Dramione One Shots

17. Sex & Healing Potions

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Tumbling into bed with Draco after a long shift was the ice-cold aloe vera balm on a sweltering hard day.

He took her hand as she exited the fireplace of his two-storey Chelsea flat, greeting her with the first kiss of the evening—always the deepest kiss, conveying the message: I missed you, I'm glad you're here, I've been waiting...

He drew the tie out of her braid and unweaved the taut strands with his fingers, her curls crimped and abnormally thick, angry to be restrained for hours. A gin martini waited for her on his gleaming marble bar, garnished with two pitted olives speared into a toothpick.

As she raised the cool glass to her lips, he pressed his thumbs into the tense muscles at the base of her neck, taking extra care with the right side because he knew it was a chronic point of pain.

Draco knew her body.

Every scar and ailment since he'd started healing her. The dip in the middle finger of her right hand, formed by fastidious use of quills throughout her strenuous academic career. The birthmark on the back of her left thigh, which he claimed looked like a crescent moon, hanging ajar. He knew she got bad migraines on her periods, and swapped the martinis for honeyed green tea on nights he shagged her in the expansive claw-footed bathtub.

When she was angry—at Ron for being an arse about how she handled an arrest, at Harry for getting all the best cases, at Robard's blatant sexism towards witches on the team—Draco would circle his fingers into that sore point on her neck and her words would melt away and her eyes would drop to half-mast and he'd take her to bed until nothing mattered but the present moment.

Hours later—Draco's heart hammered against her shoulder blade as she lay with her back to his chest, his chin resting on top of her head, her limbs liquid soft. "What happened here?" She took his hand, rubbing the tiny serrations on his index finger.

Hermione knew Draco's body, too. The pattern of his scars, like silver lightning bolts, striking north up his ribs, east through his sternum, a sharp zigzag down his left shoulder. The way his lips tasted after sunset and how they felt worshipping her body for hours.

He curled and uncurled his index finger, as if checking it was still fully functional. "A gift from little Timothy T. He didn't want to drink his potions."

Hermione smiled, though he couldn't see it. "You should've seen the wounds my parents would get when they treated young patients."

His breath buzzed against her temple, amused. "Terrors, all of them."

They shagged twice more before Hermione slipped out of bed, scooping her hair up into a messy bun and collecting the trail of clothing they'd strewn across the master suite.

"You know, I have a shower here and a bed." He patted the ‌space beside him, his bed obnoxiously large for just one person, and entirely too difficult to refuse.

Hermione snapped her bra closed, wielding the utmost self-control. "I should go home. I'm working the graveyard shift tomorrow."

"I'll see if I can switch with Patel," he said, the covers tumbling to his waist as he sat up.

"You don't have to do that." She looked up, one leg in her trousers.

He didn't reply, watching her with some strange emotion in his eyes, like he was worried if she walked out of his room, he'd never see her again.