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Long Time in the Making	By : T-W-O Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 11238 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I own nothing of HP nor do I profit in any way from these missives. I almost own the laptop I'm writing this fanfic on, tho'.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Having Voldemort as an uninvited houseguest alongside his mother’s nut-job sister and his escaped-convict father forced creative non-magical jail breaks from his palatial incarceration in Malfoy Manor, a place Draco used to call “home”.

Of all his school years at Hogwarts, this easily achieved “Worst Year of My Life” award-winning status. He’d not even been allowed to return to the school, having failed miserably at assassinating Albus Dumbledore — bloody hell… he’d been about to let the manipulative bastard of a headmaster persuade him to switch sides, something unthinkable before undeserved kindness and swirling mocha-brown eyes entered his extravagant but empty life.
Leaving the confines of this luxury prison became possible because of a small, unobtrusive coin that occasionally (as in nowhere near as often as he’d like) warmed and shook in his shirt pocket. The notification’s spontaneity and unpredictability prevented him from keeping it with other coins in his trousers; he’d been hexed in punishment once too often for interrupting the Dark Looney’s rants and murderous meetings, at their dining table, by the jiggling galleons in his pocket. Every shirt in his wardrobe sported a skin-facing surround to hide his only link to life away from genocide.
When the coin activated, Draco found non-magical means to escape his gilded prison and make his lily-livered way to her.

Determined to enjoy himself, tonight they’d shared the stars that traversed the sky over the Burrow in summer, both lying on a pallet made of their transfigured clothing. Aware that this tryst could be their last (as Harry sought an end to Draco’s living nightmare), he’d made tender love to her, unable to express his disinterest in remaining in a world without the young woman he hated…
Ever the swot, she pointed heavenward with a question — “Where’s your constellation?”
The constellation’s namesake pointed to the north before answering — “There. See the Dipper? That’s the tail. Follow the s-curve up the handle and around and that’s the dragon.”
Hermione chewed on this as she did with all things knowledge. Standing — then yanking — the languid prat up, she dressed slowly, allowing him one last look at her supple and shapely body to last until the next time… if there is one.

“‘Dragon’. I like that for you —”
“My name is ‘Draco’, despite its meaning. Don’t fuck with my name, Granger.”

She’d hit a pure-blood sore spot and Draco could tell she had no intention of backing off.

“— and I might have it tattooed across my bottom.”

Draco loved her little bump of a bum and would gladly read anything written on it, even in the pitch black of a moonless night. The thought had him hard as granite and jealous of a yet-to-be-hired inker.

“If anyone but me touches your arse, I’ll have their bollocks in a jar before they get a good look.”

This was better than most of their endings since Voldemort banned Muggle-borns from her beloved Hogwarts. She’s laughing teasingly and he’s not on the verge of tears at having to leave her for Malfoy Manor.
Whilst he considered this, her body bonded to his for a final kiss: all tongue and lips; teeth and tasting. The power from it slammed his eyelids shut like magical self-closing curtains and when he regained conscious thought, she’d gone back to the crooked house.

The fall of the Ministry and the raid on Bill Weasley’s wedding had him vomiting in fear for her.

While Hermione hid from the real threat of extermination, Draco cajoled her (by misusing their agreed-upon protocol) to meet him in the small shelter he’d hidden in the park across from Number 12 Grimmauld, the house that should have been his mother’s. Occasionally he passed what information he could — it had been Draco who insisted Al Runcorn and Mafalda Hopkirk where better targets for her ridiculous scheme to retrieve a locket.

“Get your head out of that lovely arse of yours, Granger! Your best chance of getting NEAR Umbridge is Runcorn — he’s the hound she’s collared to weed out Muggle-borns. I guarantee on Mother’s life he’ll be wherever she is!”
“And what makes you think we need to find Umbridge, you greasy git!?”
“Ooo;” he snarked back, “Got a mouth on you, you have. Because Kreacher, despite being willed to Ron Weasley’s boyfriend, remains loyal to the Blacks by blood magic. I ASKED him.”

He let smug chasten her until she paled.

“Draco… if anyone else finds out…”
“Relax, Granger. Kreacher loathes Potter so he willingly answered all my questions. Never thought the ‘Boy Blunder’ would curl up with a nursery blanket to sleep. The mental image gives one tremors. Some saviour…”
“Dra-gon…” she drawled out in impatience.
“You, however, have conquered the knurly old curmudgeon with your kindness. Wouldn’t tell me a thing about your plans. You’ve got him punishing himself for ever calling you a Mudblood.”

Prolonged separation clouded her memory of his preternatural hearing — “Wish I could do the same to you sometimes…”

“I HEARD that, Granger! And it’s ‘DRACO’. I have almost no knowledge from the elf about your strategy. What I do know is you need something in the Ministry. Given Thickness is Imperius’d, your next best bet is Umbridge. She’s been running the Ministry since Fudge surrendered his sac during Fourth Year.”
“You might be right…” she deliberated, revising their plan with the new information.
“I AM right. I need that incompetent crew of yours alive if I’m ever to get my comfortable life back.”
“And us?”

This question, whether they had a future beyond desperation, came up more often from her. As he’d done over the last weeks, Draco applied his inner Slytherin to the answer.

“Survive, Granger. We’ll discuss the future when this horror has ended.”

Having feelings for the brains of the Saviour-of-the-Fucking-World’s Back Office Squad pissed Draco off. Without that little entanglement he wouldn’t be wandering around in the woods in the winter in the bloody dark trying to determine her condition. Sneaking away from the serial killers living in his house (without getting killed) tested the depth and breadth of his Slytherin skills and expensive education at Hogwarts. Merlin (Chief Magical Bastard, to Draco’s thinking) had taken a day off in his role as prankster, Draco concluded, when he put Severus Snape firmly in his life as a protector and teacher — it would have been too much like kindness to make the cunning, ugly professor his real father instead of the cowardly blonde ex-felon presently sulking like a neutered centaur back in the Manor.
Growing more irritated and concerned each minute, Draco seriously considered giving up when shouting and the strange sight of red hair with a vapid expression caught Draco’s wavering attentions. Before him stood an emotional Ronald Weasley, tearfully screaming apologies and banging on a wall that wasn’t there.

“Hermione, please! I didn’t mean it! You know that bloody locket messes with me more than you or Harry. Hermione! Her-MY-nee!”

Congratulations — to Weasel for getting himself thrown out by the most forgiving woman Draco knew, to Hermione for throwing the underserving cock-up out and to himself for being in the right place at the right time — would have to wait; Ron’s entreaty halted abruptly and the ginger git stood stock still staring at a point in space.

“Ronald, stop!” Draco heard her hiss at her former boyfriend, “You’ll bring the Snatchers! Go… Go home and sort your priorities. Your no good to us or yourself until you do.”
“‘Mione, I know there’s nothing between you and… I mean, you’re friends and all…”
“You should go and sort this with your family,” she replied, not unkindly.
“What about you and Harry?”

The youngest Weasley son wondered how the duo would continue minus a wand (even if it was his). She answered to explain why this “quest” of Harry’s mattered.

“Don’t worry about us; we no longer have families, thanks to You-Know-Who.”

Weaslebee stared a moment more, hoping for some softening of her stance. No such luck. Draco’d admired that steel behind those brown eyes too many times — his least favorite cousin had pissed her off. Light-years ahead of “Wrong-ald” (if the ginger git had known light-years existed), Draco misused his coin once again, praying Hermione’s brains would keep her from revealing their secret notification technology.
Her eyes gave her away; his favorite swot’s gaze scanned the surrounding flora for him. Tapping his wand against the tree he hid behind, Draco flashed two quick Lumos spells in a manner she’d not mistake for a coincidence or a threat.

“I have to strengthen the wards and you,” she emphasized with a finger to Ron’s chest, “have to go before you lead the Snatchers to us,” and with barely a look behind, she wound her way to the tree where Draco hid.

Countless minutes later he held a near-skeleton in his arms.

“Fuck, Granger! You’re skinny and freezing.”
“Any other ‘compliments?”
“You smell like a hippogriff?”

Draco gasped when she broke down, fist stuffed in her mouth and sobbing silently as if she practiced every night. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was the strongest witch he knew. He’d come to seek comfort, not to give any out.
Huffing his displeasure at her failure to hold it together, the annoyed escapee from Maniac Manor half-dragged her to a small cavelike overhang. Furious flicks of his wand had them Disillusioned, warmed, alight and Silencio’d in short order.

“It’s H-H-HORrible!”
“Eat,” he ordered, revealing a veritable feast stolen from the Manor. A small, clean cauldron filled itself with a hearty vegetable and mystery-meat stew.
“Th-Th-Thank you,” she managed before devouring the too-hot stew straight from the pot. He’d cast a hasty cooling charm on her tongue to stop the damage.
“Careful, Granger! It’s not going anywhere.”
“So hungry! It’s been days,” she mumbled between slurps of the cooled nutrition, “Have to save some for Harry —”
“Like bloody hell you will! Bolthead can look after himself.”
“That’s not —”

Suddenly deaf, Draco instead made her a comfortable pallet, transfiguring blankets from swatches of fabric he’d brought for the purpose of shagging his own depression into remission.

“Lie down and sleep.”
“I have to get back. Harry will —”

If she remained this bloody disobedient after the war, assuming they both survived, he’d spank her without hesitation or remorse.

“Sleep, you obstinate bint. I will wake you in two hours, feed you again and provide a charity package of food and supplies for you to take back. Well done on throwing the Weasel out.”

If he ignored her tears, Draco decided, he could enjoy the removal of a rival.

“He LEFT; not my doing.”

Draco made a note to send a “thank you” basket to the Weasleys — when they came out of hiding.

“Draco… Why are you —”

Tenderly laying her down, fully aware of the rough living healing itself over most of her body, he gave her the only answer he could at this point.

“You and your cross-eyed ‘Saint’ are my only hope of having a future I can enjoy. Survive, Granger, and kill that fucking semi-human, two-legged snake threatening my parents.”

Having to lie to the best Legillimens in Britain’s current cast of crazies drained the life from Draco daily — but he succeeded with Potter-the-Reckless-And-Ugly less than an inch in front of him, failing to speak the truth to a close relative who practically lived in Voldemort’s head.

Unfortunately, Ronald Queasy’s presence made Hermione a shoo-in for “Most Wanted Mudblood”.

That situation ended with the two brave-but-oh-so-stupid male Gryffindor junior terrorists in his ancestral dungeons and the girl he’d been leaking information to (without actually knowing why she needed it) spread-eagle, trapped in a shackling spell and spewing bullshite with every word (far better than he thought the rule-bound, truth-loving witch could). Not to mention she managed this while under the attentions of Voldemort’s deranged second-in-command, the Dark Lord’s most dedicated lieutenant and lover — as in mother-of-the-snakeman’s-misbegotten-spawn kind of lover. When, exactly, his philandering aunt had removed Uncle Rodolphus’ bollocks and replaced them with some customized testicular “remote control”, Draco chose not to think upon lest he lose his lunch. Based on the frenetic energy Auntie “Bella” displayed as the Snatchers dragged in the Gobshite Trio, Draco gave his aunt props for her speedy recovery from the baby’s delivery. Rumor was the child had died — for which Draco praised Merlin and all the Druid deities.
Thus the Malfoy heir-apparent fumed that they’d been captured — despite every possible risk he’d taken to help Crack-Pott, the ginger git and Draco’s foolhardy witch finally end his own personal crises (for example, having a demented serial killer running the wizarding world from the Manor dining room). He shook in fear when he’d seen Hermione thrown to the floor to reenact a scene few had survived.
Any dollop of courage, drawn up in the shallow teaspoon of his dwindling intestinal fortitude, got tipped back into the puddle when Hermione decisively shook her filthy, tangled curls at him to prevent him from attempting a rescue (as if he’d intended to). He’d shamefully sighed in relief at her secret message — well aware of her prodigious talent for “saving the day” and his inability to place himself in harm’s way for anyone but his mother. If she pulled off her own rescue this time, his arse would go with her and take his mother.
How surreal, he would ponder long after the chaos of her escape, that Dobby — his father’s former house elf who’s loyalties were transferred by trickery to the Potted Savior — claimed the title of hero and rescuer… but not before Draco’s heart and head shattered at the things done to his witch by his so-called family and friends…

So it came hours later (as Hermione strolled the invisible and unplottable property boundary of Shell Cottage, before sunset, to process her feelings on being tortured for who she was) that Draco recklessly activated his coin carrying the rescued Gryffindor’s Protean charm. Lost once again in some forest near her whereabouts, he missed the discomfort her coin’s warmth caused in her borrowed jeans.
Casting a personal shield charm, she’d stepped past the protective barrier and entered the eerily beautiful woods surrounding the property’s perimeter. More than the tides made noise as night fell. She found him — stumbling blindly through the brush and yelling her name with a pathos unknown to him before this awful year began.

“Draco! Shhh! I’m over here!”

Draco bristled at the sound of Ronald-the-Dolt’s voice in the distance, asking after his witch.

“I’m fine, Ron. I just want some fresh air. Go back inside; I’ll be along later.”

Having seen the Weasel handled, Draco continued closing the distance between guilt and grace. Tripping and sniffling in a manner unbecoming of a Malfoy, he hauled himself up in front of her then crashed to his knees — sobbing and clinging to her legs like a lost child.

“I’m sorry! I should have — I’m sor-sor-sorry!” he blubbered and stammered on hitches of breath.
“Dragon… Dobby saved —”

— and by the time she reasoned out how she ended up on the ground, he’d covered her with his body.

“You deserve better… I tried! I tried to protect you! I thought they’d let you go if I lied about Potter but that BITCH TORTURED you and I DID NOTHING!”

As she soothed him, running her still stinging fingers through his sweaty hair, he cast a Lumos to view first-hand the desecrations on her body.
Draco froze for an instant then reached for her arm. Her wound, weeping and still raw where his insane aunt had branded her, flared towards the tingling in his fingertips. Her injury sensed his Dark Mark’s powerful magic and sought it’s power. Draco shuddered.

“Oh, Merlin!” he choked out, “Oh, Merlin! Oh-Merlin-Oh-Merlin-Oh-Merlin —”

His litany continued with each new testament of trauma written in scars and bruises defacing her beautiful body — until she kissed him, passing acceptance, resilience and love through the chaste touching of lips.

“Make love to me, Draco… Please?”

Draco froze as the last functioning gear operating in his screwed-up head seized up at her demand (for it couldn’t be taken any other way given who said it and what happened not eight hours ago in Malfoy Manor).

“You’re hurt. Y-Y-You must be exhausted after-after…”

He cursed himself when the words he sought (for the most heinous of acts enacted upon her) hid within in the rubbish his brain had become. So he rewound the script and started over.

“The Cruciatus fucks with your head. You’ll hurt like hell for days, possibly weeks, even with pain potions.”

His look communicated his real message — Are you sure?

And she kissed him, again.

“I want to feel. To know that you still want me despite my being on the opposing side, disfigured and a Mudblood. If we still matter to each other, then the t-t-torture was worth it. If you don’t care about this —”

She brought her mutilated arm up beside his head and nearly banged the raw wound in his face. He understood.

“— then I don’t care about it either…”

Laying there, pinned into the soft earth, had to hurt her like hell, yet he remained motionless — staring at the woman she’d become.
It’s not like the decision to make love to her was really that difficult…
Lowering his lips to her ear, he murmured words meant only for her, then set about easing her ache. Draco executed his apology in a way guaranteed to show his witch that tonight was not “Goodbye, Mudblood” by any means.

He kissed her cheek — “I’m sorry…”

Warmth. Moist air eddied around them inside the shield.

He kissed his way down her neck — “I’m sorry…”

Their dome’s sides opaqued, leaving a soft, hazy view of the trees over their hidden spot as a full moon chased away the drowsy sun.

He kissed the discolored bruises on her shoulder — “I’m sorry…”

Skipping the obvious targets on her face and front, he kissed his way down the arm sporting that hideous war memorial. Reverently, he spelled her borrowed blouse and bra to the side. The ground beneath them reformed, under its own primal magic, into a comfortable pallet for their care of each other.

He kissed the crook of her elbow, mere inches above the blood purity “tattoo” — “I’m sorry…”

As she lay, head lazily turned to give him easy access, she missed his mapping of her body but did not miss the easing of the torment from the Crucio. Pain receded; her arm no longer troubled her thanks to whatever he was doing, whatever was happening between them right now.

He kissed the scabbed scar sweeping across her midsection, barely healed from the potions she’d taken — “I’m sorry…”

Within the shield charm that protected them both, gold and silver sprites danced in a breeze created by the beating of their tiny diaphanous wings, drying the sweat from the lover’s skin as it formed.
Hermione charmed their remaining clothes away as Draco crawled up her battered body.

“Whatever you want, Lioness…”
“I… I need to be on top. Is that alright?”

He rolled her, using the gentle pressure of his arms to cushion the move. At the same moment, changes underneath them sprouted a thick, cushioning field of clover and two easy slopes behind his back and his knees — the better for Hermione in her recuperating state; gravity would assist their making this night.
They’d never done this: Draco’d been raised to never relinquish control. Hermione’s timidity in sexual choices — not to mention the war — kept their encounters strictly missionary. Together under the stars — and experiencing their first peaceful moments in months, he gifted his submission to her to begin atonement for the fucking coward he’d been since she’d known him. Right now, Hermione-Something-Granger evidenced the purist blood Draco’d ever known; he couldn't remember the last pure-blood who’d survived Bella’s Crucio while spewing lies like a Slytherin.
Supporting and guiding her with his manicured fingers, her Slytherin partner smiled as her heat and wetness drifted onto his cock (where it lay against his stomach); she was ready for him without a touch to her more sensitive parts. Still, he hesitated —

“Do you need more?…” he asked in yet another tone he’d never used with her before.
"No, Dragon,” and she let gravity take her deeply into pleasure and him into redemption.

Her pace would have them joined for hours with no risk of his release — something else to thank his fast-learning witch for — and his surrender to this position provided ample opportunity to attend to the most aroused parts of her without fighting his own body’s urgency for orgasmic release.
His hands — kneading her thighs, stroking her nub where they joined, massaging her ribs or rubbing her stiff nipples — lifted the burden of soreness from her like a healer would. His concerted effort replaced the ache of injury with the easy ascent to orgasm, rocking their nether regions together and apart for her pleasure. Satisfaction spread through her — like a good stretch or the release of too-tight muscles — over and over until she leaned forward, captured Draco’s lips and gave him silent permission to finish them both.

Draco’d never been so happy to cum in his entire miserable existence.

“I have to go back…” she reminded them both hours later, when the bright moon passed its zenith.
“I know,” he whispered, with a nibble to the ear he could reach without disturbing her place on his chest.
“It was worth it…”

Not attuned to her random musings (or anyone else’s, really…), he waited out her silence.

“If we lose… If I die in this war… It will all be worth it. We’ve made something beautiful tonight.”
“Don’t let it go to your tainted-blood head that I let you have my pure-blood body.”

Satisfied that both were in a better place, the Slytherin prat grinned at her forgiveness for his lack of Potter-like bravery.

“Shut it, Ferret,” she grinned into his neck.

After an awful, awful year, Draco acknowledged the seeds of healing planted under the shimmering glow of primal magic made by the Cowardly Cockroach and his Know-It-All Mud-blood.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Long Time in the Making