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Cake	By : flamingmoth Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 4589 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or settings in Harry Potter. I make no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Cake
- 1
Draco lay staring at the ceiling, watching as the dawn crept in. He had been awake for an hour. Hermione still slept, her breathing even and regular. He was grateful for it. At least one of them didn’t have to lie here contemplating what today was or what might have been, he told himself with a grimace.
Today, were it not for Voldemort and his plans to rule the world, they would have left Hogwarts for the last time as newly minted adult witches and wizards. They would have laughed and cried; some of them might have embraced. The night before, there would have been parties full of talking, remembering, drinking, dancing...snogging, more than snogging.
He half-smiled. At least, he and Hermione had that much.
Draco lifted his head a bit and looked at the face of the sleeping witch curled next to him. Dark circles lay beneath her eyes, and her cheekbones stood out a bit too prominently. He imagined his own face looked pointier than ever, though it was hard to tell in the badly-lit bathroom mirror. Neither of them had been eating well lately, though not for lack of trying. The war was not going as they had hoped. Three weeks prior, the Order had been raided at Grimmaud Place, not long after he and Hermione had stumbled into their mutual attraction among the wreckage of Kreacher’s baking.
The survivors of the raid had been forced to split up into twos and threes and take refuge elsewhere. Hermione and Draco had been sent away together, even though it tore her up to be parted from Potter and Weasley, who were lodged in a safe house a hundred and fifty kilometers away. Others were scattered here and there in cottages in tiny villages, flats in bleak industrial towns, or with those few Wizarding folk willing to risk their lives to conceal them in their homes. Draco curled his lip when he recalled that none of them had wanted to shelter the only Malfoy to have turned his back on the ideals of blood status in living memory – which was quite long for magical folk.
Lying there, watching the room slowly lighten to gray and then rosy pink, Draco suddenly remembered something. Today was his birthday. Again, were it not for the war, he might have spent it at Malfoy Manor or at the family’s flat in London, or perhaps the Parisian penthouse -- in any number of other places than this cheaply built Muggle house in a nondescript council estate. His friends would have been there, as well as his parents. He wondered what his mother and father were doing and if they were thinking of him that day -- assuming they were still alive. The last intelligence the Order had been able to gather before the raid suggested that they both were, but a lot could happen in a month’s time.
It pained him. Everything pained him about the track his thoughts had taken, but instead of feeling sorry for himself or brooding about it, he fought down the sadness and pushed it all away, rolled onto his side, and watched Hermione sleep. While Draco had been spoiled rotten as a child, raised with a sense of entitlement that would have put many a Muggle princeling to shame, recent events had conspired to greatly trim his opinion of himself and his own importance down to a more realistic size. It had also caused him to thank Merlin, the gods, and fate every day when he awakened with the brown-haired witch at his side.
Though the war had made his entire life a constant barrage of strangeness and uncertainly, sometimes Draco still marveled that things between Hermione and himself had turned out this way. It was clearly a case of opposites attracting. She was far less of a swot than before, but she was still bossy and far too smart for her own good. He would always be a sarcastic, arrogant git...but he was a sarcastic, arrogant git who had learned to value things for which he’d never had much use before the war, such as friendship from people such as Potter, Weasley, and the rest of the Order, and discovering that the loss of one’s old prejudices didn’t mean the loss of one’s sense of self, too. And most of all, affection, trust and, Draco whispered to himself, love.
He hadn’t yet said anything to Granger, though. Whether or not she loved him back was uncertain. He thought so, but she was hard to read sometimes, being at once more direct and more complicated than any other woman he’d ever known. At least, she certainly didn’t despise him any longer.
Almost unconsciously, Draco lifted a hand to smooth some errant curls back from Hermione’s forehead. Her hair was soft, belying its wild appearance, and her skin was even softer. He had touched, tasted, explored every inch of her skin several times over by now. Suddenly, he wanted to do it again. His morning erection had subsided earlier as he let himself become absorbed in his sobering thoughts, but as he felt the press of Hermione’s body close to his and the warm pulse of her breath on his shoulder, it returned.
She stirred as he dropped his hand to her side and pulled her close. “Mmm,” she murmured. Hermione didn’t open her eyes, but he felt her hand move, inching downward. His breath caught as her fingers grazed his naked cock...and bypassed it entirely as she scratched an itch on her thigh. Draco exhaled sharply and looked down only to see Hermione’s dark eyes open, sparkling in the early morning light with amusement and sleepy desire.
She said nothing else, and at first Draco felt a tad disappointed that she’d forgotten what day it was. But then Hermione planted a kiss on his chin and suddenly slid out from under Draco’s arm, yawning hugely and stretching. He arched a brow at the way her movements caused her breasts to jut forward, but before he could reach out and drag her back to him, Hermione was off the bed and padding out of the room. “I have something for you,” she called back.
Draco sat up, blinking as the sun slid through the Venetian blinds and striped his skin gold. He was still hard, but he momentarily forgot his throbbing erection as Hermione returned, as naked as she’d been when they’d finally fallen asleep the night before. She carried something on a plate, and perched on the side of the bed, holding it out to Draco. He saw what looked like a small, round cake.
“I saved out some of the flour and sugar from the last of the supplies, and managed to get the eggs and other things from the shop down the road,” Hermione explained. “I baked it last night after you fell asleep.”
He hadn’t even known she wasn’t in bed with him then. “I was obviously tired,” he said, and his mouth curved up in a knowing smirk.
“I know you were. I made sure of it,” Hermione murmured, leaning forward to capture his lips with her own. The cake very nearly slid off the plate and onto the floor, but she managed to keep it from falling. “Happy birthday, Malfoy.”
“Thanks,” he replied, taking the plate from her as she crawled onto the bed beside him. He gazed at it in bemusement. “I suppose frosting was too much to hope for, but it looks lovely.”
“Oh!” Hermione almost upset the plate again as she leaped out of bed a second time. “I nearly forgot. Wait here.” She hurried out of the room, and Draco stared after her in confusion until she returned, beaming triumphantly, a small tub made of that Muggle stuff called plastickin her hands.
Catching sight of the label, Draco blinked. “You did get frosting! I thought we were all out of Muggle money until the next meeting? How did you -- “
“I, um, used a bit of magic,” Hermione’s face went pink. “While I was in the shop and saw that I didn’t have enough for the frosting too, IAccio’d the container into my bag. Lucky for me, the grocer was too busy telling off some boys hanging around in front to notice.” She shrugged. “I know it was wrong, but it’s your birthday, Malfoy. I wanted you to have it. I know how you like sweets.”
The significance of this event -- that Hermione Granger had basely stolen for him -- did not escape Draco’s notice. Not only had she committed an act of thievery on his behalf, it hadn’t even been something vital, like potion supplies or less frivolous food. He would have been pleased enough with the little cake itself; it looked very tasty, and he knew that Hermione was a decent cook. But for her to have risked exposure or worse, just to make his birthday a little happier, surely meant that she felt something more than merely lust and friendship for him. Didn’t it?
Now would probably be a good time to mention the bit about being in love with her, but his mouth felt as if it was stuck together with a mouthful of frosting. Finally, Draco collected himself, set down the cake plate, and drew Hermione into his arms.
“You’re brilliant, you know that?” he told her, kissing her forehead.
“I try my best,” she replied modestly, putting her arms around him in turn. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and the momentary distraction of baked goods was past. He rolled them both over, so that she was lying beneath him and could not ignore what was pressed against her thigh.
Her smirk was almost a perfect copy of his own. “It feels like I might have to work a bit harder at proving it, though.”
This time, her hand went exactly where Draco wanted it to go.
* * * * *

The real surprise came later, as they sat at the rickety kitchen table eating the cake.
Draco had insisted on sharing it with Hermione, and after cutting it up, they had lavishly coated their respective pieces with a great deal of frosting, snickering with glee as they consumed it and experienced the almost-forgotten high of a sugar rush. The frosting tub was still about half-full when they finally set their forks down.
“That was smashing, Granger,” Draco said, slowly licking chocolate frosting off his lips.
Hermione stared at him in a daze for a second before answering. “It is quite good, isn’t it? I found a recipe on the Internet, otherwise it would never have turned out so well. I’d never done a cake from scratch before.”
“I suppose that computer thing of yours is useful, after all.” Draco had no interest in understanding the intricacies of Muggle communications technology. All he knew for certain is that Hermione’s access to that webby business was accomplished by a lot of wires and, often, vehement swearing when the machine finished its clattering dial-up noises and yet failed to connect straightaway.
“That’s how I’ve been keeping in touch with Harry, you know,” Hermione pointed out archly.
“Hmm, I’m inclined to think that a cake is of far more use than either him or Weasel,” Draco remarked, and was rewarded with Hermione trying to smack him on the arm. “Oi! No beating up the birthday boy!”
Hermione suddenly ceased her attempted violence and smiled delicately at him. “Why don’t you have some more?” she said, pointing at the half-eaten cake.
“What?” Draco looked at her in surprise. “I just ate a huge piece. You should have another. You need it as much as I do.”
“No one needs chocolate cake -- “
“I beg to differ!”
“ -- and besides, it’s your birthday. Go on.” Still smiling that odd little smile, Hermione cut another slice and put it onto his plate, then pushed the tub of frosting at Draco.
He snorted, then seeing a flash of – was it hurt? – on her face, he relented. “All right. But only if you have some, too.”
“Can’t. I’ve had my fill for now. You go ahead, I’ll watch.” She rested her chin in her hand, looking at him with those large, dark eyes. Draco was torn between obeying her wishes or shoving everything – cake, frosting, plates and all -- off the table before throwing her onto it and having his way with her. But he might as well gratify Hermione and enjoy her baking skills while he could, and besides, until their next orders came in from Dumbledore and Shacklebolt, there was precious little else to do but eat, sleep, peruse the few books they had, watch the Muggle telly (which both mystified and fascinated Draco) or shag. And he knew that most of that night, they wouldn’t be eating, sleeping, reading or watching EastEnders.
“Fine, but I’m saving some of this frosting for later, when I’m all out of cake.” He caught her eyes and held them as he dipped a finger into the frosting and stuck it in his mouth, and was pleased to see Hermione’s face turn pink again, this time with excitement. Sucking the chocolate off his finger, Draco prepared to spread more frosting onto his piece of cake, when his fork clinked against something hard inside the container.
“What in Circe’s name…?” Removing the fork, Draco peered into the half-empty frosting tub and saw a glint of metal. He reached in and pulled out something small and oddly familiar-seeming. Taking out his wand, he Scourgified the object, but after the frosting vanished, all he was able to do was stare in mute shock.
Hermione twisted her hands anxiously, watching his face change as he looked at the thing he was holding. Draco’s expression went from puzzled to amazed, then slowly filled with dawning awareness and a burst of hope. He looked wildly from the silvery object to Hermione and back. “You…how did you….” was all he could manage.
“Your father sent it. He’s joined our side, Draco. He and your mother went to your aunt Andromeda, who put them in touch with the Order. When I was out getting the things for your cake, an owl came from Harry with a coded note and that ring. If anybody else had intercepted it, the letter was written in such a way as to make them think your father was dead. Harry gave me the key to the cipher before the raid.” She leaned forward earnestly as Draco stared at her. “Your parents said to tell you they love you and miss you...and that they understand now why you left.”
“This ring...it was my great-great-grandfather’s. It means -- “
“They’ve forgiven you. The note said your father has already Incendio’d the disinheritance decree.” Hermione smiled brightly at him. “I would have baked the ring into the cake itself, but I didn’t want one of us to break a tooth.”
“I suppose a box would’ve been too simple for you.” Draco slid the Malfoy signet ring onto his right ring finger and then reached over and took Hermione’s hand. He stared into her eyes, weighing the possible consequences of what he was going to say, but then decided that he was too happy to put it off any longer...even if he was wrong about her feelings for him.
“Granger, this is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he began, unable to keep the nervous tension out of his voice.
She shrugged. “It wasn’t me, it was -- “
“No, don’t shrug it off. Nicking from a grocer’s, baking a cake despite our barely having enough to eat most days, hiding the Malfoy signet ring in a bloody tub of frosting for my birthday. Nobody’s ever done anything like that for me. It’s strange and marvelous and -- and perfect. Like you.” He drew a deep breath. “I love you, Hermione.”
The silence that fell after Draco spoke was not deafening nor particularly ominous, but he would never forget it. Hermione simply looked at him, her eyes warm and radiant, the dark circles and weary sallowness of her skin having vanished in the flush that still colored her face. She didn’t have to say anything, though. He already knew what she would have said, as surely as he’d known he loved her when he woke up the morning after they’d first fallen into his bed at Grimmaud Place.
“Eat your cake,” Hermione finally murmured, moving the tub of frosting closer to his plate.
- 1
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Cake