Harry Potter is dead. In the aftermath of the war, in order to strengthen the might of the magical world, Voldemort enacts a repopulation effort. Hermione Granger has an Order secret, lost but hidden in her mind, so she is sent as an enslaved surrog...
Sometimes, his duties in Voldemort's army came to an end in the late evening, but most of the time he called her in the early hours of morning. Hermione would work in her potion cabinet or research until her ring burned. Then she'd slip out of Grimmauld Place and apparate to Whitecroft.
She'd barely step through the door before Draco would appear, snatch her up, and apparate them elsewhere. Always a hotel. Rarely the same one, even from one night to the next.
He'd kiss her, cradling her face in his hands, and it felt felt like he was breathing her in.
Then he'd step back enough to look at her.
"You're alright? Are you alright? Has anything happened to you?" He'd run his hands over her to check as he asked.
Every time the same question, as though he didn't believe it until he'd verified it personally.
She hadn't expected him to be so obsessively worried. She'd observed his immediate arrival at Whitecroft over the months; the careful way he'd run his eyes over her after she'd been attacked in Hampshire. She hadn't considered how deep the fear cut into him.
She'd feel herself unwinding under his touch as his fingers ran down her arms, over her hands, and up her spine.
"I'm fine, Draco. You don't need to worry."
The words never seemed to have any effect. He'd turn her face up towards his and stare into her eyes as though he expected to find something in them.
She'd look up at him and calmly let him reassure himself.
Whatever had happened to his mother, Narcissa had never told him fully; either because she couldn't, or in an attempt to spare him. Withholding it had probably been the worst choice.
Draco was like her. He obsessed over what he didn't know more than anything else.
She'd meet his eyes, "Draco, I'm fine. Nothing has happened to me."
When he was certain she truly was wholly uninjured, it was like a tension inside him would finally break. He'd gather her in his arms, sighing with relief while he rested his head on hers.
You did this to him, she reminded herself, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him. You guessed where he was vulnerable, and you exploited it.
She'd run her own fingers over him, trying to detect any injuries on him before he kissed her again.
"Draco, let me heal you."
She never had and never would heal anyone else the way she healed Draco: in his arms, pressed against his body. She'd slide her hands along him and press open-mouthed kisses on his shoulders, hands, and face while she muttered spells. She'd check him over meticulously until he plucked her wand from her fingers and flung it across the room. Then he'd push her down in the bed and take her slowly.
It was nearly always deliriously slowly. He'd stare into her eyes until she almost felt their minds touching.
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