Fallen Dynasty (Dramione)

Twelve - The Unbearable Weight of Remembering

ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt

the fates lead the willing and drag the unwilling.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Hermione was suddenly cold, blankets ripped off her body as her eyes bolted open. There was a sleepy haze across her vision as she swung her fist out of instinct. It collided with an open palm, waiting for this gut reaction of hers and she blinked several times to see a barely amused Draco standing over her.

"What?" She spat, never the morning person, before yanking the blanket back over her.

She groaned as it was jerked off again, this time landing on the floor. "You're insufferable."

"I'm aware." He deadpanned, scanning her face. She looked away, knowing it was swollen and puffy from crying all night. "Get up." He stated promptly, no nonsense in his tone.

"Why?" She huffed, knuckling her tired, sore eyes. After she changed, their dinner was quiet and fairly awkward as most dinners were lately. Draco was particularly quiet, barely having anything snarky or rude to say even after he chugged three glasses of wine before stomping off to his wing of the house.

"We have things to do, Granger, like saving the fucking world like the saints we are." He was storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

At least the normal snark was back.

She slipped out of the bed and opened her dresser. She was surprised at what she saw. Inside was actual pants and shirts, the things she asked Draco for a couple days ago. She shimmied her legs through the pants legs, ecstatic to finally feel normal again before bounding out of the room, an almost spring to her step.

"Ah, look. You actually have a... girlish figure about you. What is that? A waist?" He went back to clanking around in the kitchen.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his comment and held her tongue from saying anything back. She wasn't in the mood for a fist fight right now, her cheek still sore from yesterday.

"What are we doing?" She asked as he walked around the corner, two coffee cups in his hands.

She froze at the sight, feet stuck on the wooden floor, fingers barely trembling.

One of the last memories she had of him was this exact scene; a cup of coffee made just for him and her.

Her hands twitched for the cup, impatiently, before he was even in front of her. Her mouth watered as she wondered if he still was the only one who could make her the perfect cup of coffee— like he used to. Even she could never make it just like him, always too bitter. Too sweet. Too much cream.

Fingertips curling around the glossy china, the warmth seeped into her flesh as she immediately took a long sip, uncaring of the scalding liquid across her tastebuds.

Her eyes slipped shut as she swallowed, a quiet hum escaping her throat.

Euphoria.

That was the word she would describe it as as the flavor, the measurements, were exactly the way she preferred. Perfect in every way.

"If you're going to continue this love affair with that fucking cup of coffee, next time remind me not to give you the good china." His scoff brought her back to the present, her cheeks flushing.

"Sorry!" She squeaked, wiping her top lip with her thumb. "It's just— just really good."

"I could tell." He sounded disgusted, but the way the corner of his lip twitched, she knew he was secretly amused. She watched him bemused as he wandered over to a chair in the middle of the room before sitting down on it, looking over at her expectantly.