your hair,” Draca informed her out of the blue.
Hermione had not tied it back up; it was hanging down in its curls. She pat it awkwardly. “Oh. Thanks. How are you feeling?” Hermione changed the subject. “Did you drink your water?”
“I feel perfect, witch. I wish to fly now. Flying in the rain is exhilarating.”
“Doesn’t it hurt? The water falling on your wings?”
Draca took a deep breath, as if puffing up his chest. “It does not hurt me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes at his bravado. “You can fly tomorrow. But you’ll have to take it easy,” she reminded him sternly. Draca blinked at her in response. “Will you tell me more about dragons?”
He brought his head to her knee and Hermione immediately began stroking him. “What do you wish to know?”
“How do your societies work? Are you always separate? Is there a leader of the horde? How is the leader chosen? I want to know more about your stories and—”
“Okay, witch. One question at a time.”
Hermione reflected for a moment. “Societies. I want to know about those.”
Draca’s eyes slid closed as he started talking. “We live with our own kinds. There are dragon-meets that happen occasionally when there is something important to discuss. This is when there might be conversation with other kinds of dragons. We stay in hordes to stay safe, but some dragons like them better than others. Verdes love hordes. They are cooperative. Horntails hate hordes and live solitary lives—even parents leave their younglings before they are adults.”
Hermione wrote with her right hand while she stroked his head with her left.
“Hordes are naturally made over time. They are families. Those who grew up together. But newcomers as well. Verdes change hordes every few years to intermingle and increase chances of younglings. But families always stay together—until the children mature. Then sometimes they separate. There is a leader. The leader is the strongest dragon, chosen by consensus.”
“Is that why you became the leader? Because you are the strongest?”
Draca purred. “I am strong, yes. But I told you, I am Draca. I was allowed to lead because I am destined for more.” Hermione mulled that over. He continued talking. “It is not only physical strength that matters. It is also intelligence. Emotional strength. Many leaders are not the biggest, but they have the best skills to keep the horde safe.”
“And so, whatever the leader says, goes?”
“Many things are horde decisions. There must be consensus. Others it is the leader. If the horde is not happy with a decision, they can challenge it. Or leave. It is rare to leave. Other dragonkind are different than Verdes. They told me some fight for leadership. Others have no leaders and live alone. Other leaders are hereditary, like your kings and queens.”
“Which ones? Do you know?”
“No. The Verdes only mentioned how strange the other dragonkind are. They said it was good I found them and not the Horntails who would have fought to the death to assert dominance.”
“Sounds like a horntail…”
“Did I answer your question?”
Hermione smiled. “As I’m sure you noticed. I always have more questions. What about the younglings? From what we’ve observed, they are taken care of by everyone in the horde.”
“Yes. We must protect the young. All contribute to teaching and raising them. But only the parents must stay. Others will come and go as they please.”
“You mentioned storytelling before. What stories do you have? Is everything taught to the next generation or is there some sort of collective memory—”
“We have stories that explain the world. The natural order of things, happy stories, sad, stories, cautionary tales, funny stories.”
“You tell jokes?” Hermione asked again, remembering him mentioning it at some point.
Draca chuffed. “Yes, human. We tell jokes.”
“Tell me one!”
Draca slid an eye open and looked at her. “What are humans good for?”
Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know, what?”
“Toothpicks,” Draca replied, his tone of amusement lifting his voice.
Hermione chuckled. “Tell me another!”
“I don’t remember any right now. Perhaps Gryn or Reif will fly by soon and I can ask them. Or tomorrow, I can fly to them.”
Hermione did her best to not react to knowing she was leaving so soon. Instead, she kept quizzing him. “Do dragons have celebrations?” she asked.
“Yes, witch. But not many. We celebrate the solstices and the equinoxes—some of us do. The Verdes do. We have procreation and mating rituals and celebrations.”
Hermione buzzed with desire but knew she might not get all the answers to her questions. She started first with the solstices. Humans already knew some things about procreation, so she figured that was less pressing. “What do you do to celebrate the seasons?”
“We feast. We have fires. We dance.”
“Dance?”
Draca replied, “Yes. We dance.”
“How?”
“In the skies. There are some land dances, but they are rarely done. More for the younglings.”
“And do you dance…together? Is it choreographed? Or is it spontaneous?”
“We dance alone. We dance together. We have some dances for each season. Other times we dance as we see fit.”
“Do you like dancing?” Hermione asked.
“Yes,” Draca revealed. “Dancing is a great joy of mine.” He shivered suddenly, and Hermione felt his body tense, but he relaxed almost immediately.
“What was that?”
Draca opened his eyes and looked at her. “I do not know. I saw…I don’t understand it.” Hermione went to ask him another question, but he cut her off. “Continue your story about your life. You are at your second year still.”
Hermione sighed. She put away her notebook and pen, summoned her knitting, and picked up where she had left off before—right before she was petrified by the Basilisk. Not that there was much for her to tell of her second year, being that she was asleep for half of it. Draca was angered when she recounted how she had been incapacitated and she had to reassure him that the basilisk was dead for him to calm down. Hermione recounted how she crammed all of the year’s content into a mere two weeks and still aced all of her finals. Draca seemed impressed.
She carried on in her story all the way to near the end of third year, recounting all of her time turner shenanigans and everyone’s misplaced fear of Sirius. Draca was once again angry when she told him how Harry and Ron had snubbed her in third year, especially after she was barely around in second year. Hermione often forgot how rocky their friendship was for many years. The boys could be so stupid…but then again, here she was now, actively living with a fire-breathing dragon so, she wasn’t really one to talk.
Hermione’s voice tired and she trailed off. She could feel that Draca was fatigued as well. He appeared to need rest after eating.
“How is it that I can sense how you’re feeling?” Hermione asked.
Draca blinked open his eyes and turned to look at her. “What am I feeling?” he asked.
“Tired.”
“I am tired.”
“Yes, but why can I…sense your feelings? Earlier before when I was talking to Michelle, I could tell you were impatient. And you’re usually so patient too.”
Draca did not respond.
“Is this secret dragon knowledge?” Hermione asked.
“You should not be able to sense my feelings,” was his response.
“Oh. Really?” He stared at her. “Hm. That’s interesting. I wonder why…You know, I’ve always thought I have an inexplicable connection with dragons that other humans do not have. Once, a group of Welsh Greens should have killed me and didn’t.”
Draca tilted his head. “When were you around Verdes?”
“This was a while ago now, maybe a year or two. I was helping out at the sanctuary one weekend.”
“They did not attack you?”
“Nope. One of them came really close to me and smelled me. I thought I was dead. Then they just flew away. They even had a child with them!”
Draca remained silent for a long time. “I do not understand,” he said finally. “But you do smell different than other humans. Much better. Maybe…” he went silent again.
When he hadn’t spoken for several moments, Hermione accepted that he was done talking. She got up and made herself some herbal tea to help with her sore throat. Talking on end was tiring. Instead of watching her from his bed, as Draca was wont to do, he followed her to her little camp area across the cavern and sat protectively around her while she made her tea. That was not a good sign when it came to her needing to leave in two days—he really would not let her away from his side. Draca dozed around her. She could tell he wasn’t fully asleep, but he wasn’t fully awake either.
“When you go flying tomorrow…will I just wait here?” Hermione asked after an hour of silent tea drinking.
Draca was conflicted—again Hermione could sense his feeling. “I do not want to leave you,” he huffed.
“But you’ll need to exercise your wings. They’re ready. And I can’t very well go flying with you. I’ll just stay here and wander around the castle more. Discover its secrets. Did you know there is a door that seems magical on the second floor? I don’t understand it, since the rest of the castle is obviously muggle—”
“You can come with me,” he cut her off.
“Huh?”
“Flying. You will come with me. I can carry you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Hermione replied quickly, remembering her flight with a swooping of her stomach.
“You can ride me.”
Hermione turned to look him dead on in shock. “Wh-what?”
“You fit well on my back,” he remarked. “I can hold you in place with magic if you need.”
“Ride you? But that’s…dragons don’t let humans do that.”
“You are not any human. You are my Hermione. I will take you flying. You will see the joys of it.”
My Hermione. Hermione fixated on that for a moment too long. “I-I don’t like heights,” she tried instead.
“You must learn to love them. You must be by my side.”
“No. I really don’t like heights. I might faint. And fall. And, besides, you haven’t flown in five days and you’re weak—”
“I am strong, witch.”
Hermione crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Draca, you have barely recovered from a serious injury. You should not carry extra weight on your first flight. You need to ease into it or you’ll strain your wings and your muscles.”
He puffed dark smoke in her direction.
“I am not riding you,” which was a ridiculous statement considering no human had ever been offered such an honour, “but if you want to stay low, I’ll watch you from the ground.”
Draca did not respond, his annoyance permeating the air. Hermione ignored him and fixed herself an early dinner of boiled vegetables—her food stores were on their last legs.
After dinner, Hermione and Draca stretched again. His mobility seemed completely normal to Hermione—who admittedly was not a healer and did not know his full range of motion. But it was a good sign none-the-less.
She joined him on his bed. Hermione pulled out her scar paste and began the task of smoothing it over his taut skin. Draca purred deeply as her hands roamed over him. The vibrations travelled through Hermione’s body, heating her. She let her hands trail over his skin for a while longer, then diligently moved on to the top side of his wing.
Draca told her to climb his back again, so she did. She was more accustomed to it now and was able to get onto his back with a modicum of grace. She inspected his scar and noted that it was barely even raised anymore. She applied the scar paste with her wand. Hermione ran her hand over the large scales of his back comfortingly before sliding down his side to her ladder.
“Tell me more,” Draca said once she was settled into his side.
“Only if you answer more of my questions,” she bartered.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What questions?”
“Do dragons have art?”
“We have songs. We have dances. We have some poems. But we do not write or make things.”
“What songs? Will you sing me one? How do you sing?”
Draca sighed dramatically. “So many questions.”
“Please sing for me.”
Draca pulled his head away from her. He remained silent for a long time, then he started grunting rhythmically low in his throat, quietly at first, then it grew. He opened his mouth and a deep, haunting melody fell from his sharp jaws. Though he sung no words, just emitted deep sounds as if he were vocalizing along with a song, Hermione felt melancholy from the song. Hermione wished she had the forethought to take out her camera and record him. He finished his song, tapering off so slowly that the silence crept up on her.
Hermione smiled. “That was lovely.” He seemed embarrassed. “What song was it?” she asked.
Draca returned his head to the bed and closed his eyes. “Reif taught it to me. It is about looking for one’s love but not being able to find them.”
“But…there were no words.”
“Legend says old dragon songs like this were how we used to speak. It is more about the emotion than the words.”
“Do you ever sing mentally?”
“No. What I showed you is the only way we sing. Others have different voices. Reif told me mine is very somber. Elys’ voice is much happier than mine. Sometimes she sings the same song I just sang with me—it sounds better together.”
Hermione found herself wishing that she could hear that. What an image that painted. “Do you have many new songs? Or are most traditional?”
“We have many songs. Many we sing at celebrations. Others are for the day to day to entertain. Many are new. Most are old. Dragons like to sing together. Older songs make that easier.”
“That sounds amazing!” Hermione sighed in longing. “What about a poem? Do you know any of those?”
“I have already answered your questions, Hermione,” Draca complained.
“Just one poem?” she begged.
Draca opened his eyes and looked at her. “I do not remember any. There is one about the first mates and their true love—but I do not know it. I prefer dancing to singing or poems or stories. Now, continue your story. I must know everything.”
Hermione chuckled at his intensity. She brought out her knitting and got to work. Hermione picked up her tale at the beginning of fourth year, regaling Draca with the ridiculousness of the TriWizard Tournament. Draca disliked Krum. Hermione was so engrossed in her retelling of her life (seeing as she never had much occasion to do so) that she casually mentioned how Krum was the most desired student in school and that he was infatuated with her of all people.
“…we spent far too much time kissing in the library, if Harry and Ron ever knew how much, they would not look at me the same!” Hermione admitted and laughed to herself.
Draca blew out black smoke. “Why did you kiss this subpar man?”
Hermione raised a brow. “Subpar? He is an international quidditch superstar.” Hermione rarely bragged about dating Krum, but seriously, the man was far from subpar. And it did boost her ego to know she had pulled him.
Draca growled in response.
“Besides, being his date to the Yule Ball just about blew everyone’s minds.” Hermione smiled, remembering the looks of shock at her transformation at the ball. “That was a big moment for me because most boys didn’t see me as anything but a walking book.”
Draca spasmed, his wings trembling out of the blue and she felt a sudden wave of confusion roll off him. His wing twitched again.
“Is your wing alright—”
“Yes, it is fine. How could humans not see you for what you are? They are stupid,” Draca commented. “You are the only attractive human.”
Hermione stumbled in her knitting. “A-attractive?” she gulped. He couldn’t mean that. He was a dragon. She was a human. That...wasn’t possible.
“Yes.”
Hermione refrained from responding and instead fixed her slipped stitch. After a while, she continued on in her story as if nothing had happened. Hermione refrained from recounting how Krum had been the first man to make her orgasm when she had slipped into his private room on the Durmstang boat after he saved her in the second task. She also refrained from telling him that she had returned the favour.
Hermione wrapped up her fourth year ending on a somber note, recounting the death of Cedric and the return of Voldemort. When Hermione said Voldemort’s name, Draca smashed his tail against the wall beside them. Hermione shrieked in fright as stone rained down on them. Draca’s injured wing sprang out to shield her from falling stone.
Hermione was furious with him for using his still healing wing to protect her, and she told him as such.
“I cannot let you be injured,” he said in response.
Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m only here to help you heal. Stop hurting yourself. Why did you smash the wall?”
Draca took a long time to answer. “I do not like this…man.”
“Voldemort? No one does. Well…his followers did, I suppose. Some of them at least.”
“He makes me angry,” Draca said. “Very angry.”
“Me too,” Hermione agreed. “I often wonder what my life would have been like if he didn’t exist…”
Hermione carried on in her story, telling Draca about a summer spent at Grimmauld Place and her growing crush on Ron. Draca did not like this either. She was sensing a pattern. He seemed to dislike when she spoke of other men—or at least those she was attracted to. He had no reaction to Harry or Neville.
Hermione found herself asking, “Are you jealous of Ron?”
Draca blinked at her. “He is not worthy of you.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “How could you know? You’ve never met him. Besides, that’s all in the past now. Ron and I aren’t together anymore.”
“Anymore?” he grumbled.
Hermione sighed. “Yes, anymore. We dated after the war for a year. We’re a terrible match. Took a while for things to smooth over again, but we’re still good friends. Not as close as we used to be unfortunately, but I suppose that’s what happens when you date your best friend…But you’re skipping ahead. If you want to know everything, let me tell it in order.”
Draca rumbled in discontent. He adjusted himself a few times, then fell silent. Hermione took her cue and continued on. She explained the increasing hormones of her fifth year, the run-ins with Umbridge—Draca hated her—and the Inquisitorial Squad—Draca had twitched violently when she mentioned them, but remained quiet otherwise. Hermione fondly recounted the DA and all their learning shenanigans. When she got to the point of the climax of her fifth year, Draca was perturbed by her journey to the Centaurs (let alone her friendship with a giant). He was downright outraged by her participation in the battle in the Department of Mysteries. Hermione glossed over her attack by Dolohov, but he must have been reading her mind because Draca let loose a roar that caused her to jump.
“He’s dead,” Hermione reassured him. “No lasting damage. Just a scar.”
“He scarred you? Show me.”
Hermione placed her knitting in her lap. “No. I’m not showing you.”
Draca brought his head to her torso and nudged it. “Show me,” he demanded.
“Draca—”
“I will heal it.”
“What?”
“I will heal it.”
Hermione was baffled. “If you are able to heal, why did you not heal your wing?” she pointed out.
Draca titled his head. “I cannot heal myself.”
“Why not?”
“Our magic does not work that way. I could help heal another dragon. But I cannot heal myself beyond what my body does naturally. You noticed how fast my wing healed, my magic helped with that.”
Hermione looked at him in dawning understanding. “So, if I had brought another dragon here, they could have healed you without having to put you through a week of pain?”
“Yes. But no dragon will come here. They have been warned. And few are accomplished healers. Any dragon could help, but only a few can truly heal. It is a trait passed through bloodlines.”
Hermione summoned her notebook and began scribbling down facts. When she was done writing, she said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t bring another dragon here to help you.”
“None will come. I told them to stay away. They have listened. Not one Verdes has been within speaking distance since you arrived.”
“Why warn them away?”
“To keep you safe, Hermione. Did you forget? They wanted to attack you.”
She had forgotten. “Right. Sorry. Okay…”
“Show me your scar.”
Hermione flushed at the prospect of lifting her shirt in front of him. It was absurd really that she felt any spark of heat within her—he was a dragon—but, there she was, heating uncomfortably under his gaze.
“It’s…on my chest.”
Draca pulled back from where he was touching her. He gave her some space. Hermione gingerly untucked her shirt and pulled it up, exposing her bare stomach slowly. It was bizarre how self-conscious she was of the scar. He was a dragon; he would not judge how she looked…but he had called her attractive and some irrational part of her brain was worried that he would no longer find her that way once he saw the dark reddish-purple scars crisscrossing her chest.
Draca tilted his head to look more directly. “Move your clothing,” he said.
Hermione glanced down. Her sports bra was blocking a fair amount of the scar. The scar started in the middle of her chest, but extended up between her breasts to her sternum and down toward her bellybutton. Hermione often forgot about her scar—she even changed before her team without thinking twice. But whenever she was confronted with her nakedness around a man she was interested in, she always felt that it marred her.
Draca nudged her when she had not complied. “Move your clothing. I must see it all.”
“…then I’ll be naked.”
“Move your clothing.”
Hermione, heart hammering, listened to him for some reason. She pulled her shirt off, the alarm bells of her training telling her to keep on her fireproof clothing. Then, she pulled off her sports bra. Hermione sat before Draca topless, her dark nipples pebbling. Draca opened his mouth and Hermione flinched.
Draca closed his mouth. “I will not hurt you. I will remove the scar.”
Draca opened his jaw again and was suddenly blowing warm air over her chest. Hermione heated under the air. After a few seconds, she felt the lines of her scars start to tingle, then heat. She looked down at them to see they were glowing a faint purple. Hermione’s eyes widened. The scar heated more and she shifted in discomfort. The lights grew stronger. Hermione winced as the scar heated more.
“Almost done. The pain will disappear soon,” Draca promised.
Hermione shut her eyes as the pain intensified to a boiling point, reminding her of when the spell had been cast in the first place. Then the purple light disappeared from behind her eyes along with the pain, leaving her in a confused state of adrenaline. Hermione blinked open her eyes, panting. Draca closed his jaws and nudged her bare chest with his snout. She shivered at the sensation.
Draca pulled away and she looked down. Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was gone. Her massive scar that she hated was gone. Her brown skin was smooth for the first time in nearly a decade. Hermione jumped to her feet and awkwardly hugged his neck. She was overcome with emotion. Hermione pressed a kiss near his eye, tears streaming down her face.
“Thank you,” she trembled.
Draca pushed against her hug lightly. He seemed pleased. “Anything for you.”
A few minutes later, Hermione finally gathered herself and realized she was topless, hugging a dragon. She shuffled back into her clothing quickly, her back to him. Hermione sat back against him, her hand hovering over her chest in confusion.
“I am sorry it hurt. I promised it would not. It was a different scar than I thought. The evil magic was still there. I had to counteract it.”
“What?!” Hermione asked in alarm. “Still there?”
“Yes, witch. It is good I healed you. It might have reactivated on its own and hurt you more. Now it is gone. He cannot hurt you anymore.”
Hermione was deeply perturbed by the news that her curse might have reactivated at any instant. She had to make herself some tea to calm down. Draca followed her to her camp stove as she did so, and wrapped around her protectively. Hermione was glad for his presence, since she was feeling very vulnerable and unsafe at that moment.
When she had calmed down more, Hermione continued on her story. She was strangely invested in the retelling now. She wanted Draca to know everything. So, she carried on, jumping over her growing infatuation with Ron and heartbreak over Ron choosing Lavender. Barely mentioning Cormac and his wandering hands—Draca really did not like Cormac. She explained horcruxes and the Slug Club and Hermione’s own worries about where the war would take her. When she got to Dumbledore’s death, she cried. It had been so long since she thought of his death, preferring to remember the quirky headmaster for his charms.
Draca was moved by her sadness. He laid his head against her knee and she stroked his snout. It calmed her. He seemed sad as well, though, she wasn’t sure why.
Hermione barely mentioned Malfoy’s role in Dumbledore’s death, but even the small details upset Draca. He took a while to settle down after the end of her sixth year.
“Maybe we should stop there for the night?” Hermione suggested. “My voice is tired. We can pick up tomorrow.”
“You are sad.”
“I didn’t have the best childhood,” she said. “It was very sad. But after the year I’ll tell you next, it improves greatly. Just…one more hard year to get through until things get better.”
“Let me help you sleep,” Draca suggested.
“Like give me a dream?” Hermione wondered.
“No. Magic to calm you.”
Hermione itched to ask more questions. “Let me get ready for bed first.” She excused herself to her tent, did her business in her toilet and brushed her teeth. Hermione exited the tent and tied her hair into two Dutch braids while Draca watched.
“Why do you change your hair?”
“It will knot while I sleep. Become unmanageable.”
He did not respond. Hermione got settled in her sleeping position, snuggled under her warm blanket, body pressed to his reassuringly warm one. Draca stared at her intently. Hermione found herself being pulled into his eyes. She blinked once, twice, then her eyes slid shut and she drifted off into oblivion.
*
Hermione blinked up at the stars above her. The constellations glowed brightly in the sky. She smiled at them, missing the stargazing days of her youth.
As she became more aware of her surroundings, she realized she was once again pressed to a man. Hermione turned over to take in his face.
Malfoy.
Strange I keep dreaming of him, she thought to herself, recognizing that this could not be reality.
He blinked his eyes open slowly, then smiled at her. “You should be sleeping, love.”
Hermione shifted under his intense silver gaze. “I am sleeping.”
She’d had lucid dreams before. Usually once she acknowledged she was asleep, she awoke. But this one did not give up on her yet.
Malfoy brought her in for a slow and deliberate kiss. He rolled her onto her back and slid his naked body between her cargo-pantsed legs. Why was it that he was always naked and she was always fully clothed? Dreams are weird.
Malfoy stirred a low heat in her as he worked to remove her clothing. He spent a long time kissing across her chest. Hermione noted that in the dream, her scars were gone—but that was common in dreams of hers. Malfoy pulled a nipple into his mouth and Hermione arched against him, gasping in pleasure.
He made his way down her body and removed her heavy pants and practical underwear with little preamble. Malfoy spread her legs and brought his tongue to her slit. He lapped at her and rumbled in pleasure. The vibrations travelled up her core and made her clench.
“So delicious, Hermione.”
Hermione moaned in response.
Malfoy’s tongue moved to her clit and flicked at it relentlessly while his fingers delved into her core, pushing her to the brink. Hermione squirmed beneath him, her hand sliding into his smooth, platinum hair. Hermione’s hips pressed against his lips. She groaned loudly, then came against his mouth and fingers.
Malfoy growled in response. “Perfection.”
He slid into her, his cock stretching her walls deliciously. Malfoy took his sweet time, his pace building to a crescendo. His hands roamed her body and his lips remained anchored at her neck. “Mine,” he purred.
“Yes,” Hermione agreed, once again on the brink of orgasm.
As they both came in one another’s arms, he bit down on her neck. It sent a bolt of pleasure through Hermione.
Malfoy slowly redressed her after her breathing had evened out. He pulled her into him and they both gazed up at the stars. As Hermione felt the dream fading, she said to him, “Isn’t that your constellation?”
His response was lost to the dream shifting to her studying in the Hogwarts library before an arithmancy exam.