Work Text:
Hermione tells Draco in a sleepy voice, one night while brushing her thumb across the tiny scar at the corner of his mouth, that he glows like the moon under starlight. “Actually, no,” she slurs, “lemme try again. You don't just glow like the moon, you, you are the damn moon. My moon.”
He snorts and takes hold of her wrist so he can kiss her palm. “I suppose I make a great little satellite that no one really is worried about in the grand scheme of things?”
Hermione blinks at him slowly, but when she’s better digested what he's said, she scowls at him for deflecting. Draco just gives her a slow, reserved smile and intertwines their fingers, but Hermione pulls her hand out of his to place it on his cheek. “You can't say that,” she mumbles.
“Why not? It's the truth.”
But Hermione shakes her head. “Not the whole truth. Not even close.”
-*-
Draco thinks he's a pretty quick learner when he really applies himself.
He learns that Hermione can braid her hair in the dark (“Taught myself at camp when I was eight. Other girls didn't like me much, I had to entertain myself somehow,”) and that sometimes, if he listens very closely, he can hear her stomach grumble late at night (“It's not like I can help it,”). He learns that she has a patch of freckles that he bets, if connected correctly, would look uncannily like his constellation, just over the base of her spine (“Draco, you are not putting that Sharpie anywhere near my butt, so help me - ”).
Draco takes note that she can't help but hum to herself after reading a satisfying story-ending, that she loves pulling strings of mozzarella cheese off of her pizza, and that she hates when he uses “too much” toothpaste (“Draco, toothpaste isn't candy - ”).
In his defense, toothpaste is sweet and invites Hermione to kiss his fresh and minty mouth, so. She ought not to complain. It's a win-win, really.
-*-
Draco also learns that while he is a handsome, witty, rather competent Wizarding lawyer, and damn good at speaking French - he doesn't always make the smartest decisions.
Long story short, he's playing with Hermione's hair as they lie out on a picnic blanket in late March when he asks, “Guadalupe would be a nice escape for the summer hols, wouldn't it?”
-*-
Under the Guadalupe sun, Hermione gets more freckles than she'd like (but more for Draco to kiss, so he doesn't particularly mind as much she does).
He does, however, very much mind all the red, tender sunburn he gets - on his shoulders, his forearms, his back, even his ears -
Freckled, tanned Hermione just laughs and helps him rub on aloe gel.
-*-
Draco learns that he loves a sun-kissed, golden tan Hermione just as much as he loves London-pale, London-cold Hermione.
He's not really surprised, though.
-*-
.
.
.
(If Draco had to explain the sensation of a nightmare, it would be a little bit like this.)
You're underwater in the deepest, darkest, coldest lake but you feel something in the water waiting for you with a snake-like laugh, and a hand wrapped around your mother's white neck, a something who says, isn't it funny, Draco, when you aren't able to fulfill my expectations?
No, you answer politely, with a bland little smile, of course not, my Lord -
No, you whisper, your cheek mottled with bruises, of course not, my Lord -
No, of course not, my Lord, you grit between your teeth, head pounding like a drum to the beat of I need to keep Mum safe -
No, you plead, on your knees, hands trembling but voice falling into words practiced too well, of course not, my Lord, the Malfoy family is your most loyal -
No, you scream silently, digging your nails into your palm as you watch Auntie Bella’s wand, black and dangerous, raise over Hermione as Auntie Bella screeches Crucio -
No, you scream into the deepdarkcold of the water, no no no no no, but it just makes your lungs feel like fire -
And you are awake, in the dark of night, all the no’s ricocheting inside of your body but still trapped inside, your hands balled up into fists, jaw clenched tight, every cell in your body dreadfully, thankfully awake.
“Draco.” You feel Hermione gingerly place her hand on yours, slowly, slowly loosening your knuckles. “Draco,” she whispers, “‘S just a dream. You're okay. You're with me.”
.
.
.
(If Draco had to explain the sensation of Hermione, it would be a little bit like this.)
Hermione is the sun. As in: light that scares away the dark.
You finally exist when you're with her.
-*-
Draco learns that going to a Ministry gala as Hermione Granger's official date (as a part of their new, loving and committed relationship) is a huge improvement from going to a Ministry gala as Hermione Granger’s just-a-coworker (as a part of their shared work-duties while he pretends to not stare at her with a bit of yearning).
Draco’s never been a public sort of man with his affection, but he finds that he loves holding Hermione’s hand, touching the small of her back, or fetching her some more canapés and champagne, because now he can. Because now he can express himself in front of Hermione, even when everyone they know is watching.
When Draco does, of course, have to relinquish Hermione to a dance with her beloved Potter and Weasley, he has no qualms about it. Hermione is her own before she is anybody else's. For Hermione’s sake, the three men share grudgingly but genuinely civil nods of greeting and small talk. Schoolyard grudges really ought not to matter these days, Draco thinks.
So while Hermione dances with her best friends, Draco decides to sit at the relaxed-looking bar with a glass of firewhiskey. He doesn't even notice the two surly, red-faced Unspeakables, glumly nursing daiquiris and glowering at Draco. The bar seemed a relatively tranquil scene, really.
The next five minutes are anything but tranquil, though - namely, one of the Unspeakables knocks over a tray of peanuts while over-sharing his opinion of how Draco is undeserving of Hermione, the Golden Gryffindor Girl. Draco partially understands his point of view, but also suspects the man’s tantrum (“Honestly, Malfoy over there thinks he’s all that since he bagged Hermione bloody Granger, well, congrats to a snake for slitherin’ in for his own benefit - ”) is due to some boorish resentment.
Draco finds it bit sad that some people just can't get over their schoolyard grudges.
The other Unspeakable barks out a harsh, mean laugh. “You're right there, mate. My cousin, Gretchen, the little one who talks too much, remember, she's one of Granger’s interns and you know what she said once? She called Granger,” the man breaks his story to snort, peering into his drink, “the sun to Malfoy’s fecking moon…I wanted to retch when I heard her, man.”
The first Unspeakable’s eyes narrow into watery blue slits on his pudgy red face. “The sun to his moon,” he repeats, then smiles a mean smile and snickers. “He’s the fucking satellite of her satellite? Glad we're on the same page about his worth, or lack thereof, that nasty ferret Death Eater - ”
Draco had no intention of letting the two men's words get under his skin, but Hermione, having walked over to retrieve her official date, overheard, slapped poor Boot -
Now she's dragging Draco to the coat room, fuming about how the world is full of idiots and asking did Draco know where to floo out of this damn place?
-*-
When they floo from the gala to Draco’s - their - flat, Hermione goes off. All, of course, while neatly pulling off her coat, folding it, heading to the kitchen, pulling out a tea kettle, filling it, getting it on the stove, pulling out mugs and prepping their teabags.
“I swear,” she starts, “if those bloody useless Unspeakables ever talk to you like that again, no, if they ever dare to fucking look at you with their stupid, boorish faces, I swear I will hex their - ”
“I mean, they weren't talking to me, just about me - ”
“ - right off those slimy, sorry excuses for human beings, probably just a bunch of bloody high-falootin’ Ravenclaws - ”
“ - of course they were under the influence of far too much alcohol, Hermione, we probably know someone who could change Ministry gala protocols on how much they let you drink - ”
“ - they're barely ravens, more like depraved crows stealing trash to eat and whining, who the bloody hell do they think they are?”
Draco just sighs and asks, “Are you going to turn the stove on, or shall I?”
Hermione, eyes sparked up with indignant anger, chest heaving, balls her hands up in fists. “I hate when people think they know you, know us , just because you have different war scars - ”
Draco just moves to wrap himself around her. He turns on the stove, because he isn't going to be cheated out of his cuppa after some idiot tried to tell him what was wrong with who he is and who he loves. “They didn't even say anything really offensive. Or new. Skeeter has probably said worse. Though, you're right, of course,” Draco sighs and kisses the top of her head. “They had no right to talk about us, but it's not the worst feedback we've gotten.”
“He called you the satellite of my satellite, does he think he's some sort of love guru who can make assumptions freely about people's relationships, because he isn't, what the fuck kind of right does he think he has - ”
“ - to be fair, your intern Gretchen made the sun-and-moon analogy, which is a tad bit creepy since you do call me your moon, don't deny it, Granger...honestly, that Unspeakable just shared his rather intellectual analysis.” Draco makes a crooked smile. “It's not like he was being that harsh, really. The moon is the satellite of one of the Sun’s satellites.”
Hermione tucks her head under his neck and Draco feels her little hands reach for his shoulder blades and squeeze him into a hug before she pulls away and holds his hands in hers. She sighs, “I don't call you my moon because you're the satellite of my satellite. That's not what I care about.”
She looks at him seriously even though Draco knows that a sloshed couple of Unspeakables and their jabs don't mean a thing to either of them. “Draco, it's under the moon’s light that moonflowers can actually bloom, okay? You open up beauty that no one else could see before, and,” she bites her lip and then presses herself into his chest, “and even though you've been battered by millennia of asteroids and meteors you still do so much for the damn Earth, your glow lets forgotten flowers bloom, your light opens a different perspective of things and you make the ocean rise and fall - ”
Draco kisses the top of her head, nuzzles his admittedly pointy nose into her hair. He wants to say, no one would know or care if I didn't have your light, the Sun's light to reflect. You're brilliant. You're beautiful. You're the Sun to me.
It flutters around in his body, pulsing and restless, but all that comes out, “Thank you.”
Which only sort of explains what he wants to say. But it doesn't really, not in enough ways, so he wraps himself tighter around his Hermione, and tries to tame those feelings into coming out the right way. He tries, and this time says, “I love you.”
That makes Hermione beam so bright that his heart warms, but the words only sort of explain what he wants to say. Draco thinks he'll keep trying, though.