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Chapter Text

“Let me see her!” Malfoy pounded his fists at the front desk of St. Mungo’s. 

Harry pulled him back by the arms. “You can’t. The Healers are still with her.” 

Malfoy flung Harry’s hand away before noticing Harry’s arm was still in a sling. 

The receptionist sneered at Malfoy before continuing on with her paperwork. “Sit down and the Healer will get to you.” 

He crumpled on an uncomfortable creaky chair and rubbed his stubbled face. “She took the hit for me.”

Harry nodded. “I know.” 

Malfoy gestured wildly. “She shouldn’t even have been out there. If it weren’t for your stupid injury—”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Harry warned. 

“You let her go out there! She doesn’t have enough field experience and–and we thought by keeping her in the liaison role, she wouldn’t take on any unnecessary risks—”

“You think Hermione wants to hear you speaking about her like this?” 

Malfoy jumped up, running his hands through his hair. 

Ron and Ginny came running through the corridors, pushing through the twin doors of the waiting room of St. Mungo’s.

“What’s going on?” Ron asked in a low voice, ignoring Malfoy.

“Everything’s stable, at the moment. They’re trying to determine what kind of curse hit Hermione,” Harry explained. 

“When can we see her?” Ginny asked, gripping her husband’s shoulder.

Ron rubbed his eyes. “Why was she even out there? She works mainly in Mysteries.” 

Harry shook his head. “Her expertise in the Dark Arts was a good match for the case. I couldn’t go ‘cause of my arm. So she volunteered.” 

“With him?” Ron scoffed, sneering at Malfoy. “It was a bad call, mate. She’s bound to be distracted.”

Malfoy barked a bitter laugh. “What do you know? You haven’t been an Auror in years. Hiding out in that poor excuse for a shop.” 

“Say that again, you fucking ferret.” Ron stalked toward Malfoy, sliding out his wand from his cuff. 

Harry stepped between them. “Stop. This isn’t helping anything.”

Ginny squeezed her brother’s arm, wrapping her hand around his concealed wand. 

“I saw that, Weasel,” Malfoy tilted up his chin, twisting his wrist.

“We didn’t have time. We were hot on the tails of Dolohov and Rowle, and you know she has a history—You try convincing her when she’s made up her mind.”

Ron shot an accusing glance at Malfoy. “Fuck, I know. But fuck, mate, what if she—”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to her,” Malfoy declared. “I’ll make sure she has the best care.” 

Ron looked him up and down. “Just because you’re with her right now—”

Malfoy almost growled, stepping menacingly to him.

“Ahem,” a Healer cleared his throat from the opposite side of the waiting room. She wore ugly, lime green robes, as was the standard uniform at St. Mungo’s. She had luminous, clear skin with the exception of a small mole at the corner of her jaw and wore a flick of eyeliner. She held a clipboard in her hand and had a wand stuck through her dark hair gathered in a high ponytail. “If you’re finished swinging your wands around, would anyone be interested in the update to the patient’s wellbeing?” 

Everyone crowded around the Healer.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Healer Kaneshiro. I specialise in Magic-Muggle complementary neuro healing. The patient, Ms. Hermione Granger is currently stable.”

Malfoy winced, wringing his hands until they were white.

“She’s resting right now. She was hit with a powerful, layered memory spell. It was determined to be an Obliviate and a Confundus. But seemingly, it was cast by a very powerful Wixen. We’re not sure what she remembers. Or to what extent the spell affects her short-term or long-term memories. For the most part, she seems lucid. We gave her a Calming Draught, but you can see her. Only for a short while. Maybe 15 minutes. Just a couple of people at the time, so as to not overwhelm her. The others, you can come back during visiting hours tomorrow.”

Malfoy immediately moved toward the door behind the reception desk, but the Healer stopped him with lightning reflexes. “Are you family?”

“I’m her—” He struggled with the word, when every word to describe them felt insufficient. 

Harry called out, “He’s her partner.” 

“Work or personal?”

“Both,” Malfoy said without hesitation.

Healer Kaneshiro tipped her head and sucked in through her teeth, clearly disapproving. She made a mark on her clipboard. “What’s your name?” 

“Draco Malfoy.”

Kaneshiro paused, then clicked her teeth. She knew who he was. Or at least his reputation. He was used to these reactions by now. “I don’t see your name on the list.” 

“What list?”, he demanded. 

“Her emergency contact list.” 

“When was it last updated?” 

Kaneshiro flipped through the parchment on her clipboard. “1998.” 

“It’s 2008!” Malfoy took off his glasses and pressed his palms roughly onto his eyes. 

The Healer shrugged. “It lists Harry Potter and the Weasley family. Visitors can come tomorrow.” 

Malfoy saw red.

He and Hermione had been together for nearly four years, and lived together for two. He worked through his fear and self-loathing after the war, stepping away from his parents’ expectations and the Sacred 28’s customs, notwithstanding traditional courting practices and of course, dating a Muggleborn. After two years on house arrest, he moved out of the Manor, despite Lucius’ and Narcissa’s disapproval. He initially had a nice condo in Chelsea, but when things progressed with Hermione, they bought a small townhouse together near King’s Cross. 

Although Lucius always said Malfoys did not need to lower themselves to work for a living, Malfoy wanted more out of his life. To help rehabilitate the Malfoy name. To fix what his Father broke. During his house arrest, he kept up a regular correspondence with the Golden Trio—minus the useless, redheaded appendage—first as gratitude for speaking on behalf of him and his Mother at their trials, then as atonement, next to keep his sanity and out of boredom, and finally because he struck up a careful but genuine friendship with Harry and Hermione. 

Through the correspondence, he found out that Harry and Ron did not return to Hogwarts, instead opting to enter the Auror training programme. But soon, Ron left to head the Joke Shop built by his brothers, George and Fred. George needed more help in the shop, as Angelina was pregnant and wanted him home more.

Later on, Hermione joined them after taking her NEWTs. She supported Harry behind the scenes, working as liaison to the Department of Mysteries and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Although she was technically an Auror, her official title was Magical intelligence analyst. This allowed her to stay out of the limelight, while working in research to identify and neutralise Dark Magic threats.

Malfoy’s owl soon started giving him glares, carrying several parchments back and forth to Hermione almost daily. 

Hermione noticed, but did not allow herself to dwell on it.

Malfoy found out that Hermione Obliviated her parents and sent them to Australia during the War. She was unable to get their memories back, which broke her heart and she carried heavy guilt because of it. She took the liaison job in the Department of Mysteries to hopefully gain access to ancient texts and learn more Obliviation and obscure memory charms working in the Brain Room.

After his trial and five years of being away from the public eye—some on house arrest, travelling, and Mind Healing, he found himself stepping out of the telephone booth into the Ministry’s Atrium. 

On a random day in 2003, Malfoy showed up at the DMLE, metaphorically hat in hand. His hands held a folder of his NEWT scores, his history and receipts with Mind Healers, and recommendation letters from Professor Slughorn, Headmaster McGonagall, and Minister Shacklebolt. 

The first person he saw was Hermione, stepping out of Harry’s office, dressed in a loose white dress shirt and tight, wool skirt. She tucked a tendril behind her ear and offered him a curious look and tentative smile. Her first words for him were, “You have glasses!”

Malfoy blushed, joking their near-constant correspondence kept him writing by candlelight. 

Thus, began their slow and reticent friendship that blossomed into something more. A lot more. Malfoy should have known he never stood a chance against her. If he were an honest man—and he isn’t—he started falling in love with her during the first year of his house arrest when he would spend much of his time waiting by the window for an owl from Hermione.

Harry took a lot more convincing. He climbed the ranks quickly, whether it was due to his name or bravery or quick reflexes or some combination of the factors, he was on the fast track to become Head Auror. 

Malfoy worked from the ground up, and was put through vigorous testing by the other Aurors who had a vendetta against him, either from his days back at Hogwarts or his part in the War. More often than not, Harry turned a blind eye to the unnecessary force.

Malfoy took his licks and punches. And there were many. He didn’t mind, because that meant he could push back. All those years of tampered down rage and resentment at himself, at his lost years, at his Father, at Voldemort, he could filter into each punch and spell back at the other Aurors training him. 

Malfoy gave as good as he got. Each night, he would head to his flat, bruised but satisfied. One day, the young Aurors took it too far, and ganged up on him in the training grounds. Sending spell after spell in his direction. When his Protego charms proved stronger than they would have liked, they resorted to actual punches and kicks. 

Several Aurors surrounded him. 

He felt his ribs crack. 

A finger bent unnaturally backward from the force of a kick.

Blood filled his mouth. 

“Confringo!”

The ground underneath the Aurors blew up. 

Underneath his swollen eye, he saw the shape of wild hair with Magic sparking from it and her fingertips, loud swearing, and then the low pull of Apparition. Then black.

When Malfoy came to, he was surrounded by the worried faces of Narcissa, Harry, and Hermione at St. Mungo’s.

During his recovery, Hermione refused to let him pull away or hide into self-hatred or shame. She was by his side almost every day. 

While Malfoy refused to press charges, Harry punished the young Aurors severely, demoting them. When Hermione wasn’t around, Harry told Malfoy about what happened—how Hermione nearly demolished the Light and Dark training room and hexed all the Aurors responsible, twisting their limbs, breaking some of their bones, and casting such a powerful Verdimillious charm that it caused burns on over half of the Aurors’ bodies.  

Hermione was unrepentant.  

Without wanting to seem playing favourites, Harry also had to discipline Hermione for overuse of Magical force. She was relegated to desk work. She didn’t care. It suited her just fine. She had more time to spend with Malfoy in the hospital and research in the Brain Room.

At the end of his 6-week stay in the hospital, Harry assigned Malfoy to be his partner, noting the role he played in the Aurors’ violence. Due to Malfoy’s silence on the matter, he received the begrudging respect of most of the Aurors in the Department and for taking his punches without complaint. 

In turn, everyone became afraid of Hermione. She preferred it that way.

They kept their relationship mostly underwraps. Only Harry knew, and by extension, Ron and his family. They arrived and left the DMLE separately. They were afraid that if they disclosed it, they wouldn’t be able to work together anymore. That Malfoy’s judgement would be compromised in the field with her voice in his communication galleon. 

In truth, Harry thought about transferring Hermione and had his hesitations about her being their go-to intelligence analyst, but her research was invaluable to solving a lot of cases. Harry reasoned that it was fine, because she worked remotely in the office, staying out of the cross hairs.

The most recent case involved rounding up the few remaining Death Eaters who evaded capture from the War. In order to survive being on the run, they resorted to selling family heirlooms and Dark Artefacts. The DMLE traced the purchases. Too often, they were too late. 

But this time, they had a lead in Knockturn Alley—an unassuming store clerk, with a vendetta against Dolohov—tipped the Aurors off. The store clerk had a family member killed by Dolohov during the War, 

Hermione took the case personally and insisted on helping out with research when she could. 

Then stupid Potter had to go and get his shoulder blown out. 

The Aurors were closing in on the Death Eaters, finding them hiding out in Three Broomsticks’ basement while they waited for the exchange. They were caught now. Like caged animals, they were extra vicious.

When Hermione recognized Dolohov, she went after him. His sneer told her he knew her too. 

Malfoy covered her, blocking spells and hexes from behind her. 

She followed them into a dark, winding corridor. She stunned one Death Eater. 

It was a dead end. Nowhere else to go. Dolohov looked around the three walls.

Dolohov suddenly Disapparated, appearing behind Malfoy with a loud pop. Before he could turn, Dolohov aimed, a bright purple light appearing at the tip of his wand. 

Hermione rushed at Malfoy and pushed him out of the way, taking the curse, falling and convulsing to the floor. 

“Granger!” Fearing the worst, Malfoy slashed his wand in mid-air, “Avada Kedavra.” 

Dolohov fell dead to the floor. 

Malfoy held a comatose Hermione close to his body, cupping the back of her neck, and kissed her sweaty temple. He turned back to stare at Dolohov’s body and yelled, “Confringo!”

Malfoy felt a cool hand on his shoulder. It was Harry’s. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll see her tomorrow.” 

Ron and Ginny went inside to see Hermione. 

Malfoy came back tomorrow, and every day after that.

Soon, Hermione was well enough to be discharged. 

Harry and Malfoy came to see Hermione whenever visitors were allowed, and stayed as long as they could. It was a routine now. 

Hermione was gaunt and dark undereye circles smeared her pallid complexion. She smiled brightly at both of them when they entered. 

“Harry! Malfoy!” She lifted up her arms. 

Malfoy’s chest felt like it would burst out of his chest.

Harry captured her in a hard hug, but Malfoy kept his distance, staying by the foot of her bed. 

“Oof, did I hurt your arm?”, she asked. Harry’s arm was still in a tight sling, making sure his bones grew back in the proper direction. 

Stupid Witch. Always worried more about others than herself. 

“I’m fine. How are you?” Harry adjusted his glasses clumsily with his left hand. 

“I’ve been better. But apparently, no real lasting damage.” She tapped her brain. “More where that came from.” She struggled to push herself up from the bed, leaning on the headboard. “What are you doing all the way over there, Malfoy?”

“It’s better this way. I don’t want to—” Malfoy looked pained. He fidgeted with his fingers, something Hermione never knew him to do. He was a posh arse, who had etiquette lessons all his life.

“Rubbish. I deserve a hug after—they told me I saved your life?” She winked at him. 

Malfoy nodded in shame, looking down at his brogues. He twisted his finger.

Hermione clicked her tongue. “Don’t be like that. You’re my best friend. Harry will attest that I always save my friends’ lives.” 

“Stop making light of the situation. I should have been faster or more, more—”

Before Malfoy could spiral, Harry asked, “What do you remember, Hermione?” 

“Stop saying my name like that!”, she snapped. “I know my own name. I remember going after the Death Eaters, but everything is blurry after that. When can I go home?”

“Now,” Malfoy said definitively. “I got your stuff. You’ve been discharged.” 

“Good. I miss Grimmauld Place. Believe it or not, I even miss Kreacher’s cooking. The food here is absolutely abysmal.”

“What?” Malfoy jerked his head.

“You don’t live—” Harry trailed off. “Not since …”

Chapter Text

Malfoy was beside himself, trying to keep cool under a simmering pan of rage. He ran an impatient hand through his white-blond hair.

Hermione remembered him, and everyone else, and yet not. Through a series of Pensieve tests and memory charms, Healer Kaneshiro determined she had no memory of the last five years, the entire range of their romantic relationship and then some. She remembered their owls, him starting at the DMLE, and their burgeoning friendship, but it was before he took her to bed and pledged his undying love and loyalty to her. 

In her mind, they were still just friends. 

A flurry of thoughts ran through his head.

Maybe it was better to let her go. 

She deserved to have a better life without being tied to an ex-Death Eater. 

This was a sign. 

After the initial shock wore off that they were indeed an item, Harry showed her pictures he had of them on his phone at his birthday party and dinners—his arms always slung around her, kisses on the cheek, squinty eyes of a couple in love, the way she looked up at him, the way he stared at her—it was undeniable. 

Harry said, “I put you both on paid leave for six months.” He sharply turned to Malfoy. “I know you don’t need the money, okay? But it’s the principle of it. Then we’ll re-evaluate, okay? Take some time. Maybe she’ll regain her memories faster if you keep her in familiar surroundings.” He addressed Hermione directly, “I’ll visit you tomorrow, ‘kay, Hermione? After work.”

She was hesitant, but took Malfoy’s hand as he led them to the Floo. Malfoy’s chest clenched. Her hand felt so different. It was tentative. 

He knew she was scared of him, trying to reconcile her image of him as that scared, bigoted boy who wrote her owls because he had no one else to talk to, and now the mature Auror who stood in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he responded resolutely. 

“I’m sure this isn’t easy for you.” 

He nodded, “But it isn’t about me. We just need to get you better. Maybe some rest will help.” 

They disappeared in a roar of green flames. 

When they arrived in their townhouse, Hermione was entranced. On the mantle and refrigerator were enchanted pictures of them laughing, holding Crookshanks, travelling, and so clearly their entwined lives as a couple. The decor was warm and modern, white, grey, and lush fabrics. A place built together with love. A mixture of their styles, a large library wall overflowing with plants and ancient texts, dark dragonhide furniture, oversized windows and light floors. 

Crookshanks, the menace, came in from gods know where, and meowed insistently at her mistress. 

“Oh, Crooksies! What are you doing here?”, Hermione exclaimed. She paused, then added, “Oh of course, I’m so silly.” She said this to no one in particular.

It was like a punch to Malfoy’s chest.

Lucky bastard.

With one hand lifting up Crookshanks, her other hand slowly trailed over the granite counters and spines of the books. 

Malfoy waited patiently while she explored the house. He waited for years for her. He could wait a little longer. “I’ll have Tallulah make some food.” 

She turned toward Malfoy. “Tallulah is—”

“Our house elf.” 

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

“Don’t worry, she’s paid well, and has her own apartments nearby.” 

Hermione smiled warmly, but her eyes flickered, unsure. “I think maybe I’ll just have some tea and call it a night.”

“Of course,” Malfoy said as gently as he could. 

Unbidden, Tallullah popped in. “Oh missus, you’re back! Tallullah was so worried! Too thin! The hospital must make awful food.” She wore a graphic t-shirt and shorts, and hugged Hermione tightly around the waist. 

“Oh! Thank you, um, Tallullah. I, uh, missed you too.” Hermione didn’t remember her. Tallullah’s wide, watery, blue eyes turned to Malfoy. 

“I’ll make you your favourite,” she said hastily, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrinkly hand, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Could you also make up the guest room?” Malfoy called after her. 

“Yes, sir,” Tallullah said. 

After a quiet dinner of lamb chops and roasted vegetables and potatoes, they retired to the living room. “I’m sure you have lots of questions, but perhaps they could wait until tomorrow, after you’ve had a proper night’s sleep in your own bed.” 

Hermione nodded in agreement. 

They went up the short flight of stairs to the third floor. The entire third floor was the primary bedroom in the townhouse. 

“This is our bedroom?” she asked. Hermione looked at her–Malfoy. He was tall and broad. Lithe and lightly muscled from years in the DMLE. His hair was ruffled and unwashed; he had a slight stubble that darkened his pale skin. His grey-blue eyes were stormy and he avoided looking at her for too long. The dark circles under his eyes and his clenched jaw indicated his true mood.

“Yours,” Malfoy said. “I’ll sleep in the guest.”

“Malfoy, that’s—this is your house.”

“It’s ours. But I’m not—I’ll just be downstairs.”

“But—” Before Hermione could finish her thought, Malfoy made his way down the stairs to the second floor. 

That night, neither of them slept very well. 

The first two months passed in a similarly awkward fashion. Hermione explored the comfortable three-storey London townhouse they shared, not too far from Harry’s. In the mornings, they went on walks and had regular checkups at St. Mungo’s. They ate their meals together. He told her stories of his Auror training; how they re-connected at the DMLE; and details of their courtship. He told her about Australia. How they went every year to visit her parents. Just to watch them from afar. 

They began discussing what she could remember. Their correspondence. How he spent 26-months on house arrest. His Muggle Studies and re-education courses that were all terms of his probation. The Muggle movies and shows he loved. She laughed until she cried when he thought Godzilla was Engorged and broke the Statute of Secrecy. He talked about completing his NEWTs by owl; flying on the Manor grounds until his lungs and legs gave out; and how he helped Narcissa in the gardens with their elves and gutted the Manor. His work with his Mind Healers (and why he had several). His monthly visits to Azkaban to visit his Father. Lucius could hardly recognize Narcissa and Malfoy now with his advanced age and upon being kissed by the Dementors. 

When Malfoy finished, her eyes glistened. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. I wish I could remember. It sounds like we built a very beautiful life together. I can see the man you’ve become.”

“It was you who helped me become this.”

Hermione shook her head, avoiding his eyes. She looked out into their small garden where Malfoy went when he needed to be alone. “You did it yourself, it sounds like. I was just lucky enough to be along for the ride.”

When Malfoy woke up in the morning, his nose told him that Hermione was already awake, making coffee. She always loved to do it the Muggle way. 

Hermione looked up at Malfoy standing in the doorway, staring at her. His hair was deliciously dishevelled, wearing a tight white t-shirt and sleep pants. He arched his dark brow in a question.

“I made coffee.” 

“It smells delicious. That’s what woke me up.” 

“Will you sit?” 

He sat on a stool at their kitchen island, across from her. 

After years together, she made their coffee perfectly. Dark roast. Two spoons of sugar for him. Black for her. 

She slid the cup toward him, along with a milk pitcher and sugar jar. “I don’t know how you take it.”  

Malfoy gave her a cracked smile, and added his own sugar. His eyes lowered. They sipped their coffee in silence. 

Hermione knew she hurt him again without knowing why. 

A few weeks later.

They sat in silence, while Hermione watered the plants and Malfoy sipped his coffee, thumbing through the Prophet after she finished with it. 

“You don’t have to do that, y’know? Tallullah will do it.” 

“I know. But I have an inkling that I liked to do it. I used to fill up Harry’s place with plants too. Drove him crazy. But it made Grimmauld Place less dark. Filled it with some life.” 

Hermione puttered around nervously, unable to stand still. She busied herself with chores. Malfoy knew her tells. 

“What?” 

“What ‘what?’” 

“You want to say something.”

“I—How do you know?” 

“You may not remember, but I know you quite well.”

Hermione blinked at him. It hurt but it was the truth. She waited, then slid a notebook across the counter. “I found this in my nightstand.” She blushed furiously. 

She found the notebook a few nights into living with Malfoy. At night, she explored their bedroom, hand skimming through her clothes, his clothes. Smelling them. She sniffed their toiletries, hoping to job her memory. Malfoy left his scent in the room. It was masculine, warm, and comforting. On their nightstands, she saw more pictures of them and Crookshanks. It did something complicated to her psyche. Her chest constricted at the unexpected hurt she felt. 

How could you mourn something you didn’t remember? 

In the drawers, she found several books, spare parchment and quills, and a notebook. She looked over her shoulder, as if she was about to be caught. But of course not. Malfoy never so much as appeared on the third-floor after she went to bed. 

She had been waiting a couple of weeks to bring this up. It felt wrong to read through it, like she was overstepping. Breaking into a private conversation. 

It was a simple, black, leather-bound notebook. 

When Hermione slid it across the counter, Malfoy knew what it was immediately. 

“At first, I thought it was some sort of diary, but then …” Hermione trailed off. 

His face reddened. “Um, yeah. What do you want to know?”

“Well, clearly, it’s a two-way notebook. There’s my handwriting, and yours I recognize from—” 

“Yes,” he clipped. “We use it to keep in touch if and when I’m put on assignment. Sometimes we spend a week or longer apart.” 

“And we—”

“We write to one another,” Malfoy tried to speak casually.

“Sexually,” Hermione said mechanically. She flipped through the various pages, some included lewd drawings. 

Malfoy almost choked on his coffee, then chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so.” 

“Did you make it?” 

“Actually, you did. Quite advanced Magic. Two-way notebooks are pretty common. You can buy them from Flourish and Blotts. But ours, no one can read the messages except for us, which is useful if one of us gets captured or—Even a Revelio doesn’t work on it. The ink is tied to our Magical signatures. Anyway, I always knew you were an exceptional Witch,” Malfoy explained. 

“Oh.” Hermione pursed her lips, as if trying to figure out whether to continue. “I read through some of it last night.” 

Malfoy felt a twitch in his cock. “Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice even but it came out hoarse. 

“We had a very active—”

He hid his face behind his mug. “Uh, yep.” 

“I guess that makes sense,” she tried to reason, “All those years of pent up … and you’re quite fit.” 

Malfoy couldn’t help but break out into a broad smile. “You’re not too bad yourself.” 

“I, um, well …”, she stuttered. “How long have we been together again?” 

“One thousand, four hundred, and fifty-six days. If you don’t count today.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. Her chest felt like it was going to cave in. Her face must have gave something away.

He shrugged and added quickly, “Give or take. Our anniversary is February 15,” trying to act nonchalant.

“That’s almost—Almost 4 years.”

“We’ve lived together for two.” 

“Well, I guess, I’m just surprised.”

“Surprised?” Malfoy’s face paled at her insinuation. 

Did she not think they would last? 

“With the … ferocity and regularity of our correspondence?” 

“Why is that?” Malfoy visibly loosened and smirked. 

“Because when I was with Ron—”

Malfoy’s face immediately soured, and he stood up. 

“Oh shite, fuck. I’m sorry. By the end of our relationship—I just mean, it wasn’t like that with—never mind. I’m mucking this up,” Hermione bemoaned. 

With his back to her, Malfoy stared into their small garden. Even though it was winter, they had an enchanted greenhouse with plants that bloom year round. Hermione used to keep up with it, and it became a point of conversation with Narcissa. Even after all these years, things between them were tense. But Hermione made an effort. As did his Mother.

For the past couple of months, Malfoy and Tallulah took care of it. 

The tulips were coming in nicely. The strawberries had been plucked off by the bunnies. 

He suspected Hermione grew them specifically for that purpose. 

He closed his eyes and did his breathing exercises, hands folded behind him. 

Hermione waited until he came back. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s fine. I know you didn’t,” he said. 

“Uh, well, I wanted to ask—because you’re so nice and patient—” 

Malfoy almost winced at his words. He wasn’t. He was angry. He was hurt. But it wasn’t her fault. It was his. He should have been faster. More careful. More quick to draw his wand, so that Hermione didn’t have to get hurt again because of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his head. “What is it? Just say it. What?”

Sensing his mood, Hermione picked up the notebook and backed out of the room. “Oh, it’s stupid. It’s nothing. I think it’s a bad idea, anyway.” 

He called after her. “Granger,” but she was already heading up the stairs. 

Crookshanks hissed at him from the china cabinet, jumped down, and followed Hermione up to the bedroom.

Chapter Text

Dinner was silent and awkward. They both moved the food on their plates around. 

“Will you join me in the library?”, she finally asked. 

“Of course,” he said without thinking. He would never deny her anything.

Malfoy made himself a firewhiskey and poured her a glass of dry Cab Sauv. 

“I’m sorry about this morning.”

“I’m the one who should be. I need to be more patient. It’s not your fault that—”

“I should know better than to bring up past lovers—”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. 

Hermione couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “I guess I would feel this way about Pansy.” 

The side of his mouth curled. “I haven’t told you that story yet. Or when you hexed Astoria.” 

Her brown eyes widened, but put her hands up in defeat. “That sounds like me. Did you know I sent a flock of birds at—” Instead of finishing the sentence, she sipped her wine. “I wanted to ask if we could do something to help jog my memory. It’s been more than almost three months and I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere.” 

“Of course.” 

“Are you sure? It might be uncomfortable.”

“You can ask me anything,” he assured her. 

“It’s not exactly a question.” 

“I’m not following.” 

“I want, um, I want to try the stuff in our notebooks.” 

Malfoy choked on his firewhiskey. “WHAT?! NO!” The amber liquid burned his chest and throat. He coughed so loudly that Hermione crossed the room to rub his back. He flinched at her touch. The warm familiarity that felt like home for so long. Now he was afraid of it.  

“No, no, no.” He walked back from her, pacing the length of the library and keeping space between them.

That hurt more than it should. 

“And why not?” Hermione asked in her swottiest voice, a hand on her popped hip. “I’m still your g–girlfriend, am I not? And I’m giving consent.” 

Malfoy grimaced. “No, you’re not."

She slid her hand over her chest, like her insides were twisting into knots.

He massaged his fingers. His nervous tick, she noticed. "I mean, you don’t remember me. And you can’t give consent because y-you can’t! You don’t know me. You don’t know us. I’m not—”

“That’s precisely the point. Perhaps with the heightened emotions and rush of endorphins, it will—”

“Absolutely not.” His hands swiped the air definitively. He needed to disabuse her of this ludicrous suggestion. 

“Why? Don’t you want to?” Her voice increased.

“You’re being ridiculous.” He stomped back to the bar cart to pour in extra fingers of firewhiskey into his tumbler.

“Don’t call me, ‘ridiculous,’ Malfoy. I will hex your bollocks off and leave nothing for Crookshanks to nibble at.”

They both froze, then broke out in peels of laughter, grabbing at their stomachs and wiping their eyes. When they were done, their cheeks were sore and pink. 

Malfoy sat in a recliner, the farthest away from the navy chaise that Hermione was lounging in. He swirled his drink, waiting for her to begin. 

Hermione took out the black notebook again. Without looking at him, she tried to be as matter-of-fact as possible.

She was an adult. She could do this.

“I want to try. From the looks of it, we had ... a very active sex life. So I know it must be difficult that I’m—”

His trousers tightened. 

Merlin, sometimes, his cock was infuriating. 

He squirmed in his seat, slamming down his crystal tumbler on the side table. “That’s besides the point, Granger. My feelings—they’re irrelevant. I would never force—”

“That’s exactly it. They’re not! You’ve been patient, and I know you would never force me. But I’m not. I’m impatient. I want to get better. I look at our pictures. I see how Tallullah and our friends look at me with pity. I see that we were really in love. And I know that it hurts you—my not remembering. It hurts me too.”

After several moments of silence, Malfoy asked carefully, “What do you want?” 

“I want to start slow.” She avoided his stare. Her ears burned. 

“If we do this, know that you can stop anytime. Just say the word.”

“I know,” she breathed, her face flushing already. 

“What parts were you reading now?” 

“The bit about the library. I liked it.” She didn’t tell him that for the past couple of weeks, she read through their past exchanges and touched herself.

Malfoy’s face lit up with a slow smile. Blood rushed to his cock. “Yes, this is your favourite room.”

“Will you come sit beside me?” Hermione unnecessarily shifted to pat the space beside her.

He let out a sharp exhale and finished off his drink. He stopped halfway, standing. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

“I’m sure.” 

“You can tell me to stop. Anytime.” 

Hermione nodded. 

Malfoy sat at the far end of the velvet chaise. The grandfather clock ticked the seconds away. He squeezed his eyes shut before saying, “You’re going to have to take the lead.” He gripped his thighs. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“I know,” she breathed. 

The plush cushion dipped with her weight as she crawled over to him. 

Her warm hands shifted over his thighs, soothing the wrinkles on his trousers. Malfoy stiffened.

“Is this okay?”, she asked. 

He nodded before whispering, breath hot against her throat. “Tell me what you liked about the library.” 

“We talked a-about how you pressed me into the shelves, lifting me up with a sticking charm. I wore my Hogwarts uniform but with your tie. Without any knickers. Then you—” 

“Fuck,” Malfoy hissed. He pressed a palm into the placket of his sleep pants. “I’d devour you. Licking you up and down. Press my nose into your clit. Taking in your scent. Taste how wet you are for me. I don't let you down until I make you come at least twice. Crying out my name.” 

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. But she made up her mind. She gingerly lifted his glasses off his nose and kissed the little purple indents on the sides.

He whimpered. At her light touch, the months without her wracked through his body and he shuddered. 

”Touch yourself,” she ordered.

Malfoy squinted, pausing his hands above the tie of his bottoms. “Tell me to stop, okay?” he reminded her. 

She nodded. “I want to see you.”

Watching her face for any hint of hesitation, he slowly took out his fast-hardening erection through his fly. His cock was perfect. Pink, above average in length, and thick. Slightly darker and pinker than the pale skin of his body. A bead of moisture ran down the reddened tip. It slanted slightly to the left. A large vein extended through the length of his cock. He spread precum over the head to ease his strokes. 

Her eyes roamed over the hard planes of his stomach to the curl of his wiry blond hairs, his hips, and finally down to his twitching cock. She suddenly felt ravenous for him. As if her body knew something she didn’t. She swallowed down the saliva that gathered in her mouth.  “I liked to read the part when you wrote about how you prepared me to take you.” 

“Yeah?” His voice was raspy and low, “Tell me.” 

Hermione squirmed, feeling the wetness that gathered in her knickers. “That a-after you made me come from your tongue, you would slip your thick fingers inside me. Sometimes one. Sometimes two if you wanted to stretch me. Curling them inside. Pushing and pulling. You know just how to touch me. To make me come. To make me drip down your hand.”

“Y-yeah?” He stroked his cock a little faster, groaning lowly. He let out a litany of curses.“You’re always so tight for me. I like watching you take me. How you stretch around my cock. I've never—I fucking love—I can't take it. You make me come so hard.”

“Scooch against the back,” she ordered.

Malfoy huffed but did as he was told, pressing his spine to the curved back of the navy chaise. In a flutter of manoeuvring limbs and hurried breaths, he found himself face-to-face with Hermione straddling his lap and her arms resting on his shoulders. His hips unwittingly pressed up into her, recognizing her warmth and weight. She exhaled sharply.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Shh,” she said. “It’s okay.” They stared at each other. 

For Malfoy, it felt like years since he’d seen her up close. She was here and she wasn’t. Her big, brown eyes were scared but determined. He knew her freckles by heart. The three across her nose. The innumerable ones across her cheeks that disappeared when she blushed. Her plump wine-coloured lips. The soft curls that fell across their face. 

Hermione stared at the unfamiliar man in front of her. Although she couldn’t remember him as her boyfriend, she knew Malfoy. She always found him handsome, much to the chagrin of her schoolyard self. He was taller than she remembered. His blond hair, no longer slicked back as in his youth, tumbled across his forehead. His grey eyes studied her with a kind of love and reverence that she wished she could place. She knew she liked him. Almost romantically, but she wasn’t sure if it was remnants of their life together or because they lived in proximity together and he was kind and sexy, and she was horny and lonely. His years as an Auror strengthened and hardened his body. She remembered feeling something during their years of correspondence, but never thought it would amount to anything more than a distant friendship. He was still a Malfoy and she was still a Muggleborn. 

Her arms wrapped around him, playing with his hair on the nape of his neck. It was softer than she expected. Her hands ran everywhere, along his shoulders and down his biceps. 

Malfoy closed his eyes, relishing in the sensation, and gripped her lower back, skimming her backside. “Mmm.” His thighs flexed up toward her. She shifted down to feel his muscles between her thighs. The heat from her cunt made him mad. He wanted to slam into her. Rut her. Bury him inside so she could never dig him out again. Fuck her until she was insensate and remembered everything between them.

Hermione leaned forward, experimentally drawing her nose along his, up and down the sharp contours of his face. He smelled just like in their bedroom, warm and masculine with notes of leather. It felt so familiar. Like her mind's tendrils was reaching for something just out of her grasp. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she breathed. 

Instead of kissing her mouth, Malfoy reached for her cheeks first. Her eyes flickered, studying him like he was an Arithmancy equation. His pale skin glowed under the yellow light of the torches in the library. 

He pushed closer, but his movements were slow. Tentative. Making sure she had enough time to pull away. One light kiss on each side, then her forehead, her nose, and finally, the side of each lip. Each touch was featherlight, slow, and chaste. By the time he reached her mouth, she was desperate for his touch. 

“Can I kiss you—”, he began again.

Before he could finish the question, Hermione pushed her mouth hard onto his. Malfoy’s eyes widened, then quickly shut as he relished the salty taste of her. Her tongue tasted like cherry wine. 

They slid their mouths against one another, her body remembering what her mind forgot. His hand moved up to cup her cheeks. It was a gentle move, different from what she read in the notebook. She pulled back for a second, meeting his silvery gaze. 

Malfoy waited, expecting her to say no or scramble away. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Her heart ached at something unknown, clenching like it was trying to hold onto a cloud. Or a ghost.

There was no hesitation this time. She leaned into the coolness of his palms, the chill of the metal of his rings, and the contrasting hotness of his mouth. Hermione dragged her tongue across the seam of his lips, asking for permission. She could feel him smile, as he opened for her. She tasted the firewhiskey when he slowly slipped his tongue over her teeth and moaned softly, sending a white-hot quiver through her hips and up her spine. 

Hermione wasn’t a virgin—not super experienced by any means—but with enough tries under her belt. She’d been in a long-term relationship with Ron, spent a sweet night with Neville before she and Ron defined anything, and had a few untempered romps with Viktor when he visited after the war. She had a weeklong fling with a young man while in Australia, trying to get her parents’ memories back, and a few one-night stands with Cormac and Muggles after her breakup with Ron. She remembered a fleeting thought of how the colour of Cormac’s hair (if only his hair were straight) and smirk reminded her of a certain blond Wizard with whom she was corresponding. She wondered why her mind chose to pull up this memory. 

But this unfamiliar feeling of being so comfortable—she wondered why it felt so different with Malfoy. 

“Hey, come back to me.” Malfoy pressed his forehead into her, speaking against her lips, puffs of warm air ghosted her skin. She wanted to wrap herself in him.  

And she did. She returned to him, kissing him with renewed fervour. All hesitation disappeared. Her kiss was forceful and filled with heat, overwhelming in the best way. 

He continued to cup her cheek gently, with the other hand crawling back to the nape of her neck, massaging it slowly and gathering her unruly hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling slightly to expose her neck. Malfoy surrounded her, over, under, all around her. His body sent out waves of heat that contrasted with the coolness of his hands. He smelled like leather and soap. He was addictive. She could do this for hours. 

A chill spread gooseflesh across her chest, and he pulled her tighter against him. He was hard his cock straining to be inside her.

Her legs opened wider and she rolled her hips to get closer to him. She rucked up the fabric of her nightdress around her waist and pressed down, his leaking cock ruining the gusset of her knickers. Underneath her lashes, she saw him grit his teeth. 

“Tell me to stop. Fuck. Granger, tell me to stop.” 

Hermione shook her head. “No.”

Her hands dipped between their crushed bodies. “Okay?” 

“Y-yeah.” 

Malfoy helped her along by lifting his bum slightly, the band of his pants now down by his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut as she took him in her hand, stroking his hard length. It was pink, thick, and long. Perfect for her. Her thumb flicked over the head of his cock, and he twitched. She somehow knew what to do. How he liked to be touched. She licked her hand and used it as lubrication to slide his skin up and down over his head. Her thumb lightly flicked under the thin skin underneath.

Malfoy stared at her in wonder with comically wide eyes. 

While his adoring look turned Hermione on, she also wondered where she got the audacity. How she was so bold in handling him. 

She mumbled, “You wrote you like to fuck me hard. Against the shelves. Until I scream. And the books topple over.” 

He sounded strained. “Fuck. That’s right. I want you dripping on all the books here.” His words made her spine tingle and cunt clench rhythmically. 

Their lips moved in sync, dipping and sweeping along each other’s divots and bumps. His fingers were tight in her hair, wrapping it around his fist, and exposing her neck. He nibbled and licked up her column before kissing his way from her jaw to her mouth again. His free hand slipped between her thighs, and she was about to lose her mind at the sensation. 

Of course, he knew how to touch her. Knew how sensitive the inside of her right thigh was. 

Hermione was breathless and burning up. Arousal zipped up and down through her. She moved her hips in a forgotten rhythm, undulating against the underside of his cock, while stroking him with clumsy hands. 

“Fuuuuck,” he groaned. His head dipped back to rest against the curved back of the chaise. His hand snaked underneath her slip of her dress to touch the slick skin of her back. He pulled her hips down hard on him several times, separated by the damp fabric of her knickers. His other hand peeled her dress strap down, exposing her breasts to the night air. He cupped and played with her breasts. He rolled her nipples between his elegant fingers until she arched into his touch, strung tight like a bow.

She loved it. She wanted to drown in this feeling. She rolled her hips harder and harder down on him, chasing her pleasure and his. “Ahhh, Malfoy, I—”

Malfoy suddenly pulled back, as if struck by a Petrificus Totalus. His hands froze.

“What? What is it?” 

“Nothing. I—This is a bad idea. You used to—I don’t—I just can’t.” He ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair.

Hermione leaned forward, her left hand still gripping his cock that was softening. Her brows crumpled together, while she watched him gently move her hand away, remove her from his lap, and tuck himself back into his pants. 

She pulled back, slipping onto her side of the chaise. Her face burned furiously. She couldn’t help but take this as rejection. “Am I–am I not the same?”, she asked weakly. 

Malfoy’s face pinched. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Then why—”

“I’m tired, Granger. I’m gonna go. I’m sorry. This was just a bad idea all around. I shouldn’t have allowed this to get as far as it did. It’s not right. You don’t remember–you don’t know me. A-and it’s just not okay.” He wrung his hands until they were white, twisting his fingers.

She watched him adjust himself with his back to her, before slightly limping back to his room. 

Hermione shed a few tears in the library and finished an extra glass (or two) of wine before getting up the courage to knock on the guest room. A low, simmering anger shook her body.

How dare he? She was not a little girl that needed coddling. She gave explicit, enthusiastic consent. Who was he to say what she could and couldn’t do? 

She practised her lines a few more times before lifting her hand at the door. 

Malfoy opened it before she had a chance to knock. He’d changed into a different pair of pyjamas. His hair was ruffled, and his lips frustratingly bruised and kissable. He had a rosy tint to his cheeks. 

“You’ve been outside for a couple of minutes now.” His voice was flat.

“How did you—”

“The shadow underneath the door. That and your footsteps are about as subtle as a hippogriff’s.” 

“Excuse me?!” She crossed her arms. 

“Say what you’ve come to say, Granger. I am really tired. Yell at me. Stomp your feet. Just get it over with.” Suddenly, Malfoy’s face was drawn and sad. It reminded her of Sixth-Year. It seemed like she was the only person who noticed how thin and serious he’d gotten. 

She scoffed, blowing out raspberries through her lips. “Why’d you stop? Did I do something wrong?” 

“No,” he clipped, avoiding her eyes. Frustration and Magic hung over her. 

“Did I not—Was I not the same?”

“Merlin! Just stop it, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong. It was good. Great, even. I just can’t—”

“Why not?”, Hermione demanded. “I felt when we were doing that, I–I think my body remembered and it felt comfortable, like I’d known you for years. Didn’t it feel like that for you?” 

Malfoy’s grey eyes studied her, then he nodded.

“Then why—”

“Salazar’s ball sac! Would you just stop?! With the way you’ve lectured the Department of Magical Education on the need for sex ed on the Hogwarts curriculum, you would think that no means no to you. I said no. It should be enough for you.” 

“Oh.” She was dumbfounded, her ears burning red in embarrassment. She looked at her feet in shame. “Of course.”

Hermione wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Of course it was enough. She used her righteous anger and her sexual frustration to take it out on a Wizard who said stop. She didn’t even consider his feelings. 

She almost ran up the stairs to her room.

“Granger—”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.” She fled, hands covering her face. She heard her footsteps. 

Gods! They really were stompy! 

Hermione was mortified.

He called after her, pleading. “Granger, stop.” 

She froze at the top of the landing on the third floor. 

Malfoy rubbed his face vigorously before speaking. His voice was muffled through his fingers. “You–you always called me Draco when we—And you didn’t tonight. And I–I don’t know. You just—you used to call me Draco.”

They stared at each other for a beat. 

For the first time in a long while, Hermione got a sense of the Wizard who loved her. The pain of seeing the ghost of his girlfriend in front of him. The fear that she would never remember him. The sadness of loving someone who wasn’t there anymore.

Chapter Text

The following months saw Malfoy and Hermione going into St. Mungo’s every week to the Janus Thickey ward, where patients sought treatment for spell damage. Neither of them spoke of what almost transpired between them, carefully avoiding topics except that of her treatment and when they might visit their friends. 

Despite the awkwardness around one another, Malfoy accompanied her to every appointment. She saw his clear discomfort, often fiddling with his fingers.

“Has there been any progress?” Healer Kaneshiro asked. 

“Not much,” Hermione admitted. “We’ve talked about my memories. We’ve looked at old photos. I’ve even—”

“Yes?” Kaneshiro and Malfoy both looked at her.

Hermione blushed. “I’ve even read my old journals. Everything seems intact except for the last five years or so I’ve been told. It’s been frustrating, to say the least.” 

The slightest tinge of pink reached Malfoy’s ears. 

“Hm,” her Healer tapped her clipboard with her long, pale pink nails. “I’d like to try something, if you don’t mind, before we try more extreme methods like Pensieve layering. Those results can be unpredictable.”

Healer Kaneshiro suggested that Hermione invite the people nearest to her for something like a therapy session the next week. Her guests were asked to bring a couple of items or stories that reminded them most of Hermione, with the caveat being that they needed to be from recent years. 

When Harry, Ron, and Ginny arrived, they were taken to a small, neutral-coloured room with comfortable seating arranged in a circle. Harry brought her Auror badge and research notebooks. Ron brought an old rackety sweater of his and Hogwarts: A History, her favourite book that she left at the Burrow.

“Do we all know why we’re here today?” Kaneshiro asked. 

Everyone nodded. 

“Good,” the Healer went out to recite what they all knew, “Hermione was hit by a powerful spell, seemingly a Obliviate x Confundus, whose purpose was to wipe the afflicted individual’s memory and confuse them, so anything they said would be nonsensical. This makes any testimonies that they make for the Wizengamot unreliable. We’ve tried most reversal memory charms, but we’ve had limited success. We have to be careful with how many we cast on a person, so we’ve only done two so far. The patient—”

“Hermione,” Ron corrected. 

Kaneshiro sent Ron an apologetic look. “If we have the incantation, we can try researching rarer, more powerful memory spells and/or potions. Bring in Wixen neurospecialists from America and Japan who study complementary Magic-Muggle medicine. I remember you saying money is not—”

“It’s no object,” Malfoy said quickly. 

“Do you remember the incantation? If we have that, we could possibly reverse engineer a more specific spell. Magic always leaves a trace.” 

Malfoy shook their heads. “It was wordless.”

“And the prisoner?” 

“Dead,” Malfoy clipped. His eyes were resolute and slate. “I should have—”

Hermione reached over, squeezing his hand. She may not know him as her partner, but she knew him as a good man and that he cared for her deeply. That much was obvious. 

Malfoy stared at their hands clasped together, silent for the rest of the session. 

Ron asked, “Why do you think Hermione has trouble remembering things from the last five years?” 

“That’s difficult to say. It may have to do with the wordless incantation. It is possible that Antonin Dolohov meant for the spell to have a greater effect—to permanently incapacitate Hermione. But the non-verbal aspect may have dampened its potency.”

“Everything happened so fast. He probably didn’t have time. I guess, be thankful for small miracles?” Hermione tried to add some levity to the situation.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. She only squeezed his hand harder. 

This time, he squeezed back. 

"What happened leading up to the case?" 

"Not much. We took a few weeks off," Malfoy said, looking down at his hands.

Harry added, "They separately filed the papers for a short sabbatical, y'know, to keep their relationship on the down low."

Everyone winced.

"Don't use that word, Potter."

Harry ignored him. "It was the first case they took on after they came back from Italy."

“What are our options?” Hermione pushed.

“I’ve been in consultation with several Healers. I’ve checked over Hermione myself. She is in good health for the most part. There are some options. One is an experimental procedure called Pensieve layering. It’s when we use Pensieves from family members and loved ones that contain cogent missing memories and insert it into the patient’s minds. It bears some resemblance to the Muggle surgery of skin grafting. It is experimental, and like I said, because of its newness, it’s not approved by the Magical Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency. It will have to be out of pock—”

“Money is no object,” Malfoy said again. 

“Malfoy—” 

Malfoy’s head jerked toward Hermione, whose large eyes looked at him imploringly. He slumped back into his seat.

“The procedure has not been performed very often, and the results are often unpredictable due to the intricate and complex nature of the brain. While the procedure has the potential to reinstate some memories and then for the patient’s own brain to fill in the blanks, by forging new connections with disused and/or new neurons and pathways, it is risky. The pat—Hermione could end up absorbing some of the Pensieve as her own memories. It can be very discombobulating for her. The memories may be rejected, causing permanent Confundity; or there is the possibility of destroying neuronal pathways or cranial nerve damage, or worse.” Kaneshiro hesitated, “There have been instances where patients fall into a permanent catatonic state, lost in the memories.”

“We’re not doing it,” Malfoy responded. “No, no. I’d rather her never rem—”

Hermione squeezed his hand tightly again.

Harry pulled out Hermione’s notebooks. “You were working on something in the Brain Room. A potion in conjunction with—” 

“I was?” Hermione tilted her head, as Harry handed over her research notebook to her. She flipped quickly through the pages. “It’s so strange to see my handwriting and not have any recollection of this. I was probably doing research for my parents.” She spoke out loud more for herself than anyone.

Malfoy said, “It was theoretical. You hadn’t tested it out yet..” 

“May I see that?” Kaneshiro held out her hand. Her hands sped read through pages and pages of notes. After several long minutes,  “Interesting. Very interesting. The theory is sound.”

“The theory,” Malfoy snarled, “What are the other options?” 

“Noninvasive brain stimulation.”

“No.”

“Some off-label uses of Muggle psychiatric medicine—”

“No.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione admonished. 

“You’re not going to risk your mental wellbeing, just because I was too slow to block Dolohov’s curse.” 

Hermione said, “I’m going to hear them out. This is my decision. If you please—”. She turned back toward Kaneshiro. “Please continue.”

“There’s always time,” the Healer said softly.

Both Ron and Malfoy scoffed. 

“You’re only into your fifth month of recovery. Has anything been coming back to you? Being back in familiar surroundings?”

A slow blush crawled across Hermione’s cheeks. She played with the ends of her sleeves. “A little. There was some muscle memory and afterward, I felt a sense of familiarity and calm that I hadn’t felt in a while. The memories, at least, I think that’s what they were, felt like ghostly images in my head. I could almost reach out and touch them, but they disappeared like smoke when I tried to concentrate and get a clearer sense of them.”

“Oh?” Healer Kaneshiro tilted her head. 

“Brilliant!” Ron smacked his knee. “We gotta do more of that. What happened?”

“Um, well …” 

“Out with it. C’mon,” Harry said. 

“I’d really rather not.” She plucked at a very interesting loose thread on her jumper.

Ginny, always more perceptive than her brother and husband, said, “If Hermione says it’s private, then we should respect her wishes.” 

Ron yelled, “If there’s something that can help you, I say sod it all. Just say it.” 

Hermione huffed, mumbling to herself while looking up at the ceiling. She said the words in a rush. “Malfoy and I were trying to reenact some things I wrote in my diary.”

“What things?” Ron asked, always adorably obtuse.

“Salazar’s ball sack, do you need everything spelled out for you?” Malfoy almost jumped out of his chair, his intimidation overt, but was ruined by his flushed ears and cheeks. 

Hermione stammered, “A-apparently, we used to communicate through a two-way notebook when Malfoy goes on assignment.” She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Sexually,” quite uselessly.

Harry’s eyes widened, his glasses fogging up. Ginny snorted. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Ron’s mouth twisted, grabbing his stomach dramatically.

Kaneshiro added, “Will you let me send these notes to the neurospecialists? See if they can—"

"Absolutely not! They're private!" Malfoy swiped his hands in the air.

"I mean, her research notes."

"Oh. Well—"

Hermione quickly nodded, grateful for the change in subject. 

“In the meantime, as little stress as possible. Keep memory notebooks. If anything comes to you, write it down, in as much detail as possible, as well as the circumstances. If you all could surround her with things and events that remind her of five years ago, that might help regain some of her memories. Photo albums, newspaper clippings …” Kaneshiro levied an empathetic stare at Malfoy, “notebooks.” 

“What’s so special about five years ago?” Ron asked. 

“Mm, I was hoping you could tell me. The pivot, as we call it, is typically a highly emotional time for the individual. We might call it ‘trauma,’ but it can be a time of extreme happiness or sorrow or both. Adrenaline rushes through the body and the memory is imprinted into the amygdala, which is part of the limbic system. The amygdala holds the emotional significance of the event, including the intensity and impulse of emotion. The strength of the spell may have sought that out, because it was also the most active part during the process of chasing down the Death Eaters. But it’s what the mind has recognized as a turning point of sorts.”

Ron’s jaw dropped open. “Blimey. I only know about half of those words.”

Hermione smiled reassuringly at Ron and mouthed, “Me too.”

Harry clicked his tongue. “Malfoy came to work in the DMLE about 5 years ago.” 

Hermione stayed behind to talk with Healer Kaneshiro one-on-one. 

When she stepped out of her office, she found Harry, Ron, and Malfoy having a heated discussion. Ginny left earlier to cover a breaking story. One of the chasers in Appleby Arrows was thrown off his broom by an enchanted, wayward bludger, breaking several bones. There were accusations that the Chudley Cannons arranged this.

“It’s gotta be some irony. The person who knows the most about Pensieve grafting besides the Healers is the one who got her memory wiped,” Harry muttered.

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, to be honest. She remembers enough. She remembers us,” Ron added. 

“That’s—what about Malfoy?” Harry asked.

Ron sniffed, “What about him? What about Hermione?”

“No, he’s right. The most important thing is Granger,” Malfoy agreed.

Harry shook his head. “What—so you don’t want her to get her memories back? What about you two?” 

Malfoy pressed his lips together. He shrugged, “Not if there’s a risk to her health.” 

“See? He doesn’t care,” Ron said.

“What if she doesn’t remember?” Harry implored. Being in the field with Malfoy for the last few years, their relationship had shifted from one of begrudging acceptance to almost friendship.

“Then I have to accept that. Maybe it’s for the—” 

Hermione stomped toward the trio. “Excuse you? Why are you all three discussing my health as if you have any right to make decisions on my behalf? None of you are my medical proxies."

Malfoy's jaw twitched.

"You will not talk about me as if I have no agency or the wherewithal to make my own decisions.” She crossed her arms and levied a cutting glare at Malfoy, “Everything I choose to do will be because of my wishes, not yours.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the lift. “We have to talk.”

Chapter Text

When Malfoy and Hermione Floo’d into their townhome, she was silent. Malfoy learned that was when she was the scariest.

“Sit,” she ordered.

He sat.

In a move that perplexed him, Hermione began fixing a tea service. With her back toward him, “So that was a lot today.”

“It was.”

“What do you think?”

“About?”

“All of it.”

“Like I said to Healer Kaneshiro, money is no object.”

“Malfoy, you don’t need to do that. I really appreciate it. I may be your— but I don’t need to be your responsibility, especially when I’m like this.”

Malfoy’s eyes squinted, almost as if pained, squeezing his hands until they turned ghostly white again. His tell, she noticed. He walked out of the room without another word.

Malfoy knocked softly on Hermione’s bedroom door. Their—her TV was on, so he knew she was awake.

Her eyes were red-rimmed when she opened the door. She was dressed in a simple, black nightgown.

“Have you been crying?”

“Allergies.”

“Liar. Can I come in?”

Hermione opened the bedroom door a little wider. Their large bed was scattered with opened notebooks. “I’ve read through all my journals. You’re in so much of it. It’s almost … embarrassing. But I don’t remember. I hate it. I hate it so much.” She sat on the edge of the mattress, picking up and dropping the journals.

“I know,” Malfoy didn’t know what else to say. He stood in front of her, almost intimidating. Hermione needed to crane her neck to look at him. He tentatively took her hand in his, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I also noticed something. There was nothing new in the last month leading up to Dolohov’s capture. I wrote in my notebooks almost daily.” Hermione watched him, as his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know anything about it?”

Malfoy shrugged, looking tired.

“Look, I don’t know what else to do. I’m exhausted. You’re hurting. Obviously, it’s not helping either of us my being here. It’s been months. I think I should go to Grimmauld Place for a while. Maybe a change of location will help—” She gestured to the walk-in closet with a couple of bags already packed.

He stiffened, his head whipping between her and the bags.

Something in him cracked. He loomed over her, leaning forward to cup her chin under his fingers. They crawled back into her curls and pushed her jaw out toward him.

Hermione matched his eye contact, following his gaze as they roamed over her face. Her eyes. Along her nose. Criss crossing her cheeks. And finally, landing on her quivering lower lip. His expression was harsh, his brows crumpled as he contemplated her. Her breath caught as she felt him massage the nape of her neck.

His voice was low. “Don’t go. Please.” She could feel the breath from every word against her lips.

She let out almost an animalistic cry and pushed her lips onto his. Every sensation was new. And not. Like she’d done it a thousand times. He tasted like mint toothpaste and something distinctly him.

He opened his mouth to her, as she peppered awkward kisses along his jaw and cheeks. “Are you sure—”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his shoulders, trying to pull him down to the bed. “Y–yes, yes.”

Malfoy pulled away for a second. She followed him up, but relaxed when she saw that he was just placing his glasses on the night stand. His hands curled into her hair and he took control. He sat down onto the bed and rolled her onto his lap. The warmth from her centre hardened him quickly.

Hermione rested her arms on his shoulders, while her hands skimmed his scalp and she twisted her fingers in his soft, white-blond hair. She deepened the kiss, the tip of her tongue flicking out against the corner of his lip, as she lightly scratched his head.

He whimpered into her mouth, “You used to … do that,” almost breathless. The way he said it.

Soft.

Sad.

Vulnerable.

He kissed her like he was starving. Greedy, hard kisses. Like she slaked his thirst. Full of longing and devotion. His hands roamed everywhere. He was starved for her. The plush give of her skin. Her scent of laundry and lactonic cream. One hand stayed in her hair, pulling tightly, exposing her neck to him, so his nose could trace up and down the thin skin there, dropping little kisses on her column and along her clavicle. The other climbed down her back and toward the hem of her nightgown. He paused there, squeezing her round thigh so tightly that her flesh sprang up enticingly against his palm.

She paused her ministrations and looked at him quizzically. It took her longer than usual to catch up, with her being out of breath and Malfoy’s lips still on the dip of her throat. She found his hand hovering over her thigh.

He was waiting. Asking. Giving her another out. An out she didn’t want.

In response, Hermione pushed her chest into him and bracketed her knees around Malfoy’s hips, pressing into the mattress for leverage and lifting up ever so slightly. She rucked up the skirt of her nightgown and sat back down onto his thighs.

The force with which she lowered herself onto him pushed against his hardened length. He bucked up unconsciously, as if trying to lodge himself into her—his sorely missed familiarity and warmth that he had come to known as home. He fell back onto the bed with an oof, using his elbows to sustain him.

Hermione ground against his trousers. He took this as permission and he slid a hand along the hem of her nightgown before slowly slipping under her clothing and pressing into the small of her back. He held her against his stomach, so she could lean down and kiss all along his face. Her lips were still tentative. Exploratory. Curious.

He brushed his mouth against hers, kissing her slowly in tandem with squeezing her hips. Each squeeze made her eyes roll back. She wanted more. Her hips moved harder against him, trapping his cock in between heaven and the hell that were his trousers. He nipped her softly in admonishment, and she let out a sharp exhale.

When her mouth opened, Malfoy slipped his tongue in to slide against hers. She dissolved into a pool of shimmering liquid lust, the gelatinous pull in her lower belly growing.

She fumbled almost blindly with the zip of his trousers and his belt. She needed to feel his skin on hers. He leaned back against his elbows to watch her lift up over him and wrangle his aching cock out.

A bead of precum moistened the head. Her shaking hand spread it across the tip and traced down the thick vein with her thumb.

He groaned, long and low, but stilled her wrist. He lifted her hand from him. “You don’t—”

Her eyes flitted left and right. “It’s not that. I just want to be good. Good for you. The same.”

The words touched him. Filled in the cracks he’d ignored for the last few months. The guilt. The shame. The sense of not feeling enough. Like he failed her again.

His hands grasped at her waist, turning them so that she was on her back. A few notebooks dropped to the floor. “I’ll take care of you.”

Malfoy slid his hands up her thighs, ruching the fabric up. Hermione’s head fell back, as she felt him hook the sides of her knickers and pull them down her legs slowly.

He had to make her understand. That no matter what. No matter what form. Whatever iteration. He would always take care of her.

The knickers pooled around her ankles, and he pressed down on the inside of a knee to open her up.

She impatiently kicked away the remnant of the fabric. He disposed of his shirt.

He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of each knee, working his way up her goose fleshed thighs, stroking and kissing along the way and murmuring quiet words of ‘good,’ ‘soft,’ and ‘love.’ His mouth hovered over her trembling entrance and waited, looking up at her to see if there were any kinds of hesitation.

Her face turned against the pillows, and she gripped the pillows tightly.

So he lifted the skirt of her gown, ducked in, and kissed her firmly on the cunt.

“Oh!” Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

She tasted like he remembered. Tart. Sometimes briny. Enhanced by something purely her. He parted her folds to look at her. Inside, she was rosebud red, wet, and hot. A piece of art. His.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

When he stuck his tongue inside, he was reminded of what it was like to lose himself between her thighs, licking and sucking and breathing her in. He spent hours on his knees for her. And he would again.

He curled a limp leg over the crux of his elbow to give himself more access. Her lower lips make a lewd, sticky sound, as she opened up for him.

Malfoy continued to kiss her cunt, tracing up and down her lower lips. He added a thick finger and twisted around, up, and pulled down.

She shivered and let out a lusty gasp caught in her throat. Her head jerked up, and he recognized her flushed skin that spread across her neck down to her chest.

He slid in another finger, making hard circles inside of her. He watched how her lips parted to take him, and it made him rut into the side of the mattress. She clenched hot and tight around his finger. He needed to focus. He needed to make her come.

He rolled her bud around his tongue, as he slurped and sucked, and his finger dragged against her walls. He concentrated on each moan. Each hitch of breath. Each pulse. When it worked, he focused on keeping the same angle and rhythm.

She pushed herself up to watch him.

Malfoy pressed her back down, dragging the front of her nightgown down, so her small breasts spilled out. The strap fell off her shoulder, making her look beautifully debauched. Ruined. Like she did to him.

Her nipples darkened and pebbled. He loved how they tasted in his mouth. Salty and like her perfect, freckled skin. He reached up to squeeze a breast, while she played with the other one.

He was painfully hard.

She bucked up into his mouth and gripped his hair, keeping him there. “Fuck, oh, I–I’m—Ahhh.” Her head fell back, mouth open, and she let out a silent scream.

Malfoy felt her convulse around and against him and a rush of liquid on his fingers. He smiled into her cunt and slurped each drop, trying to prolong her orgasm.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Hermione rambled and shook, basking in the aftershocks.

He gave her cunt one, two, three, fourth more soft kisses, promising to return, while she was still milking his fingers.

Lifting himself on his knees, he looked half-crazed, grey pupils blown open, chin glistening, and a looming cock. He needed her. She had been here, but not for months now. They barely touched, when he was used to having her almost daily. He needed her now. He needed to be surrounded by her. To feel her skin. Her body. Her thick thighs wrapped tightly around him—thighs that simultaneously always made him feel safe and his cock hard. He needed to be inside her. Deep. Buried to the root.

Without preamble, he lined himself up at her entrance. She felt his length: blunt, thick, and heavy. While still shaking, she widened her legs slightly to accommodate him between her legs. Her eyes, glassy with pleasure, locked onto his. She gave a final nod.

Malfoy wrapped one arm around her, dragging her hips up and onto his cock. He kissed her fiercely, swallowing her moan as he entered her.

“Fuck, Granger. You’re still coming?”

Her walls were tight and throbbed slowly and heavily around him. It was unbearable. It had been too long. He knew he couldn’t last. Her cunt suffocated him. Her hair all over his face, chest, and back. Her skin smelled of coconut and musk.

He wrapped both hands around her waist, pushing her onto him, while he fucked up into her, working her body over his cock. It was rough. He should be gentler. But he couldn’t stop.

Her legs flailed over his knees and she shed pretty tears, wrapping her arms around him. She cradled his face and whispered in his ear, “I read about this. What you do to me. What you say. I touch myself to it. I want it back.”

He groaned against her neck, and he fell over her on the bed, folding her legs up to her chest, driving deep into her.

So fucking tight. Deeper than he’d been.

His hips snapped against hers, and she rocked against him in stuttering but tempting undulations. He could watch her for hours like that.

"Fuuuck," he hissed, feeling almost deep enough. Never deep enough. He needed to be embedded underneath her skin. He breathed hot against her cheek, and she shifted up to match his thrusts. To clip her bundle of nerves against him. Crushing their pelvises together.

He looked down and could only see a tangle of dark curls and a sheen of sweat along their folding skin. He couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. He wanted to lick the salty moisture off of her.

Her fingers scratched down his back, then floated up to massage his biceps.

It was pleasure and pain. And so, so good.

“You’re perfect. Fuck,” he gritted out as he sunk into her again.

The angle of his thrusts and the closeness of their bodies built her up quickly again. Each thrust sent electric shocks of pleasure through her. Her movements became harsher and more desperate. More wanton.

She let out needy little whines. Her lips fell apart, as she panted. Her cheeks were a beautiful, rosy pink.

Like the inside of her cunt, he thought.

Her orgasm punched through her, starting in her tightened calves, stretching across her stomach and lower back, and blossoming out and down to near-painful throbs of her sodden walls. She cried out, clinging to him. Brilliant, white spots dotted her vision. Her cunt convulsed around him in wet, filthy, suckling pulses.

He pulled back and thrusted into her with fervour. He wanted to fuck her through it. Making the pleasure last as long as possible. He looked all over and didn’t know where to focus. Her bouncing tits. The softness of her stomach that bulged just slightly when he plunged in. Watching how he filled her. The creamy slick glistening off his cock. How she stretched around him. He did it again. And again. And again. He bit his lower lip to hold out as long as he could. Until—

Until Hermione, with one hand on her temple, and another reached down to form a small ‘V’ with her index and middle finger at her entrance. She tightened and squeezed around him. He wasn’t sure what it was. The pressure of her cunt. The sensations of her fingers. The sticky sounds of their fucking. The leaky wetness between their thighs. It consumed him. He crashed into her, latching onto her neck and flexing his hips, leaving no space between them. His sweaty chest pressed against hers, almost forming a suction. He let out a long, husky moan and poured everything he had into her. His love. His devotion.

Warmth flooded through Hermione. “Oh god, oh my god,” she repeated. She wanted to say more.

The world turned upside down. A crackling sound cut through the air. But Malfoy seemed unfazed. He was still muttering beautiful obscenities behind her ear. She must have imagined it. She absentmindedly twirled strands of his hair in her fingers and raked through his scalp, willing her vision to stop spinning.

When he caught his breath, he grabbed his cock and pulled out slightly. She whimpered at the loss of his heat. He dragged his wet cock through her folds, drawing circles around her clit and tapping on her mound. Obscene slapping sounds. It was a display of possessiveness. Then he slipped back inside her, offering her a few more thrusts.

Come back to me. Stay. Don’t leave.

Malfoy took her in.

She was beautiful, looking both ruined and glowing from her orgasms. Her skin was soft and flushed. Her muscles were still gelatinous and loose. Pliant and marked with his bites. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her slightly buck teeth that he now adored bit into her lower lip. Her curls framed her round, freckled face like a halo. He caressed her breast, tracing the underside with his thumb.

She needed to get up.

Focus.

She gripped the surrounding bedsheets, trying to push them away. They bothered her skin. She was hot. Pin needles all over her skin. She wanted to crawl out of it. Too cold.

“Mmm,” was all she could manage. Something was there. Just out of her reach. The fingers of her mind reached toward the ghostly tendrils of her memories that she knew were there. Her body responded by raking her fingernails across his shoulders that he mistook for passion. Her nerves were on fire. Prickling all over.

Malfoy groaned against her and bit down at the tender muscle of her shoulder. “I’m going to take you again and again,” he murmured into her neck, “until you remember.”

A blinding white pain.

Hermione winced. She covered her eyes, hands forming a visor, and curled into herself in a fetal position. Away from him.

Malfoy pulled back immediately, as if burned. He sat up in bed. Guilt flooded through his eyes. He shouldn’t have. She regretted it. He hurt her. He was selfish. Again.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t leave.

Hermione’s head throbbed. She couldn’t see. Her teeth chattered. She let out an agonised gasp and slumped down, pushing the journals to the floor. She needed space. She was suffocating. She couldn’t see. She grabbed blindly around her for purchase.

“Granger?”

“Granger?”

She blinked, trying to digest what just happened. She knew she felt good a minute ago. Connected to another person. Almost loved. Now her vision wavered. Ripples of blurry lines. Another sharp pain ran through her head. She was nauseous. Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t speak properly.

“Granger?” Malfoy reached for her, but she jerked away.

Hermione grabbed her head, slipping down to the floor beside the bed. She squinted her eyes, trying to focus on the shadowy figure next to her. He was naked, pale hair visible in the dark. Each blink hurt.

Malfoy babbled, “I’m so sorry. Fuck, I shouldn’t have—I’m gonna call Kaneshiro right now.” He twisted his hands. He scrambled out of bed, trying to give her space.

Her body shook. Almost convulsing. She gagged, gripping her chest and stomach.

The pieces fell into place. It was like falling and hitting the ground at the same time. Everything hurt. A blinding, piercing pain shot through her head, then down her spine. She sat up, staring at her hands, as if they were an alien part of her body. Then she reached for him–an aching sense of desperation filled her chest—but stopped herself.

His brows knitted together and his face crumpled. Like she twisted a knife in his chest.

Shadows dotted across her vision, pain attacking behind her eyes. The world fell away from her.

Red hair.

Ron at the Joke Shop.

WIZZZZZZZ. WHOMP. WHOMP.

Harry in an Auror uniform. Bronze badges. Glowing galleons.

Ginny's reddened face as she pushed. Hands clasped together.

A piercing baby cry. Albus. Messy dark hair stuck to skin.

Laughter. Tears.

Her parents. Blank, friendly expressions.

Crunchy black sand between her toes. Australia.

Explosions of Magic. A thousand stars in the sky.

His kisses in her hair. Hot breaths against her skin.

The townhouse. Crookshanks sniffing the air. Orange bushy tail.

Floating brains. The Department.

The chase. Tripping. Shooting pain in her ankle.

Darkness. Dolohov.

The bright purple light at the tip of the wand.

Tingly rushes of Magic. Shiny glimpses of gold and silver.

Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy.

More images flooded her being.

Tears flowed from the edges of her eyes.

She stared at her hands again.

A simple, white gold band shimmered on her left hand.

She jerked her head up. Her eyes burned, but she forced herself to look at the Wizard in front of her. He collected himself now. Occluding. Stoic and cold. His eyes shuttered slate grey. His jaw clenched. The only giveaway of his desperation were his hands. He was twisting a matching band.

Hermione reached for him again. With a shaky voice, she said, “D-Draco?”

His head jerked up, eyes blinking wet. He dropped to his knees in front of her, dragging her torso into him, and wept.