Fic: I'm gonna make sure it never happens again (HP, Draco/Hermione)
I'm gonna make sure it never happens again | HP | Draco/Hermione (mentions of Harry, Ginny, Ron, Astoria, Scorpious) | R (to be safe) | 1023 words | for the December meme of Doom, for vergoldung and her prompt Nineteen Years Later, platform 9 3/4, silent glances. // And the way that you stare. // (Don't you dare.)
Author's note: ELEONORE, I HAVE NO APOLOGIES FOR BEING LATE. Also have no idea what this is, to be quite honest, I just have hopes that you'll like it ♥ Your prompt was precious and Draco/Hermione are precious and you are precious ♥
You were like coming up for fresh air. It's like I was drowning and you saved me. It's all I know.
Grey's Anatomy
(18 and a half years after the war. They grew older.)
If Draco bothered to count, he'd know this was their fourty third time fucking.
They're lying in bed, skin covered in sweat and limbs tangled up in white sheets, which makes none of this any less obscene, he thinks, and that's when she speaks.
I can't do this anymore, she says.
Fine, he says.
An old, wooden clock ticks away seconds after seconds.
Neither of them moves.
(Half a year before, 18 years after the end of the war. Not much has changed.)
Draco is standing on Platform 9 3/4. Astoria is talking to Scorpius about school rules and Draco's staring at nothing in particular. He recognizes old Hogwarts students, people he knew, with their children. There's a pleasant sort of murmur present, and it's almost comforting to see some things don't change - the Golden Trio is here, still going strong, still never apart.
They catch him staring at them, he can tell, because their expressions change, and there's sudden whispering. Potter sets himself apart from Ron, Hermione and Ginny and the children, and approaches him. He looks determined. To achieve what, Draco can't tell.
They mutter each other's surnames, almost shyly, and then Draco remembers there's years of history here, even if the boy this man used to be didn't want to be Draco's friend once.
Draco asks about Harry's family, Harry asks about Draco's family, and somehow Harry invites him to have lunch at his and Ginny's place.
He comes over for lunch on a Sunday that week, excuses Astoria for not being there (she's visiting her mother, you see) and proceeds to answer all questions politely and besides that is very happy to spend the evening just staring at Hermione Granger. (Always Granger in his head. Hermione Weasley never really existed.)
These days, about a year later, he remembers that evening through images of her. Her fiddling with her fork, her twirling her tea spoon, her staring at the window, her losing focus in one evening more times than he'd ever seen her lose focus in seven years of Hogwarts classes. Her blue dress that trailed behind her as she walked, Ron's hand on her hip, Ron trying to kiss her lips, Hermione turning away to have him kiss her cheek instead.
He'd lie if he said he wasn't already intrigued that night.
Nothing special ever happens after that lunch. He just makes sure to run into her at the Ministry, and to get her to have tea with him during her break.
I know you, he tells her. Means it.
She's visibly nervous (he'd even call it scared). Her hands shake as she takes a sip of her tea and she can't quite make eye contact. (She does, eventually, but that part comes later.)
He insists on apparating with her back to work, and she holds his hand reluctantly when he stretches his out in front of her.
Where do you want to go?
Malfoy, I-
Granger-
Anywhere.
He takes her to his favorite hotel, and her hands shake the whole time.
They're in the hotel lobby, when she takes his hand and pulls him towards an empty room, and then she presses him against the wall and forces her tongue into his mouth.
She digs her nails too deep into his back and he leaves traces of his lips and his tongue all over her body and there are tears in her eyes.
It's horrible in many ways, none of which make any difference in the end, because there's still the second time, and the time after that and the time after that.
Between their first and the second time, she cuts her hair, which now reaches just below her chin.
He does this thing, his thing, where he smiles and rolls his eyes, decides not to let the words mid-life crisis leave his mouth, because he's clever like that sometimes.
He kisses her bare neck instead, fingers trailing lightly over her arms.
Ron doesn't notice. I think he doesn't want to.
It's an unspoken rule, never to talk about things outside their current hotel room.
They never talk about their children or friends or work.
It sounds horrible, when he thinks about it. But then again, that never was the point of this.
His marriage is almost non-existent.
Astoria is small talk and finances and housekeeping and organizing formal events of all sorts, none of which he likes attending. Hermione is incoherent grumbling set between a hello and a goodbye, she's nails and biting, up against walls in every hotel known to man.
(19 years later. Some things don't change, no matter what you do.)
It's inevitable, running into her like this.
He can pretend all he wants, but it's September 1st, where else would either of them be?
He's standing more than 30 feet away from her. He knows, because he makes sure he does. Because if he's more than 30 feet away from her, maybe he won't take in her scent and maybe he won't mind Ron's hand around her waist, and maybe nothing happens, nothing at all.
Instead he focuses on Scorpius, pretends not to see Scorpius's eyes set on Rose Weasley.
(This does not help, not one bit.)
(Things change, Hermione's voice says in his head. We grew old, we just failed to notice while it happened.)
Everyone sends their children off, and he talks briefly with Potter and Ginny.
Hermione meets him in some hotel whose name he can't remember, half an hour later.
Draco knows things about Hermione now. Important things.
How her skin tastes after the cruel, cold, London rain, that she loves biting his lower lip, and that she always has to be the one to leave first.
If Draco bothered to count, he'd know this was their eighty second time fucking.
I can't do this anymore, she says.
Fine, he says.
An old, wooden clock ticks away seconds after seconds.
Neither of them moves.
Author's note: ELEONORE, I HAVE NO APOLOGIES FOR BEING LATE. Also have no idea what this is, to be quite honest, I just have hopes that you'll like it ♥ Your prompt was precious and Draco/Hermione are precious and you are precious ♥
You were like coming up for fresh air. It's like I was drowning and you saved me. It's all I know.
Grey's Anatomy
(18 and a half years after the war. They grew older.)
If Draco bothered to count, he'd know this was their fourty third time fucking.
They're lying in bed, skin covered in sweat and limbs tangled up in white sheets, which makes none of this any less obscene, he thinks, and that's when she speaks.
I can't do this anymore, she says.
Fine, he says.
An old, wooden clock ticks away seconds after seconds.
Neither of them moves.
(Half a year before, 18 years after the end of the war. Not much has changed.)
Draco is standing on Platform 9 3/4. Astoria is talking to Scorpius about school rules and Draco's staring at nothing in particular. He recognizes old Hogwarts students, people he knew, with their children. There's a pleasant sort of murmur present, and it's almost comforting to see some things don't change - the Golden Trio is here, still going strong, still never apart.
They catch him staring at them, he can tell, because their expressions change, and there's sudden whispering. Potter sets himself apart from Ron, Hermione and Ginny and the children, and approaches him. He looks determined. To achieve what, Draco can't tell.
They mutter each other's surnames, almost shyly, and then Draco remembers there's years of history here, even if the boy this man used to be didn't want to be Draco's friend once.
Draco asks about Harry's family, Harry asks about Draco's family, and somehow Harry invites him to have lunch at his and Ginny's place.
He comes over for lunch on a Sunday that week, excuses Astoria for not being there (she's visiting her mother, you see) and proceeds to answer all questions politely and besides that is very happy to spend the evening just staring at Hermione Granger. (Always Granger in his head. Hermione Weasley never really existed.)
These days, about a year later, he remembers that evening through images of her. Her fiddling with her fork, her twirling her tea spoon, her staring at the window, her losing focus in one evening more times than he'd ever seen her lose focus in seven years of Hogwarts classes. Her blue dress that trailed behind her as she walked, Ron's hand on her hip, Ron trying to kiss her lips, Hermione turning away to have him kiss her cheek instead.
He'd lie if he said he wasn't already intrigued that night.
Nothing special ever happens after that lunch. He just makes sure to run into her at the Ministry, and to get her to have tea with him during her break.
I know you, he tells her. Means it.
She's visibly nervous (he'd even call it scared). Her hands shake as she takes a sip of her tea and she can't quite make eye contact. (She does, eventually, but that part comes later.)
He insists on apparating with her back to work, and she holds his hand reluctantly when he stretches his out in front of her.
Where do you want to go?
Malfoy, I-
Granger-
Anywhere.
He takes her to his favorite hotel, and her hands shake the whole time.
They're in the hotel lobby, when she takes his hand and pulls him towards an empty room, and then she presses him against the wall and forces her tongue into his mouth.
She digs her nails too deep into his back and he leaves traces of his lips and his tongue all over her body and there are tears in her eyes.
It's horrible in many ways, none of which make any difference in the end, because there's still the second time, and the time after that and the time after that.
Between their first and the second time, she cuts her hair, which now reaches just below her chin.
He does this thing, his thing, where he smiles and rolls his eyes, decides not to let the words mid-life crisis leave his mouth, because he's clever like that sometimes.
He kisses her bare neck instead, fingers trailing lightly over her arms.
Ron doesn't notice. I think he doesn't want to.
It's an unspoken rule, never to talk about things outside their current hotel room.
They never talk about their children or friends or work.
It sounds horrible, when he thinks about it. But then again, that never was the point of this.
His marriage is almost non-existent.
Astoria is small talk and finances and housekeeping and organizing formal events of all sorts, none of which he likes attending. Hermione is incoherent grumbling set between a hello and a goodbye, she's nails and biting, up against walls in every hotel known to man.
(19 years later. Some things don't change, no matter what you do.)
It's inevitable, running into her like this.
He can pretend all he wants, but it's September 1st, where else would either of them be?
He's standing more than 30 feet away from her. He knows, because he makes sure he does. Because if he's more than 30 feet away from her, maybe he won't take in her scent and maybe he won't mind Ron's hand around her waist, and maybe nothing happens, nothing at all.
Instead he focuses on Scorpius, pretends not to see Scorpius's eyes set on Rose Weasley.
(This does not help, not one bit.)
(Things change, Hermione's voice says in his head. We grew old, we just failed to notice while it happened.)
Everyone sends their children off, and he talks briefly with Potter and Ginny.
Hermione meets him in some hotel whose name he can't remember, half an hour later.
Draco knows things about Hermione now. Important things.
How her skin tastes after the cruel, cold, London rain, that she loves biting his lower lip, and that she always has to be the one to leave first.
If Draco bothered to count, he'd know this was their eighty second time fucking.
I can't do this anymore, she says.
Fine, he says.
An old, wooden clock ticks away seconds after seconds.
Neither of them moves.