𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀

☾ Chapter 40

☾

Despite the heat, Hermione was buried beneath the black blanket, reading quietly by the unburning fireplace when the handle turned.

"Did you find anything?"

He stalked through the door, book in hand.

"Draco, you're hurt-" she was immediately at his side, standing on the tips of her toes to examine the swipe of blood against his cheek.

"I'm fine, Granger."

Hermione silently disregarded his reassurances, sitting him down on the maroon sofa where she soothed his cut with a cotton pad.

"What happened?" She murmured quietly, gaze turning to the leather cover that lay in his hand. It reeked of black magic and death, and yet she slowly began to reach out her palm, desperate to learn it's deepest darkest secrets—

"Don't," Draco exclaimed strictly, making her hand jerk backwards with big eyes.

"Why?"

"I need to make sure it's safe first," he spoke slightly softer, afraid she'd either become skittish or start an argument, "Who knows what hexes and curses have been placed on this bloody thing. I won't let you touch it until I know it won't harm you. That's all."

"But-"

"Hermione," he placed the book on the table, cupping her cheeks within his hands, "I swear to you, That is all. That is the only reason."

She looked downwards towards her feet with somewhat of a pout, curiosity simmering low within her stomach.

"You do understand why, yes?" Draco continued, pulling her into his lap before tangling a hand gently in her curls, "I am here to protect you. That book was in The Dark Lord's headquarters merely an hour ago. It's not that I don't trust you — I don't trust him."

She nodded solemnly, laying her head against his shoulder. It'd been a slow and difficult day, and she'd missed his strange coldness, the ice cold that made her heart melt with warmth.

Hermione looked back up at him slowly as his arms looped around her waist, hands resting on the sides of her hipbones.

He let out a content sigh as she placed a soft kiss to the healing wound on his cheek, then another below, and another... trailing all the way down to his lips.

"I hate leaving without you," he murmured gently into her mouth, "Leaving you alone in this lonely house all day."

"You always come back," she whispered, straddling herself over his waist before scratching her fingers into his scalp. Every movement was gentle, affectionate. "Besides — it's not lonely. Not when I'm with you."

His hands barely lingered against her skin, lightly pulling her t-shirt over her head. He never manhandled her, never groped or squeezed or tugged.

He had seen her in far too vulnerable states to feel comfortable with using his power against her, and if he felt as though he was growing greedy, he would fall back. Allowed her to lead the way in which she felt most comfortable.

"But when I leave?"

He wasn't only afraid of himself, he was afraid of hurting her. He was afraid of hurting the only thing he had left; the only thing keeping him sane.

The only thing keeping him alive.

Her voice erupted in a strangled moan, breathy and lustful as her hips shifted against his waist.