That pesky cuckoo popped out and began calling again.
It emerged from the clock every hour to gaze upon the tender world below, like a lovebird that never tires of looking.
Most people would find its call clear and melodious, but to Hermione at this moment, the sound was distant and indistinct.
Her mind was spinning in a slow vortex, her eyelids glued shut as though weighted with honey — clearly the delayed after-effects of far too much frozen butterbeer.
It had called five times, or perhaps six. She frowned vaguely and nuzzled deeper into the crook of the boy's arm, pressing her face against his shoulder.
Fingers smoothed the furrow from her brow.
A moment later, cool fingers found her temples and began massaging them in a steady, rhythmic motion.
She let out a soft, contented hum and slid her hand up and down his arm in drowsy satisfaction.
She thought, with some puzzlement, that she was beginning to understand his obsession with touch. She rather liked it herself.
After a while, the dizziness eased. Enough, at least, to form a question.
Her hands, which had been pinned beneath her hair, had clearly been freed some time ago — how else could her fingers be tracing those smooth, firm lines of muscle?
She stroked him and sighed with satisfaction.
Then, as though floating down from the ceiling, question marks drifted before her eyes.
How had they ended up like this, huddled together like two beans in a pod on the sofa?
Countless doubts piled up and rushed her all at once.
Dizzy and helpless, she turned to the only available source of answers.
"Draco—" she said languidly. "Where are we?"
"In the attic of the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes," he said in a hoarse voice.
"What happened?" she wondered, still confused.
"You're drunk." His voice seemed to rise from somewhere deep within his chest, vibrating through her ear pressed tightly against his shoulder.
"And then?" Her mouth felt dry.
"We kissed." A cheerful warmth coloured his tone.
"Oh, how lovely… I do love your kisses… you kiss very well…" She was half-dreaming, her hands continuing to trace him with unhurried greed.
"Should I thank you for the compliment?" His warm breath brushed her forehead as he chuckled and pressed a tender kiss to her hair.
She sensed something was off and murmured, "But… I think… we must have done something else."
"Oh, yes," he said.
There was a faint shyness in his voice. Hermione wondered vaguely about it — he often sounded that way when she kissed his collarbone.
Had she kissed his collarbone again?
"Some touching and such. You don't remember any of that?" he said carefully.
"I think I remember a little. My head aches and I can't think properly," she said, aggrieved.
A nerve throbbed at her temple — or perhaps several nerves, all tied into a knot.
"Will this help?" he asked, his massaging fingers tentatively increasing their pressure.
After a moment, Hermione said with some relief, "Yes. A little better."
"Good. Let's not drink so much frozen butterbeer anymore, shall we?" he said softly, pressing another kiss to her forehead.
"But it's so refreshing and cool. I'd like some more." She spoke to him in a small, pleading voice — which was, she distantly recognised, a bad sign.
"It is refreshing. A perfect summer drink. But too much makes you unwell — and it makes you lose control and do reckless things." The hand that had been beneath her neck shifted to stroke her back, just as she had soothed Crookshanks that very morning.
"Did I… do something you hate?" Hermione hugged him tighter, her cheek finding his chest. There was no barrier between them.
"I wouldn't call it hate." She felt the vibration in his chest as he said it. "I rather enjoyed it, in fact."
"Oh," she said, content. "Good."
His warm skin carried a scent she could have breathed forever. She dozed again, drifting in and out in the warmth of him.
"Draco…" she murmured.
"Hmm," he replied, just as lazily.
"How did we… stop?" she asked, tilting her head up in confusion.
"You said you were feeling dizzy, so I stopped and held you for a while," he said patiently, smoothing the crease from her brow.
"I am dizzy… and very thirsty…" she said in a parched voice.
At those words, his magical fingers stilled.
He shifted away from her, leaving an emptiness where his warmth had been.
"Draco… where are you…" she asked sadly.
"Wait." His voice came from a little further off.
Then came sounds: the crisp clink of bottles, the rustle of a bag, the snap of a cap, the rush of water. They seemed both close and impossibly far, pressing against her eardrums.
Footsteps. His.
She kept her eyes closed but knew he had returned.
He lifted her upright, her head resting against his shoulder, her weight falling naturally into his chest.
"Open," his voice said, low and coaxing. She licked her dry lips and obeyed — mouth open, like a patient at a Healer's, waiting. A straw pressed gently against her lower lip.
"Hold it." His voice was slow, carrying a trace of amusement. She held the straw between her lips, teeth grazing it lightly, uncertain of what came next.
"Drink," he said softly, a barely perceptible note of command in his voice. It was exactly what she needed — a clear instruction to cut through the fog. She obeyed and sucked.
Water.
Lukewarm water that flowed in like sweet rain.
Her parched lips, tongue, and throat were immediately, blissfully relieved. She drank in earnest, making small, soft sounds of effort, and felt the warmth of his embrace tighten around her.
She didn't notice. She was too busy drinking obediently until not a drop remained.
"Good girl." Draco praised her with quiet pleasure, cheeks flushed as he drew the straw from her mouth and set the bottle aside.
"I feel completely useless." Her mouth still wet, she tilted her head back with just enough energy to complain.
"That's why you shouldn't drink so much…" Draco settled her in his lap and began doing up her shirt, one button at a time.
"That's not it!" A faint itch at her midsection stirred scattered memories, and she made a vague accusation: "I remember now — it was you who kissed me like that! You made my hands and feet go weak."
"And you didn't like those kisses?" Draco said slowly, a small smile playing at his lips.
"I did like them," Hermione whispered, struggling to open her eyes and look at him. "But why did you kiss my waist? And my ribs?"
"I thought we had already reached an agreement," he said above her head, with a hint of smugness.
His fingers had navigated considerable difficulty and now completed their task with reluctant thoroughness, fastening the last stubborn button.
She was somewhat dissatisfied with his lofty reasoning and tried to pry her eyes open to confront him.
Only then did Hermione notice that the room had grown dim.
The last light of day was shattered by the window frames, scattering in fragments across the floor.
The fragrant afterglow of the setting sun lay in patterns of gold and shadow too beautiful to describe.
But at this moment, the intoxicated girl was entirely convinced that no light or shadow could compare to his pale grey eyes, which shimmered with something she could not name.
"Oh, Draco, how can you be so handsome—" she exclaimed softly, reaching up to trace his chin, his cheeks, his nose with a kind of fascination.
Then his brow — its curve as perfect as though sculpted by a master craftsman.
His eyes were gentle and unguarded, welcoming her touch without any resistance.
The contact made Hermione feel blissfully light again.
"Draco… my Draco… you understand me, protect me, take care of me… awkward, kind, wonderful you… how lovable you are…" Her mouth seemed particularly unrestrained today, sweet words spilling out without her permission.
"Why are you suddenly saying all of this—" he said in a low voice, ears turning slightly red.
"What's wrong with saying it?" she said with complete confidence.
It was exactly what she wanted to say.
He was the boy she loved most. He had read the same books she had, and could follow every word she said. He had treated minor injuries she hadn't even noticed and dried her hair when she hadn't seen it was wet. He had taken her dancing and let her shine at the ball. He cared for her — gave her a brief escape from the weight of the world.
He was a cautious young man. Yet he had shielded her in a surging crowd, found her in a dangerous camp, and thrown himself between her and an Auror's Stunner. He had held her in the biting cold and kept off the wind. He had leapt into the terrifying Black Lake without a second thought, simply because he was afraid she would face ridicule alone.
He had broken so many of his own principles for her. Despite his stubborn nature, he was always willing to apologise. He had accompanied her through things he didn't understand. He was controlling and easily jealous, yet he was learning — awkwardly, earnestly — to respect her wishes and let her participate in things he disapproved of. He struggled to trust, yet he was trying, slowly, to open himself up.
"You are the most handsome, most capable, and most wonderful boy in my heart…" Her intoxication-tinged eyes were unusually bold as she looked directly into those grey eyes, which rippled faintly like still water. "You cunning star — you've been trying so hard to shine for me, haven't you? I can see it all."
"You can see all of it?" he repeated, a small smile curling at his mouth.
"Of course I can!" she said seriously. "You have no idea how much I love you…"
And those kisses, those embraces, those touches — each one wonderful, each one almost intoxicating. She loved him completely.
But did he love her? She wondered, with a dim, muddled sort of bewilderment.
Even though she had successfully disarmed him today, she couldn't be certain whether the wand that flew towards her was proof of his love.
Love was such a profound and weighty subject — it required careful testing and cautious confirmation.
She was like a dormant volcano, carefully feigning sleep, concealing herself lest he discover the steam of love rising from within her.
But she had secretly loved him for a very, very long time. So long that she could no longer suppress it.
"What did you say?" He asked as though afraid he had misheard. He cupped her face and whispered, "What did you just say?"
Thanks to those icy butterbeers and the impossibly beautiful weather, Hermione finally mustered the courage to say what she truly felt.
She gazed into his eyes and felt something crack inside her dormant volcano. Suddenly, like molten lava breaking through stone, love surged up and spilled from her gaze.
"I love you." Her burning cheeks blossomed into a smile between his cool fingers.
She looked at him with bright, steady eyes and whispered clearly, "Draco, I love you."
Merlin. This was Hermione Granger's burning, radiant, unstoppable love.
And the boy who received it — Draco Malfoy — was completely undone. Her honest words and ardent gaze left him without a single defence.
How could such profound feeling surge forth in her eyes — and for him?
Did he deserve such praise and affection?
She loved him?
They stared at each other.
This was not a look of desire, but of something deeper — a stirring in the soul. His fractured soul, cold and riddled with holes, was soothed by her loving gaze.
It was as though bright fragments sparked from her pupils and drifted down to fill each hollow. A warm, melodious breeze swept through him, and from every crack in his spirit came a single word, sung softly — love.
Love? His hand trembled. He released her face. He wanted to stand and flee.
The word, echoing relentlessly through his chest, terrified him.
But he could not escape. She lay in his lap, her gaze binding him to the sofa.
And so he retracted his claws, lowered his head like a docile hound, looked at her with damp eyes, and let her sketch freely across the angles of his face.
She was smiling at him, awaiting his answer.
"Me too, me too—" Draco stammered, wanting to reply, but suddenly found himself unable.
In two lifetimes, he had never once said those words to her.
They were unfamiliar. Distant. Enormous.
Love. It was a promise that went far beyond merely liking someone — a weight and a responsibility. Could he carry it?
Could he say it openly and give her the lasting happiness she deserved?
As he hesitated, the alcohol caught up with Hermione at last and her gaze began to drift.
She pinched his earlobe, blinked, and asked absently, "Draco? What was I saying?"
"I… forgot, too," Draco said sincerely, his face flushed from her pinching.
Taking advantage of her inattention, like a crafty little thief, he tucked away his trembling, feverish soul — and the relentless ringing of love echoing through it.
"It was probably… nothing important…" she said nonchalantly, entirely unaware of what a remarkable thing she had just missed, her hand drifting down to rest against his neck.
"Do you… want something to eat?" He glanced at the wall clock, grateful for a topic he could manage.
She pouted and said sulkily, "No… I'm sleepy… and dizzier than before…"
"I think the butterbeer's caught up with you properly. Try to sleep." Draco stroked her hair gently, studying her flushed face, and found his calm voice at last. "I'll carry you to the bed next door."
From the look of her, she likely wouldn't make it back to Hogwarts tonight.
"No," she said firmly. "I can't sleep in a bed."
He let her hair slip through his fingers. "Why not?"
"Because that's a bed — that's not appropriate—" Hermione tugged his collar down and whispered to him as though sharing a great secret: "We can't kiss in a bed."
"Of course. Kissing on the sofa is clearly more appropriate." Draco looked at her flushed, soft lips and suppressed a laugh. "Completely right."
"Are you making fun of me?" Hermione asked suspiciously, releasing his collar with a reproachful look.
"Not at all," Draco replied in his most earnest voice.
"Actually… kissing on the sofa isn't really appropriate either…" she grumbled. "And undoing buttons is even more inappropriate… even if I did like it… it's wrong… too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" he asked, voice dropping.
"Extremely dangerous!" she said, still somewhat glazed. "I know what I'm saying. I'm perfectly clear-headed."
"I have reservations about this alleged clarity," he said, noticing her fingers slip lightly through the gap between his buttons and into his shirt.
"I am perfectly sober — I broke your record — I disarmed you — so who's the one who isn't sober?" Hermione rummaged in the sofa cushions, then triumphantly waved two wands in front of him. "Look! Both wands. I'm going to go and deal with that dreadful Voldemort, and make my Draco happy…"
Even drunk, she doesn't forget about defeating the Dark Lord — and says it's for his sake. Draco felt the corner of his mouth curl upward.
Then his heart clenched.
It struck him, suddenly, that this was the first time she had openly expressed her frustration and impatience with the Dark Lord. In the matter of resistance, she carried no less of a burden than anyone else — yet she had always kept that pressure carefully hidden, choosing instead to comfort him.
Had his little rose already been bending under the weight of all this? He stroked her hair with tenderness and guilt.
She needed rest.
"You're right — you're extraordinary. You could take anyone on. Now then, take both wands to bed with you, and if anyone dares to disturb you, curse them." Draco offered this with the utmost gravity, neither correcting her slip about his name nor daring to mention that he could easily reclaim both wands in an instant.
Hermione considered this for a moment, her brow furrowed in great concentration, before finally announcing, "You're right. I have my wand. I'm perfectly safe. I can go to bed now."
Half-dreaming, half-awake, she was lifted into his arms and floated slowly up, like a cloud drifting from the earth.
The sudden weightlessness swept over her and her world tilted loose from its moorings. She should have panicked — but it didn't matter. Draco held her, and she knew with absolute certainty that she was safe.
She clutched both wands and wrapped her arms around his neck, overcome with delight.
"Are we in the sky? Are we on broomsticks?" Her wide brown eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her imagination wonderfully poetic.
"Yes. Your personal ride — Draco's Nimbus." Draco carried her into the bedroom he had never slept in and was pleased to find it spotlessly clean. Dobby had been reliably thorough.
"Am I riding you?" she asked, resting her cheek against his neck. "I don't think that's the right position…"
"For safety reasons, it's better not to think about riding me," he said in a low voice, face flushing. "You — you should just sleep."
He placed her gently onto the soft bed, straightened up, and stood for a moment before turning to go back to the sitting room.
The emptiness of the air around her brought a sudden panic.
She made a sound of displeasure and opened her eyes again.
"Draco… where are you going?" she asked.
Draco turned around with a resigned expression. "Leaving. To keep you out of danger."
"But I want you to hold me while I sleep," she said pitifully, her voice small and trembling. "And you have to rub my head."
"Look who just said sleeping in a bed was dangerous." Draco turned back slowly, a glint of something wicked in his eyes. "Was that me? I don't recall."
"Kissing in bed is dangerous. We're not kissing — just sleeping…" Hermione made the distinction with great seriousness and care, tucking both wands under the pillow. "I just want to smell you."
Very Hermione Granger of her — fearless in her ignorance.
There are many ways to spend a night in bed. Did she think she knew them all?
Did she truly believe Draco Malfoy was a man of impeccable character?
"Merlin, honestly, Hermione — sometimes I genuinely don't know what you want." Draco stared at her contradictory demands, his body a combustible mixture of seawater and fire.
"I want you." Hermione reached out toward him, pleading pitifully. "Hold me and talk to me… I'm dizzy… If you move any further away, I won't be able to hear you."
Damn it all, he thought.
She said she wanted him — who could refuse her?
Even knowing it was a sweet trap designed to torment him, he walked right into it without hesitation, letting himself be thoroughly tormented.
The next second, Hermione found herself rolling into a familiar-smelling embrace, arms pulling her in as though trying to fold her inside his very skin.
He began massaging her head again, but his tone turned fierce. "You fickle, troublesome little terror. And you're absurdly good at acting helpless. You've put me through all manner of torment and I can't do a thing about it. It's completely unfair. I'm never letting you drink this much again."
She wanted to object — to explain that she hadn't been acting, hadn't been difficult, had thought everything through quite carefully.
But her last remnant of consciousness slipped away before she could form a single word. He rubbed her head gently, kissed her hair with great tenderness, and muttered something in a low, frustrated voice — that was Hermione's last impression before she was swallowed entirely by sleep.
When Hermione Granger woke again, it was in the quiet of very early morning.
"Thump, thump, thump—"
A steady, subtle heartbeat tapped against her ear — like a small creature hopping softly, reliably.
It seemed to say, without words, you are safe. Do not be afraid.
She smiled and nuzzled closer, listening to it.
Her mind wasn't quite clear yet. She had no idea what she was doing. Like a wilful cat, she lay draped over him like a blanket, perfectly content.
When the cuckoo in the next room called out four times in cheerful succession, the last of the drunkenness dissolved completely from her body.
She lifted her head from his chest, opened her eyes, and looked around in bewilderment.
An unfamiliar but comfortable bed. An innocent, sleeping boy whom she appeared to be using as a mattress. Two wands peeking out from under the pillow.
She gazed at the window beside her — candlelight flickered against the glass, soft as the first hint of dawn.
She looked at the small angel wall lamp above them. The little angel spread pure, lovely wings, its head wreathed in light, a mysterious smile on its lips as it looked down at them.
Hermione's mind cleared.
Good heavens. She wasn't a blanket. Nor a cat. She was a terrible person who had simply gone and flattened him.
She rolled off quickly, turning her back to his sleeping form and refusing to look at him.
Vivid, scorching memories from the attic the day before came rushing back, burning her face to a furious red.
What had she done? She had disarmed him, then — under the pretence of a search — practically stripped him down and gone about groping him freely. He had retaliated later, admittedly — that rather embarrassing counter-attack — but she had undeniably started it.
And then, when the dizziness had overtaken her, he had been a perfect gentleman. He had stopped, and he had looked after her.
But when had he carried her to the bed? And how on earth had she ended up on top of him?
Hermione covered her face, staring blankly through her fingers at the pile of empty water bottles and crumpled straws on the bedside table.
All she remembered now was that every time she had cried out she was thirsty during the night, his gentle, coaxing voice had followed swiftly, a straw pressed between her lips, lukewarm water flowing down her throat.
"Open." She had opened her mouth obediently.
"Hold it." She had held it obediently.
"Drink." She had drunk obediently.
And every time, in a floating, half-heard voice, he had praised her.
"Good girl… my very best girl…" he would murmur, fingers tracing lightly across her neck and cheeks, as though she were something extraordinarily precious.
This had repeated itself, again and again, as though the word thirst were a charm that activated some kind of Draco Malfoy hydration service.
Without him, she probably would have perished of thirst in her drunken state.
Honestly — Draco Malfoy, endlessly attentive water-bearer.
Why had he been so keen on it? He'd seemed genuinely pleased whenever she listened and drank obediently.
Wait — had the young heir of the Malfoy family actually been attending to someone? Hermione lifted an eyebrow and lowered her hands from her face.
Every student at Hogwarts, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, would be utterly horrified to know it.
The thought made her smile secretly. She finally turned her shy gaze toward him.
He was asleep fully clothed, head tilted toward her side. He was frowning — clearly not sleeping soundly.
His platinum-blond hair lay in dishevelled waves across the pillow, catching the light like silver. The flickering shadows from the wall lamp played across his eyelashes, casting small, fan-shaped patterns on his cheekbones.
Hermione leaned closer, the sound of her heartbeat folding into the quiet.
That face. Those lips. They held some indescribable blend of youth and something deeper — a quiet, unguarded desire.
What a burden he was, even in sleep.
She wanted to reach out and smooth the line between his brows, just as he had done for her so many times.
For some reason, the sleeping boy sensed her closeness.
His hand lifted and found her face with unerring precision, cupping her cheek — and then, without a word, he kissed her lips.
Hermione startled.
Their lips pressed together, she looked at him in alarm, certain he was awake and teasing her — but he was not. His eyes were tightly shut, expression lost somewhere between dream and wakefulness.
Still adrift in whatever dream held him, the young man drew her close, stroked her hair, and kissed her — softly at first, with the quality of a fleeting illusion, the shimmer of moonlight on water. Then, gradually, something real poured into it. His expression shifted — fragile, anxious — and a quiet, lonely sound escaped him. He kissed her as though she were essential. As though losing her was a genuine terror.
As though she were all he had.
As though he were afraid she would leave.
As though he were afraid she already had.
"Draco? Are you all right?" She cupped his face, drawing briefly back from his lips to check him.
He couldn't find her mouth. Hot tears were sliding down his cheeks.
"Don't leave me… please…" He kept his eyes shut, brow furrowed, pleading in a broken voice, desperate in a way that was startling to hear. "Don't abandon me… I'm so sorry… please…"
That particular combination of adoration and heartbreak — anyone who saw it would rush to him without a second thought, wanting only to spare him from it.
"I will never leave you, Draco," she whispered, leaning close to his ear.
And she began to comfort him the only way she could think of.
She kissed the tears from the corners of his eyes. Kissed away the anguished lines of his expression. Kissed away the trembling of his mouth.
She kissed him generously and without hesitation, letting him kiss her as he needed, holding nothing back.
She tried to tell him, through tenderness alone, that he had nothing to fear — that she would always be here.
What an idiot, she thought, her chest aching.
He was having a nightmare. Some completely irrational nightmare that had frightened and tormented him.
Even as she tried to soothe the crease from his brow, she could not. His rare look of helplessness undid her — and she let him press his hand to her heart without any hesitation at all.
She had placed it there for him herself. And he, instinctively, curled his fingers around the gesture.
He was gentle. Even in the middle of a dream, he seemed afraid of hurting her — afraid to hold too tight.
Even if every teacher and student at Hogwarts burst through the door at that very moment to testify about Draco Malfoy's capacity for cruelty, Hermione would not have believed a single word.
He was such a gentle boy with her. Always so careful. Always afraid she might get hurt.
He kissed her deeply, fervently, until she was almost entirely undone.
They seemed the only two people left in the world, having tumbled together into a jar of warm honey — breathing in passion and something that felt remarkably like eternity, feeling the indulgent sweetness of it.
Then, after a long and tender interval, he held her tightly and sighed with deep contentment.
He murmured in a voice barely above breath, "I… love you… Hermione… don't… leave…"
His eyes still closed, his hands trembling, he released her.
The boy — cheeks still wet with tear-tracks — turned away. He curled in on himself, still and small, his expression broken and pitifully earnest, and fell back into the dark country of sleep — entirely unaware of the thunderous impact those quiet words had made on Hermione's heart.