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You laid there, heart trembling but nonetheless wide awake. The intolerable pain in your arms flushed in like tidal waves as you shifted your gaze downwards to the petite, little sunshine-shaped human lying beside you. And just for a fleeting second, the pain gave way to the unabashed abundance of happiness slowly burning away your rationality, your mind dominated by a sudden yearn to feel her warmth, to touch her.
So you nuzzled in closer, and you swore to the heavens you could hear your arms’ painful detest. You leaned down to drop a kiss on her nose, then her temple, and finally on that cherry lips you spent years worshiping. She graced your burning heart with a faint tuck of her lips in response and gently opened her eyes. You rubbed her back and lull her to sleep because it’s only a bit past three; but she groaned and murmured something like you only did so because you liked how she looked when she was soundly asleep.
You chuckled at the thought, making a mental note to add “safely wrapped in Draco’s arm” to her collection of your requirements whenever she decided to sleep over. You’ve lost count of how many nights she was at home anyway, because she’s always been in your flat like it was the most natural thing to do. You guessed it was completely normal for Muggles to make permanent residence at their boyfriend’s place. And again, not like you'd complain.
Sometimes you wonder if she had another magical ability that was unbeknownst to you. Even when you couldn’t register her physical presence, her lavender fragrance somehow always lingered around the house. There it was on your silk bed sheets, your gigantic armchair, your worn out sweaters. Your bathroom smelled like her. Your living room never retained its original, posh-like aroma like you intended it to be. Your home office is now furnished with little bundles of lavender here and there, though much to your distaste of all things nature-related.
You couldn’t help but find everything a tad bit overpowering. You shuddered at the vision of another Draco, a version of you that was ironically estranged to the old you: a Draco that voluntarily bounded himself to a brave, intelligent and incredibly stunning Muggle who had a heart that came only in double sizes. It was already difficult to imagine how you had willingly managed to butcher up your monumental ego, let alone mustering up the courage to throw your family’s centuries-old blood supremacy pride down the drain. You broke your mom’s heart and reduced your dad into nothing but wretchedness amidst the process, but you didn’t care.
Your reverie was broken by soft hitches. By instinct, you encapsulated her with your entire body in an effort to regain a sense of security. You kissed the exposed skin on her shoulder, whispering promises of reassurance in her ears to quiet the growling demons within. Hermione is like you in that regard - the war sucks her in from time to time, forcing her to relive through memories meant to fade in oblivion. On the worst nights, those when you’d be woken up by a sharp, piercing clamor, her nightmare would usually be of Bellatrix and the Manor. You unconsciously soothe the scar imprinted on her arm whenever this occurs, making thousands upon thousands of notes to never let your once-lost prejudice take the better of you. You vowed to yourself you’d try to see the good in people even when its precedence suggests otherwise. You have been trying, restlessly, to not let your judgments be obscured by any other tangible measures other than what’s present right in front of you ever since, because that was exactly what she did.
She gave you a chance to be better, to realize that you were better, and you were absolutely livid.
Now that you come to think about it, everything seemed ridiculous. You thought your eyes would only be hung on her massive, widely disheveled mass of curls for mere seconds before they grew weary, but they, against your better judgment, glued on the auburn hues for much longer than you’d have preferred. That hair was unmistakably hers, and you were nuts over the fact that you constantly dream about the moment you get to run your hands through her hair, tucking away a disobedient stray curl whilst wondering which flower-scented conditioner she used that day. The fantasies only scaled up the moment she walked into your office just a week after your Azkaban sentence ended, held out a gift-box (she claimed it was for Christmas, but Christmas was a week away) and invited you to lunch. You later found out that she did this for every new employee to make sure they felt welcomed, though you knew it was for her own benefit. She needed a means to ground herself, but you acquiesced anyway.
You didn’t know why you chose to let her guide you to her “favorite spot in all of England” that day. Perhaps it was because she beamed a little too bright, and you couldn’t let yourself be tortured with the culpability for her disappointment. Perhaps it was the overwhelming desire to apologize to her after years of being the bully, which eventually manifested itself into a curt nod and a faint smile. Then everything around you went out of focus when she took your hand.
There were moments when you were infuriated with her ever-growing kindness. You questioned her ulterior motive in trying to make sense why she kept showing up despite your petulant declines. Like the stuck-up, pompous, condescending man you were, you told her to sod off. She said your excuses were lame, and that you looked like you could use some replenishments. Of course you couldn’t resist the temptation to blindly follow her lead; so the lunches eventually extended into quick breakfast drop-ins, then dinners, then periods of accidentally-falling-asleep on her couch after movies. You told her about your grievances and regrets. She told you about her naivety and that sometimes she was tired of being brave. As much as emotionally taxing as it may sound, you wondered from time to time if you would have fallen in love with her had the War not been there.
You wondered if she did, too, then quickly wiped the thought away at the impossibility of wanting something you can’t have. But your voices came to a screeching halt when she placed her head on your chest, arms snaking around your waist. She slightly angled her eyes to look straight at you, her gaze burning with fierce determination. As you take a glimpse past her iron defenses and see the underlying uncertainty, you couldn't help but put the gentlest of kisses on her forehead, feeling her embrace tightening.
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You pulled her closer yet again in a vain attempt to eradicate whatever minimal space existing between her skin and your flesh, your heart and her heart. The ease to which your rhythms synchronize was awe-inspiring. Was it one of the ways she used to keep you on the same page with her, to pull you from your deepest pits, to keep you brimming with happiness?
You were frustrated, because you didn't know. You still don't.
But you're willing to spend the rest of your life trying to figure it out.