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Hermione had read this same line in her book at least three times, and yet the words refused to sink in. The reason lay stretched across the sofa behind her, arms firmly wrapped around her middle, chin hooked lazily over her shoulder, warm breath brushing the side of her neck.
"Draco," she sighed, not for the first time that evening, as yet another one of her curls was tenderly twirled around his finger. "Are you going to keep doing that?"
A low hum of contentment vibrated from his chest. "Of course," he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His other hand, not occupied with her stubborn curl, was splayed possessively across her waist, holding her as though she might vanish at any moment.
"You're distracting me," Hermione murmured, though the words lacked conviction. Truthfully, she wasn't really trying that hard to escape.
"Good," he replied simply, nuzzling closer until their cheeks brushed. He inhaled, catching the familiar hint of lavender in her hair, and gave a pleased sigh. "You read too much, anyway. Not enough time spent being completely doted upon by your absolutely adoring, incredibly handsome, hopelessly devoted boyfriend."
Hermione rolled her eyes, though a small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Malfoy."
"And yet here I am," Draco shot back smugly, tightening his arms around her as though to prove his point. He gently tugged on the curl caught around his finger, watching it spring back into place with boyish fascination. "How is your hair so perfect?"
"It isn't," she replied automatically, though her cheeks flushed at the compliment.
"It is," Draco countered, weaving another curl between his fingers. "It's infuriatingly perfect. Like you." He pressed a soft kiss just behind her ear, making her shiver slightly. "Infuriating. And perfect."
"You're relentless," she said, her voice quieter now, the book forgotten as her fingers absentmindedly brushed over his knuckles.
"Terribly," Draco agreed with a smirk she could practically feel against her skin. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Granger. Permanently entangled. Like this." He held up the curl again before letting it bounce back with an affectionate chuckle.
Hermione shook her head, half-laughing despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
"Madly ridiculous about you," he corrected with mock solemnity, shifting them both until she was fully nestled in his lap. She made a small noise of protest, but he only tightened his hold, resting his forehead against hers. "Stay here with me," he murmured, softer now, with the quiet intensity that always caught her off guard. "Just like this. For a while longer."
Her heart squeezed unexpectedly at the vulnerability in his voice. Draco Malfoy, the once untouchable, snide Slytherin prince, now completely wrapped around her, quite literally.
She let the book fall closed.
"For a while longer," she agreed, leaning into him, her fingers finally abandoning the page and instead tracing lazy circles over the back of his hand. "Maybe even longer than that."
Draco's smile was slow, triumphant, and filled with something dangerously close to adoration. "That's my girl," he murmured, burying his face in her curls once more. "Merlin help anyone who tries to take you away from me."
And with that, they stayed—tangled, close, and wonderfully content.
The bedroom was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the occasional sigh of utter, unrepentant bliss from Draco Malfoy.
Hermione lay on her side, back to Draco, trying—truly trying—to fall asleep. But it was difficult when every inch of her was being smothered by Draco's possessive, octopus-like embrace. His arms were wrapped around her so tightly she could hardly breathe, one leg tangled over hers, and his face nuzzled firmly into her hair like it was the only source of oxygen in the room.
"Draco," she said, her voice part exasperated, part amused. "You do realise I'm not going anywhere?"
"Mmm," came his sleepy, muffled reply from somewhere behind her curls. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to the crown of her head, then another at the nape of her neck, before settling back in like a man utterly at peace. "You say that, but I'm not taking any chances."
"You've trapped me," she pointed out.
"Obviously." He sounded vaguely offended that she even felt the need to state the obvious. "I plan to keep you like this forever. Get comfortable, Granger."
She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself, wriggling a little to ease the pressure of his arm across her ribs. That only made him hold her tighter, as if the mere thought of her shifting away ignited some primal instinct in him.
"Honestly, Draco," she murmured, "you're behaving like I might disappear into thin air."
"Don't tempt fate," he grumbled against her shoulder. His fingers found their favourite distraction again: her curls. He twirled them endlessly, over and over, letting the silky strands slip between his fingers as though they were made of gold. "Your hair's too soft. I'm convinced you've put me under some kind of spell."
"It's just conditioner," she replied dryly.
"Liar," he whispered, kissing her shoulder blade with infuriating tenderness. "It's witchcraft. Wicked, beautiful witchcraft."
Hermione smiled into the pillow, feeling her heart soften in that annoying way it always did around him—especially when he was like this, unguarded and clingy to the point of absurdity.
"You're hopeless," she teased, though her hand found his where it lay over her heart, intertwining their fingers.
"I am," Draco agreed shamelessly, without hesitation. "Completely hopeless when it comes to you. Do you have any idea how obsessed I am, Granger? Do you?"
"I'm beginning to," she said, half laughing.
"Good," he declared, finally lifting his head just enough to look at her, grey eyes soft and slightly drowsy but no less intense. He brushed a stray curl from her cheek and studied her like she was some rare, priceless artifact that had fallen into his lap. "Because I want you to know. I want you to remember it every time you so much as think about leaving this bed."
Hermione arched a brow. "Even if I need to use the loo?"
"Especially then," Draco deadpanned, before his lips twitched into a lazy, wicked smirk. "You'll have to drag me with you. I've resigned myself to this fate."
She shook her head, unable to fight the laughter bubbling up. "You're impossible, Malfoy."
"And yet, you're still here," he replied smugly, burying his face back into her hair with a satisfied sigh. "Which means I win."
For a moment, there was only quiet—comfortable, safe, warm. His breathing evened out against her neck, his arms still holding her like she was his whole world. And perhaps she was. She thought she should mind the way he clung, but in truth... she didn't. She liked it. Far more than she'd ever admit out loud.
She squeezed his hand gently beneath the sheets, a silent, unspoken response to his fierce attachment.
"I'm not going anywhere, Draco," she whispered into the darkness.
"I know," came his sleep-heavy reply. "But I'm going to hold you like this anyway. Just in case the universe gets any clever ideas."
And with that, they drifted off together—Draco's fingers still tangled in her curls, his arms an unbreakable tether, and Hermione, if she were honest with herself, feeling exactly where she wanted to be.
Hermione had woken up first, which was rare. For a few blessedly peaceful moments, she lay there in the warm quiet, watching the early morning light spill in soft gold across the room. She'd thought, foolishly, that perhaps she could slip away just for a moment — stretch, maybe make tea — before Draco woke.
She had not accounted for Draco Malfoy's morning clinginess.
The second she so much as shifted her weight to ease out of bed, a low, disgruntled noise rumbled from his chest. Strong arms immediately tightened around her like iron bands, dragging her back against him until there wasn't a wisp of space between them.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice was rough with sleep, lower than usual, and so full of possessiveness it practically vibrated through her spine.
"I was only going to make tea," Hermione replied, half-exasperated, half-entertained as his leg hooked over both of hers, effectively trapping her.
"No," he grumbled, burying his face deeper in her hair as if he could merge them into a single entity and be done with it. "Don't care about tea. Care about this." His hand splayed over her stomach, possessive and warm. "Care about you. Here. Exactly where you belong."
"Draco," she tried to reason, wiggling experimentally. Mistake. Terrible mistake.
The instant she moved, he rolled fully on top of her, pinning her beneath his weight with the smug satisfaction of a napping Kneazle draped across its favourite sunspot. He stretched like a lazy cat, then tucked his head under her chin, releasing a contented sigh that vibrated against her collarbone.
"Better," he mumbled, tightening his hold.
"You're insufferable," she informed him, though her voice softened as her hands instinctively came up to card through his sleep-tousled blond hair.
"And you're mine," he replied without hesitation, voice rough but full of wicked amusement. He tilted his head up, pale eyes still heavy with sleep but glinting with unmistakable devotion. "Mine, Granger. Entirely. Irrevocably. Undeniably."
Hermione let out a breath of fond exasperation, though her heart thudded traitorously at his words. "You really are a menace in the morning."
"And you love it," he shot back, entirely too pleased with himself. His fingers found her curls again, as they always did, curling and uncurling the strands like he could never get enough. "You love that I can't keep my hands off you. You love that I wake up thinking about you, and fall asleep the same way."
"Conceited much?" she teased, but her cheeks warmed all the same.
Draco only smirked against her neck, nipping lightly at her skin in revenge. "Not conceit. Fact." He peppered slow, lazy kisses along her jaw, his hold on her never loosening. "Every morning, this is how it's going to be. Me, wrapped around you, refusing to let you go. So you'd better get used to it."
"You act like I have a choice," Hermione murmured, though there was no real bite to her words. She let her hands drift to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath her fingertips, the steady beat of his heart against hers.
"You don't," Draco confirmed smugly. He shifted just enough to look her in the eye, his expression softening dangerously. "Neither do I."
And something in his gaze, something achingly earnest beneath the teasing bravado, made her chest tighten. For all his dramatics and possessive tendencies, there was truth there — raw, open, and unashamed.
"Good," Hermione said quietly, threading her fingers through his hair once more, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. "Then neither of us is going anywhere."
Draco's answering smile was slow and filled with something deeper than even obsession. He pressed one more kiss to her lips, lingering, tender, then buried his face back in her curls with a satisfied sigh.
"Perfect," he whispered, and promptly tightened his hold even further, as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Which, to him, she was.
Hermione had tried. She had really tried to reason with him.
But reasoning with Draco Malfoy first thing in the morning, when he was still full of sleep and stubborn affection, was like arguing with a very cuddly, very entitled dragon.
"You do realise chairs exist for a reason," Hermione pointed out, perched sideways in Draco's lap at the kitchen table as she reached — rather awkwardly — for the teapot.
"I have a chair," Draco replied, entirely unbothered, his arms snug around her waist. "And you're in it."
"Draco..." she began in warning, but her protest lost momentum the moment he nuzzled into her neck again, completely unapologetic, his lips brushing over her pulse in a way that made her breath stutter.
"Mm?" he hummed, as though he had no idea what she could possibly be objecting to. He tucked a loose curl behind her ear, playing with the end of it before letting it bounce back into place. "You were saying something boring about chairs, love?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, though the effect was considerably weakened by the flush creeping up her neck.
"You're insufferable," she muttered.
"So you keep saying," Draco said, utterly unfazed, and tightened his hold around her middle. "And yet, here you are. In my lap. Exactly where I want you."
Hermione gave up with a sigh, setting the teapot down and folding her arms over her chest.
"I can't eat like this," she pointed out flatly.
"I'll feed you," he said at once, too eagerly. He reached out — one arm still firmly around her — and rather ungracefully plucked a piece of toast from the plate. He held it up to her lips with an insufferably smug smile. "Open, Granger."
"I will hex you," she threatened, though her lips twitched despite herself.
"No you won't," Draco said smoothly, nudging the toast closer until she reluctantly took a bite. His expression turned triumphant, as though this ridiculous exchange was the height of victory. "See? Perfect. I could get used to this."
"I won't," she replied around her mouthful, though the softness in her eyes betrayed her.
Draco's gaze lingered on her face, and for a moment, the teasing melted into something gentler, something unguarded. He brushed a few crumbs from her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, his eyes following the movement as though entranced.
"You're not allowed to leave this spot all day," he declared suddenly, as though it had just become law.
Hermione raised a brow. "All day?"
"All day," he confirmed without hesitation. "I'll have the elves bring everything here. We'll sit like this until further notice."
"And if I have things to do?"
"Cancel them," Draco said at once, with absurd seriousness. "Whatever it is, it's not as important as this." His arms flexed around her waist, as if to punctuate his point. "As you."
Her heart did that annoying skip again. Damn him. Damn his ridiculous, relentless affection.
"You're unbelievable," she whispered, shaking her head.
"I know," he agreed, and kissed her cheek with a soft, lingering press of his lips. "But you love me anyway."
To her endless irritation — and secret delight — she did. Very much so.
"Fine," Hermione conceded at last, letting herself relax against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "But you're making the tea."
Draco's grin was instant and wicked. He flicked his wand lazily at the teapot, levitating it over to refill her cup with a flourish.
"Anything for you," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
And as he tucked her closer still, one hand absently winding in her curls, the other steadying her teacup so she could sip without moving from his lap, Hermione felt something undeniably warm settle in her chest.
Maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't mind staying here all day after all.
It started the moment Hermione so much as shifted in his lap.
They'd been like this for hours now, Draco a warm, possessive weight around her as they sat tucked in the sunlit window nook. He'd charmed a few books to float within reach — mostly for her, of course, not that she could properly read them with the way he kept tangling his fingers in her curls every few minutes like a lovesick boy.
For a while, she let him have his way. But eventually, as the clock on the mantel ticked past midday, reality had the audacity to intrude.
"Draco," Hermione began, her voice patient but firm, "I really do need to get up now."
Immediately, his arms snapped tighter around her, as though she'd announced she was moving to another country.
"No," he replied, scandalised, as though she'd personally offended every Malfoy ancestor in existence. His chin tucked over her shoulder, and he nuzzled against her neck in open protest. "Absolutely not."
"Draco," she warned, more sternly this time.
"Don't want to," he countered petulantly, with the maturity of a four-year-old denied sweets. He practically buried himself against her, clutching her like a human barnacle. "Need you here."
Hermione huffed, but it was useless. Completely useless. He wasn't even pretending anymore. His whole body curved around her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"Draco, you can't cling to me all day," she pointed out, ignoring how her heart betrayed her by fluttering at the sheer neediness of him.
"Wrong," he said at once. "I absolutely can. And will."
"You're being ridiculous."
"I excel at ridiculous," he shot back.
Before she could argue further, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply like she was air and he'd been suffocating without her. He mumbled something against her skin that sounded suspiciously like, "Smell like home," and Hermione very nearly lost the last shred of her resolve right then and there.
She forced herself to keep her composure. Barely.
"You'll have to let go of me eventually," she said, though her voice had softened against her will.
"I will not," Draco declared, scandalised by the very idea. His arms cinched tighter around her middle. "Why would I let go of perfection? Why would I risk you walking away when you fit so well right here?"
And then — the audacity — he let out a dramatic, utterly pathetic whine.
Hermione froze.
"You did not just whine," she accused, twisting in his grasp to give him a look.
His eyes met hers, wide and utterly unrepentant, the very picture of shameless longing. He absolutely had whined. And worse, he did it again.
"Hermione," he practically breathed her name like it was a plea, "just stay."
Her heart gave a helpless squeeze in her chest. How was she supposed to resist this? How could anyone, when Draco Malfoy — proud, usually so poised Draco Malfoy — was reduced to this lovesick, desperate mess, acting as though the world would end the moment she left his arms?
"You're impossible," she whispered, her resolve crumbling like parchment under rain.
"And you love me for it," he murmured, absolutely certain, without an ounce of doubt. His lips brushed over her jaw, feather-light and full of quiet reverence.
Hermione sighed in defeat, though her fingers had already started threading through his hair again, tugging gently as if it might ground them both.
"Fine," she relented, a smile creeping into her voice despite herself. "Half an hour more."
Draco perked up instantly, victorious. "An hour."
"Forty-five minutes."
"Deal," he said swiftly — then immediately settled back into her neck, arms like a vice around her waist as though afraid she might vanish into thin air if he so much as blinked.
Hermione shook her head, hopeless against him. Against this. Against the way he looked at her like she was his entire universe.
And maybe, just maybe, she thought as she relaxed into his hold, she liked being his universe.
It started with her standing up.
That, apparently, was Draco's final straw.
Hermione had warned him, more than once throughout the day, that eventually she would need to move. But the moment she rose from his lap, his arms slipped from around her waist like silk cords uncoiling — and his expression shifted into something downright catastrophic.
"No," Draco said flatly, from where he still sat slouched in the armchair like a dethroned king. His pale blond hair was adorably mussed from where she'd threaded her fingers through it all afternoon. He looked like he'd been deprived of oxygen the moment she left his grasp. "Absolutely not. Sit. Back. Down."
Hermione crossed her arms, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow.
"Draco, I have to get the notes from my study—"
"I am your study now," Draco interrupted without shame. He stood abruptly, crossing the room in seconds, and in a ridiculous display of entitlement, simply swept her straight off her feet.
"Draco!" she yelped as he carried her across the room, ignoring her protests.
"You belong in bed," he declared with grim finality, as though this were a universally acknowledged truth. "Preferably tangled in my arms where you're warm and soft and can't escape."
"I am not going to bed at six in the evening!" Hermione protested, wriggling in his hold — to absolutely no effect. He only gripped her tighter, his smirk deepening into something unbearably smug.
"Correction," he drawled as he pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder, "we are going to bed at six in the evening."
Hermione's eyes narrowed as he deposited her unceremoniously onto the mattress, immediately flinging himself down beside her like an oversized, aristocratic golden retriever.
"Draco," she warned, half-exasperated, half-laughing as he reached for the blankets and wrapped them around the both of them in a cocoon of plush warmth.
"Hermione," he mimicked in a pleading whine, drawing her flush against him as though his very survival depended on it. His arms circled her waist with greedy familiarity, his face burrowing into the crook of her neck. "Stay."
"I have work," she insisted, though the protest was beginning to wilt under the weight of his affection.
"You have me," Draco countered, and Merlin help her, he sounded so heartbreakingly earnest about it. "Work tomorrow. Me, now."
Hermione's heart gave a traitorous flutter in her chest. He was using That Voice — the one reserved for quiet confessions and sleepy kisses beneath the covers.
"You're being absurd," she said softly, but she was already curling into him, unable to help herself.
He tightened his hold at once, sensing his victory, his lips brushing her temple in a slow, languid caress.
"And you love me for it," Draco whispered against her skin.
"You keep saying that," she replied, voice fond despite herself.
"Because it's true," he murmured. He nuzzled closer, if possible, the tip of his nose trailing affectionately along her hairline. "You love me ridiculous. You love me needy. You love me wrapped around you like this, so tightly you couldn't escape even if you tried."
Hermione sighed — defeated, but secretly delighted. Her fingers found his hair again, threading through the soft strands as he practically purred beneath her touch.
"You're impossible," she said once more, because someone had to say it.
"And yet, here we are," he replied, with all the smugness of a man who knew he had won every battle in a war she never truly wanted to fight.
They lay like that, tangled together in their little cocoon, while the evening darkened beyond the window panes. Draco, it seemed, had no intention of releasing her. Not tonight. Not ever, if he had his way.
And if Hermione was honest with herself — not that she'd admit it aloud — she didn't really want him to.
The fire had died low in the hearth by the time Draco drifted off.
Hermione had thought — hoped, really — that once he was asleep, his grip might loosen, just enough for her to slip free for a moment. She'd been so wrong.
Instead, Draco seemed to tighten his hold in sleep, as though some instinct buried deep within him refused to release her. His arms banded across her waist, firm and unyielding, one leg tangled possessively between hers as if to physically anchor her to him.
Hermione huffed softly, half-hearted in her frustration. It was hard to stay exasperated when he looked so peaceful, so young like this — all the sharp edges of his usual bravado softened by slumber. His breath brushed warm and even against her collarbone, his lips parted just slightly, golden lashes fanned over pale cheeks.
Ridiculously beautiful, even asleep. Of course he was.
She shifted just a fraction, testing the waters. Instantly, Draco mumbled something unintelligible and clutched her closer, like a child hugging a favourite pillow.
"Mine," he mumbled hoarsely, voice rough with sleep. "Mine, 'Mione..."
Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat.
Had he just—?
"Not leaving," Draco continued in a low, dreamy murmur, pressing his forehead to her sternum. "Don't leave me," he breathed, the words raw and vulnerable and aching.
Oh, Merlin.
Her heart twisted, painfully fond.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered softly, stroking her fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.
As if reassured by her quiet promise, Draco let out a small, contented sound — almost a purr — and nestled impossibly closer, as though he could fold himself into her skin if given the chance.
But then, as she kept petting his hair, thinking he'd drift deeper into rest, his sleep-fogged voice emerged again. Softer this time. Honest in a way he could never quite manage when awake.
"Love you," he whispered, almost inaudible. His breath ghosted over her collarbone as he spoke, warm and uneven. "So much it hurts."
Hermione's chest tightened.
Her fingers stilled in his hair, her throat too tight to speak. She swallowed against the wave of tenderness rising inside her and bent to press a feather-light kiss to the crown of his head.
"I know," she murmured, her lips brushing his hair. "I love you too, Draco."
And maybe — just maybe — she imagined it, but she could have sworn she felt his lips curve against her skin in a small, sleepy smile.
The rest of the night passed in quiet surrender.
Draco kept her captive in his arms, even in dreams, his grip never loosening, his body wrapped around her like she was the only thing holding him together. And Hermione, hopelessly enchanted by this clingy, lovesick version of her Slytherin, found that she didn't mind it at all.
In fact, as she drifted into sleep with him, she rather thought she liked it.
Quite a lot.
The first light of dawn spilled soft gold across the bedroom floor, sliding up the curve of the bed where Hermione lay still tangled in Draco's arms.
He'd kept her trapped all night, an immovable, determined weight against her body, and sometime in the early hours, she'd given up any thought of escape, choosing instead to surrender to the warmth of his hold and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
It was peaceful. For a time.
Until Draco stirred.
At first, it was just a small shift — a tightening of his arms around her waist, a faint furrow between his brows as the early light teased him awake. His lips brushed her collarbone, his breath warm and uneven as he murmured something incoherent against her skin.
Then, suddenly, he jolted fully awake with a sharp, startled breath.
His arms snapped tighter around her like iron bands, his entire body tensing as though he'd just awoken from a nightmare. His head lifted in a flurry of pale-blond hair, bleary grey eyes wide and frantic, scanning the space around them.
"Hermione?" His voice cracked, raw with sleep and something sharper — panic, fear. "Hermione—where—?"
Before she could so much as open her mouth, he found her — still safely in his arms — and visibly sagged with relief, his shoulders dropping, his breath rushing out in an audible exhale.
"There you are," he breathed, burying his face into the crook of her neck like a man starved of oxygen. "There you are."
"Where else would I be?" she asked softly, her fingers instinctively combing through his mussed hair, soothing him.
"I don't know," he admitted, voice muffled against her skin. He sounded wretched about it. "Somewhere terrible, probably. Away from me."
Her heart squeezed painfully at the quiet desperation in his tone.
"I'm not," she promised, running her fingers through the silky strands of his hair until he let out a soft, involuntary sound of relief. "I'm right here, Draco."
"Good," he mumbled thickly. "Because I would have hexed the whole bloody manor apart looking for you."
And then, in a move so clinging it bordered on comical, Draco all but collapsed against her, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a breath of space left between their bodies. His leg slid possessively over hers, his arms cinching tight as he buried his face even deeper in her neck.
"Mine," he whispered, not for the first time, like a stubborn incantation. "Always mine."
Hermione couldn't fight the helpless smile curling at her lips. She kissed the top of his head, feeling him relax — infinitesimally — at her touch.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said again, softer now, and she meant it more than she expected to.
Draco's breath hitched.
"Swear it," he murmured, so quietly it was almost a plea.
"I swear," she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple in gentle promise.
That seemed to finally soothe the wild fear in him. His arms loosened just a fraction, not enough to let her go, but enough to relax into something less desperate and more devotional. He sighed, the sound full of bone-deep contentment, and nuzzled closer until she felt his smile against her throat.
"Good," he whispered, already drifting back toward sleep. "Then I'll keep you like this forever."
And Hermione, hopeless against him, found that she didn't mind one bit.
Sunlight filtered warmly across the duvet, casting golden stripes over tangled limbs and tousled sheets.
Hermione made the dire mistake of stretching — just the barest hint of movement — and at once, Draco let out a soft, disgruntled sound low in his throat, like a cat denied attention.
"No," he mumbled against her shoulder, his arms immediately tightening around her middle like steel bands. "No. Stay."
"Draco," Hermione sighed, amusement curling in her chest. She tried to twist, but he simply rolled with her movement, looping one leg firmly over hers, anchoring her in place.
"Mine," he growled softly, breath hot against her skin. "Warm. Soft. Perfect. Not leaving."
"You are ridiculous," she replied, utterly endeared despite herself.
"Mmhm," Draco hummed, entirely unbothered by the accusation. He nuzzled shamelessly into her neck, his nose brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear, sending a quiet shiver down her spine. "Ridiculous for you."
She wriggled again, just to test the hold. Foolish decision.
In response, Draco only gripped her tighter, rolling fully on top of her until he was sprawled across her like a particularly possessive blanket. He tucked his face into the hollow of her throat with a contented, sleepy sound.
"Try and escape now," he murmured smugly.
"Draco Malfoy, you are smothering me," she accused, though her voice lacked any true heat.
"You love it," he said without hesitation, and to her endless frustration, he wasn't wrong.
Hermione huffed and attempted one last half-hearted push against his chest. It was like trying to move a dragon. A smug, well-bred, aristocratic dragon who had no intentions of budging.
"I have things to do," she protested weakly.
"You have me to do," he replied smoothly, punctuating the words with a lazy kiss to her collarbone.
"Draco!"
He had the audacity to grin against her skin, the sharp curve of his mouth both infuriating and far too attractive for her own good.
"What?" he asked, all faux-innocent silk. "I'm simply prioritising properly."
"You're incorrigible," she grumbled, though she didn't stop carding her fingers through his messy blond hair.
"And yet," he purred, his grey eyes flickering open just enough to catch hers with a molten, sleep-soft intensity, "here you are. Still in my arms. Right where you belong."
Hermione's traitorous heart fluttered. Of course she was still there. How could she not be, when he held her like she was the most precious thing in his entire world?
As she stared down at him — this clingy, spoiled, utterly insufferable man wrapped around her like he'd never let go — something in her chest softened, melted entirely.
"You're impossible," she whispered.
"And you love me for it," he replied instantly, the words so warm, so certain, she felt herself smile despite everything.
"Unfortunately," she said, but her fingers slid gently over his cheek, her thumb brushing the curve of his jaw in silent affection.
He caught her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm with aching tenderness.
"Fortunate for me," he murmured.
And then, as if to seal the moment, he sighed in contentment, laid his head back against her chest, and made absolutely no move to release her from his grasp.
Hermione resigned herself to her fate. Draco Malfoy was not letting her leave this bed today — and truthfully, as she threaded her fingers once more through his silken hair, she found she didn't want to.
Not even a little bit.
It started innocently enough.
Hermione had almost convinced herself to make an attempt at leaving the bed. She had half-sat up, which — given the Draco Malfoy currently wrapped around her like a needy octopus — was a heroic achievement.
Draco, predictably, had noticed instantly.
"Nooo," he protested groggily, dragging her back down with inexorable Malfoy determination. He pressed his face to the curve of her neck like a cat burrowing into warm blankets. "Bed, Hermione. Warm. Stay."
She sighed, already smiling despite herself, and smoothed his hair back from his temple. "Draco, honestly. It's late."
"It's early in Malfoy Standard Time," he argued, tightening his grip. "Which is to say: too early for you to leave me."
She opened her mouth to argue — and that was exactly when the interruption arrived.
With a sharp, officious flutter of wings, a Ministry owl swept through the open window and landed smartly on the bedpost, a rolled parchment bound with a crimson ribbon clutched in its beak.
Hermione blinked.
The owl hooted once, extending its leg.
Before she could even lift her hand to retrieve the message, Draco's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing in sleepy indignation as he glared at the owl like it had personally insulted his bloodline.
"What," Draco said flatly, voice rough with sleep and affronted entitlement, "is that doing here?"
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "It's an owl, Draco. A perfectly innocent Ministry owl delivering—"
"No," he cut in swiftly, tightening his arms around her and dragging the blanket higher over them as though shielding her from enemy fire. "No. No owls. No work. No interruptions in my bed."
The owl, unimpressed, hooted again and fluttered its wings impatiently.
Hermione reached out a hand—
Draco immediately seized her wrist mid-air, scandalised. "Hermione Jean Granger, you will not humour this homewrecker!"
Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. "Draco," she managed between giggles, "it's just post!"
"It's a menace," Draco declared, looking scandalised as he pulled her hand back beneath the blankets, wrapping his own around it tightly as if to protect her from correspondence. "A flying threat to my happiness."
"You're being absurd."
"I'm being reasonable," he shot back, tucking her firmly against his chest, burying his nose in her curls as though to prove his point. "I didn't invite it into our sanctuary."
The owl gave another impatient hoot and pecked at the bedpost.
Draco growled low in his throat like a jealous kneazle, then — without shame — threw a pillow at the bird.
Hermione gasped in mock outrage as the owl flapped its wings and, clearly fed up, dropped the scroll unceremoniously onto the floor before winging off out the window in a huff.
"There," Draco said triumphantly, sounding entirely too satisfied with himself. "Invader vanquished. Bed: safe. Girlfriend: retained."
Hermione couldn't help herself. She laughed — full and bright, the sound filling the room like sunlight.
"You're absolutely impossible," she told him fondly, cupping his cheek in her hand.
"And you love me for it," he replied instantly, his smirk lazy and utterly unrepentant.
Her gaze softened. "Merlin help me, I really do."
And before she could say another word, Draco rolled over, pinning her beneath him with a victorious grin. He kissed her soundly, as if claiming spoils from a battle well fought, and Hermione — despite every sensible bone in her body — kissed him back just as fiercely.
Let the owl wait.
Let the whole Ministry wait.
For now, she was exactly where she wanted to be: wrapped in the arms of the clingiest man alive, in a bed that had become its own little fortress of affection.
And honestly? She wouldn't have it any other way.
For a blissful, quiet moment, it seemed Hermione might finally make her escape.
She had, through sheer perseverance, managed to wriggle halfway out of Draco's arms, her feet brushing the cold floor as she reached for her dressing gown draped over the chair. Victory was within her grasp.
And then—
"Ahh!"
A wounded groan, pitiful and dramatic enough to rival the best of the Weird Sisters' ballads, filled the room.
Hermione froze. She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes at the blond sprawled across the bed. "Draco."
He lay there with one hand clutched theatrically over his heart, grey eyes wide and imploring. His lower lip — Merlin help her — actually trembled.
"Ohh, the pain," he moaned, as if his very soul were fractured. "You're... you're leaving me, Granger. Abandoning me in my time of need."
She crossed her arms. "Your time of need?"
"My body," Draco rasped dramatically, "betrayed by weakness. I can feel it, Hermione. I'm fading fast."
"You are not fading," she deadpanned.
"I might be," he insisted, flopping back onto the pillows like a wounded aristocrat in a romance novel. "The cold, Hermione. It's seeping into my bones now that you've so cruelly left my side."
She arched a brow. "We have at least four warming charms on this room."
"And yet," Draco gasped, voice growing fainter by the second, "my heart grows cold without your embrace."
Hermione pressed her lips together to smother her laugh. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are the worst liar."
"Am I?" he countered, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly at death's door. He shifted just enough to reveal the most ridiculously exaggerated pout, his eyes going soft and imploring. "I only know that when you leave this bed, it wounds me deeper than any curse."
Her heart, the traitor, flipped in her chest. She huffed. "Merlin, you're shameless."
"And yet," he murmured silkily, extending his arms towards her like a damsel awaiting rescue, "here you remain, arguing rather than walking away. Curious, isn't it?"
"Because you're being absurd," Hermione argued, but her feet were already betraying her, carrying her back towards the bed.
"Absurdly in love with you," he corrected, flashing her the laziest, most infuriatingly charming grin.
Before she could respond, Draco seized his advantage — and her wrist — with surprising swiftness for a man previously claiming to be on death's doorstep.
With a delighted sound, he tugged her down into the bed, wrapping his arms around her with a victorious hum. "Ah. Yes. Much better. I feel my strength returning already."
Hermione couldn't hold back her laughter this time. "Miraculous recovery, Malfoy."
"Your healing presence works wonders," he replied smugly, tucking her securely against him. He ran his fingers through her curls, clearly pleased with himself. "Mmm. There. Now I'll live to see another day."
"You're impossible," she said, but the words were muffled as she buried her face against his chest, too fond of him by far.
"And yet," Draco murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, "you love me precisely this way."
She sighed — long-suffering but secretly delighted. "Unfortunately," she agreed.
"Fortunately for me," he echoed, grinning into her hair as he tightened his hold around her once more.
And there, wrapped snugly in Draco's arms with his shameless affection cocooning her, Hermione accepted her fate: prisoner of love, held captive by the most dramatic man in Wizarding Britain — and if she were honest, she didn't mind it at all.
Not one bit.
Hermione should have known better than to think Draco would stop at fake injuries.
Moments after declaring himself miraculously healed by her presence, he shifted, resting his chin on the top of her head, a calculating glint in his storm-grey eyes.
"You know," he mused, tone suspiciously casual, "while I do feel marginally better, I'm not entirely sure I'm fully recovered."
Hermione, nestled comfortably against him despite her best intentions, huffed a small laugh. "Oh, really?"
"Mmm," Draco hummed gravely, "There are... lingering symptoms."
"Such as?" she asked, already bracing herself.
Draco's expression turned utterly serious. "An alarming deficiency of kisses, for one. A distinct lack of affectionate head scritches for another. And—" he paused dramatically, "—a concerning shortfall in my daily requirement of attention. Very serious condition, you understand. Potentially fatal."
Hermione pulled back just enough to give him a flat look. "Potentially fatal?"
Draco nodded solemnly, as if diagnosing himself with a terminal illness. "Very fatal, Granger. But," he brightened as though this were excellent news, "luckily, you're here. My personal Healer."
"You are ridiculous."
"Ridiculously devoted to you? Correct," he quipped, smug as ever.
Despite herself, Hermione found her fingers drifting up to his hair, running through the soft platinum strands. His eyes fluttered half-shut in satisfaction, a pleased rumble vibrating in his chest like a cat in the sun.
"There," she said, voice dry but affectionate. "One head scritch."
Draco's brows knitted together in a frown of faux concern. "Hmm. According to my expert calculations, I need at least seventy-three more. And that's just to get through the morning."
Hermione bit her lip to stop from smiling, but it was a losing battle. "Seventy-three, Malfoy?"
"Seventy-three point five," he amended seriously. "Plus," he added, holding up a finger, "continuous forehead kisses to stabilise my vitals."
She gave him a deadpan stare. "Stabilise your vitals?"
"You wouldn't want me to slip into a tragic coma, would you?" he asked, all wide-eyed innocence that fooled no one. "Think of the headlines, Granger. 'Promising Young Malfoy Succumbs to Affection Deprivation — Girlfriend Devastated.'"
Hermione laughed — genuinely, helplessly. "Promising young Malfoy?" she echoed. "You are the most arrogant patient I've ever seen."
"I am also your favourite patient," Draco pointed out smugly.
He tilted his head back imperiously, clearly expecting the requested forehead kiss. With an exaggerated sigh, Hermione leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his temple.
The moment her lips brushed his skin, Draco exhaled a deeply satisfied sigh and slumped back into the pillows as though she had just administered a life-saving potion.
"There we are," he declared, as though sealing a medical chart. "Signs of life returning. Truly, your healing magic knows no bounds, Healer Granger."
"You are insufferable," she told him, but there was no heat in her voice. Only fondness, and a warmth in her chest she didn't bother trying to smother anymore.
"Insufferably in love," he agreed smoothly, and without warning, flipped her beneath him in a fluid, well-practiced motion that proved just how uninjured he truly was.
"Hypocrite," she accused, breathless with laughter as he hovered over her with a playful glint in his eyes.
"Only for you," Draco said huskily, before promptly nuzzling into her neck like an oversized kneazle. "Now, about that full course of treatment..."
And there, pinned beneath her impossible, clingy Malfoy, Hermione realised she was already resigned to her fate — and if she were truly honest with herself, she didn't mind in the slightest.
In fact, she might just prescribe a few treatments of her own.
After all, two could play at this game.
By late morning, Hermione thought — foolishly, naively — that Draco might have worn himself out.
She was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
He had only been gathering strength.
Hermione had just swung her legs off the bed, intent on at least making it to the sitting room for a cup of tea, when Draco emitted the single most pitiful, drawn-out groan she had ever heard in her life.
She turned, slowly, already dreading what awaited her.
There he was: pale as parchment, eyes closed dramatically, a trembling hand clutching at his chest as though warding off an invisible curse.
"Draco," she sighed, "what now?"
"It's too late," he rasped, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself beneath the guise of mortal peril. "I fear my strength wanes, Hermione. I've fought bravely, but the lack of your touch... it's... it's simply too much to bear."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, but a smile betrayed her. "You are unbelievable."
"Wait," he croaked, voice hoarse, "before I fade completely... my will. I must—must leave my last wishes in your capable hands."
Her brows shot up. "Your will?"
With a weak flick of his wand (remarkably coordinated for a man on the brink of death), a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill soared through the air and landed beside him.
"To my dearest Hermione," he began, dictating solemnly to the quill, which scratched across the parchment with obedient haste, "I leave my entire estate, my private vault at Gringotts, and exclusive access to my personal collection of imported teas."
She crossed her arms, fighting laughter. "Imported teas? Truly generous of you, Malfoy."
"In addition," he continued without missing a beat, "I bequeath my library of rare magical texts, my finest set of dress robes, and the remaining seventy-three and a half head scritches that I did not survive to receive."
Hermione's composure cracked. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as she shook her head in disbelief. "You're absolutely insufferable!"
Draco opened one eye, grinning like a man victorious in battle. "And yet, you love me."
"I do," she admitted, exasperated and adoring all at once. "But if you think this ridiculous performance is going to keep me in bed with you all day—"
He cut her off with a scandalised gasp. "All day? Hermione, if you love me, you'll stay forever."
She arched a brow, challenging him. "Forever, Malfoy?"
"Till death do us part," he declared dramatically, "which, at this rate, is alarmingly imminent unless you administer your most powerful remedies."
"And what would those be?" she played along, indulging him now, fully caught in his ridiculous game.
"A lifetime supply of kisses," Draco said, without hesitation. "Hourly affirmations of love. Unlimited access to your curls for therapeutic purposes." He reached up and wound one of her curls around his finger possessively, like it belonged to him — which, honestly, Hermione suspected he believed it did.
She pretended to think this over, tapping her chin. "That's a rather demanding treatment plan, Mr. Malfoy."
"Ah, but I am a rather demanding patient, Mrs. Future-Malfoy," he replied smoothly, pulling her back down into the bed with a satisfied sigh. He tucked her firmly against him, like she belonged there — as though the very shape of his arms had been carved just to hold her.
Hermione let herself relax into him, threading her fingers through his hair as he buried his face against her neck with a pleased hum.
"You win," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
"I always do," Draco replied smugly, tightening his hold as though afraid she might try to leave again.
"And if I ever try to get out of bed today," she warned lightly, "you'll fake a mortal injury, won't you?"
"Not fake," Draco corrected, nuzzling closer. "Merely... emotionally induced. Entirely real to me."
She laughed again, the sound warm and helpless. "Merlin help me, I adore you."
"I know," he said, utterly unapologetic. "And lucky for you, I plan to cling to you for the rest of your life."
"Terrifying," Hermione teased.
"Wonderful," he corrected, grinning against her skin.
And so, wrapped up in a cocoon of exaggerated drama, hopeless affection, and far too many imported teas bequeathed in a fake will, Draco Malfoy finally settled into satisfied silence — his mission complete, his Hermione securely in his arms, right where she belonged.
Forever.