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Draco sat on the edge of the bed, tie undone, sleeves rolled up. His formal robes had long been discarded over the hotel room’s armchair and the DM cuffs Hermione had given him for his last birthday glinted at him from the dresser. The pressure of his elbows on his thighs was hard, the muscles in his arms clenched tight as he pressed his palms together so hard he felt his fingers start to quake.
He looked down to the pale expanse of his arms, save for the dark stain on his left forearm. Years had passed since the Dark Lord’s fall, but the black mark was still there, a part of him that he never wanted. Black pools that formed the skull’s eyes stared up at him, mocking him for family decisions, for a cocky attitude of a teenager gone awry. The loops of the dormant snake reminded him of blood, of death, of curses he had no choice but to yell out.
From the bathroom, the sound of water shut off, and Draco shut his eyes. He knew her routine like his own, knew she’d need to dry her hair the Muggle way so it didn’t create a frizzy nest overnight, knew she’d take her time with the lotion her mother once used - one of few memories she allowed herself of her parents. She’d brush her teeth with a toothbrush instead of using a cleansing charm and swishing a potion like he would do once she was done.
It would take a while, he knew.
For once, he was thankful for the time she would spend getting ready for bed.
So when he felt a warm hand on his cheek, his eyes popped open in surprise. He looked up at her, eyeing her still-wet hair and only smelling the strawberry-mint-scented body wash she used without a trace of the jasmine lotion. Brown eyes, filled with concern, looked down at him. Her fingertips pressed lightly against his jaw as she stroked his skin. Her thumb reached for his mouth and rested against his lower lip.
“Draco?”
“Granger,” he answered. He watched as she lowered herself to sit sideways on his lap, forcing him to sit up. Automatically, his arms parted to encircle her waist, and he felt the soft slide of silk. Her hands moved to his neck, stroking softly until Draco felt his body begin to relax.
“It’s Malfoy, you know,” Hermione said softly, almost a whisper. “Or did you forget the ceremony a few hours ago?”
“You’ll always be Granger to me, love,” was his response.
Draco closed his eyes again, losing himself in the calmness his new wife brought him. She was his saving grace, his solid rock when the emotional torrent of waves threatened to take him under. He felt her lips brush against his hairline before they kissed his closed eyelids. Her warm breath flowed over his face as she found his lips. One firm press of their mouths, another, and then Hermione rested her forehead against his, leaving a small space between their lips.
“Talk to me,” she requested.
She waited, counted the number of times Draco inhaled and exhaled. Their years together taught her to wait, to let him gather his thoughts. She had known, from the moment she stepped out of the shower, that something was amiss, could feel the distress from her husband pulsing through the marriage runes printed on her inner wrist. Even before the runes appeared earlier that day, she was attuned to him, had learned how to read his emotions. It was something learned only after years of understanding his self-loathing episodes, of dealing with her own self-hatred from years of war, of running, of trying to survive. As she waited, Hermione looked down at the arm resting in her lap. The Dark Mark was dark against Draco’s pale skin and she couldn’t help but bring a hand down to cover it.
No, not cover it.
She brushed her fingertips over the skull, traced the pattern of snakeskin to where its head sat near Draco’s own marriage runes. The runes pulsed beneath her fingers, alive and yearning for their connection to her matched set. It was a stark difference to the dead tattoo of the Mark.
“How can you stand it?” Draco finally asked aloud. Hermione turned her head to look at him again. “How can you stand looking at it?”
Slowly, Draco slid his arm from beneath her hand, letting it lay by his side on the bed, turning his arm so the Mark was hidden. He stared at a spot over her shoulder, not wanting to see the look that could be in her eyes. In his mind, he’d find darkness there, an anger or disappointment that he felt churning in his chest reflected in her usually warm gaze.
“Hey,” she called. “Look at me.” He kept his eyes closed, swallowing deeply when he felt her weight ease off of his lap. Two fingers lifted his chin up. “Draco, look at me.”
With a deep breath, he opened his eyes, warily looking up at her. Her eyes were shiny but she held his gaze as she lowered herself to the floor, kneeling in front of him. His brows drew together, confusion swirling around his mind when she reached out and took his left arm, bringing it forward so his elbow once again rested on his knee. Her fingers tapped on the runes, scratched lightly at them, before she leaned down and kissed them, sending a bolt of pleasure up his arm.
She left an open-mouthed kiss on the space between the runes and the curve of the snake’s neck.
Her hand slid upwards. Hermione pressed down with her thumb over the snake’s head.
She licked a stripe up his arm, following the pulsing vein at his wrist. His skin was slightly salty from being warm in robes all night, slightly spicy from his cologne. Draco watched as she moved her hand to cradle his arm, lifting it slightly so she could trace the snake with the tip of her tongue.
“Granger,” he said in a shaky tone. “What the fuck are you doing?” There was no malice in his tone, only a tremble in his words.
Hermione looked up at him, wide eyes that spoke volumes to him. His breathing quickened for a moment when she pulled away slightly. When she spoke next, her breath floated over the slightly wet skin of his arm, sending tingles up his spine.
“Proving to you that this bloody mark doesn’t define you,” she answered. “Not anymore. Never to me.” She leaned down again and pressed kisses up the mark, nipped at the knot the snake created. “Do you know what I think about every time I see this?”
“No,” he admitted. “I know what I see, though.”
Hermione shook her head and leaned back against her heels. She tugged at his hand until his arm was straight. Her fingers caressed the dark ink embedded in his skin, so deep and connected to his magical core that nothing would ever erase it.
“I see a boy who had no choice. I see someone who would do anything to save his mother from being hurt by a madman, by her own sister. I see a man who rose above people’s opinions and made a life to be proud of.”
Draco made a fist with his hand at her words, unwilling to truly believe her. She loved him, he knew that, and her view of him was different from so many others’ opinions.
“I see a man who survived a life he should never have had,” Hermione continued. She stroked his fingers until they relaxed and she softly unclenched them until she could slide her palm against his. “I see someone who deserves to be happy now.”
“I am,” Draco said immediately. “I’m happy with you.”
Hermione smiled and slid her hand up until their runes lined up. A feeling of contentment flowed between them, the runes pulsing with joy.
“That was never a question for me,” she told him. “I know you’re happy with me. I know you love me.” She reached up with her right hand to cover the top of the Dark Mark. “I want you to love yourself just as much.”
Draco’s eyes shut and he let out a long inhale.
“I’m trying.”
Hermione watched his face for a moment. Slowly, she stood only to sit on his lap again and brought his left arm to her own lap. She felt his free arm curl around her back and she leaned her head onto his shoulder, breathing softly into his neck. Their marriage runes still beat together and Hermione began to stroke his arm again, almost as if she were petting the snake.
After moments, minutes, maybe longer, Draco moved his arm, letting the connection of their runes end. He slid the arm around Hermione’s waist, turning the Mark into her stomach. Hermione lifted her face from his neck to find her husband staring at her, a calmness in his grey eyes that wasn’t there earlier. She leaned in and left a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay? Better?”
Draco nodded and tapped at her hip. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” Hermione said. “Not for this.”
He gave her a small smile then nudged her off of his lap. When she stood, he followed, and lifted her face to give her a kiss, a press of mouths and a taste of her lips. “Give me a moment?”
Hermione nodded and watched as he gave her another smile - one that she knew he reserved only for her - and disappeared into the bathroom. She listened closely and let her eyes drift shut when she heard the sound of the sink turn on.
Inside the bathroom, Draco let the water run as he pressed his palms on the marble counter. He breathed heavily, felt his chest tighten until he thought it would burst open. He let everything out with a gasp and looked up. For a moment, he saw his 16-year-old self in the sixth-floor bathroom of Hogwarts, felt the terror and devastation of seeing Katie Bell back in the Great Hall, practically heard Potter’s voice shout the curse that left him close to death and forever scarred. He shut his eyes tightly but still felt the cold water at his back, felt the slashes on his chest, felt the warmth of his blood seeping through his shirt. He heard Snape murmuring that counter curse over and over.
Vulnera Sanentur.
Vulnera Sanentur.
“Vulnera Sanentur.”
He gasped after he said the charm aloud. He opened his eyes and stared at his reflection. He watched his 16-year-old disappear completely and he struggled to get his breathing under control again. Splashing water on his face, he grabbed a towel and patted his face dry, ridding any evidence of tears that he didn’t want Hermione to see.
Not tonight.
“You’ll be okay,” he said to his reflection. He glanced down at his left arm before he let his gaze drift to the closed bathroom door. On the other side was a beautiful woman, his beautiful wife, who would move mountains for him, who would use Unforgivables to save him. He covered the Mark with the palm of his right hand before he curled his left arm at the elbow. Nodding at his reflection once more, he turned and felt the tension leave his body.
“You’ll be okay.”