Work Text:
“Malfoy Manor!”
In the split second before the Floo powder activated, Draco Malfoy had a horrible realisation: he’d forgotten to charm his clothes to withstand the messy business of chimney travel.
He didn’t even have time to spit out a creative curse before he was whirling fast, the warm green flames tickling his nose. The suction of the Floo network pulled at his clothes and hair while he was spinning, spinning—
With a lurch, he stumbled into the foyer of his childhood home, robes speckled with ash and black soot sullying his normally polished shoes. He caught himself on the opposite wall, only barely avoiding a broken nose.
The room slowly came into focus as his woozy gaze sharpened. On the right, boughs of holly decorated the entrance to the main house, and ever-changing garlands adorned every available surface. Unfortunately, the walls also featured streaks of blackened cinder, compliments of the calamitous journey, along with embarrassing skit marks along the floor.
The situation was unjust; Draco was normally quite sturdy for magical travel, when the Floo wasn’t spitting him out faster than the Firebolt Twelve. Why did coming home always have to become such a perilous undertaking? Granger probably knew how to fix it, not that she had the time…
A house-elf sized pop interrupted his thoughts, and a shrill, squeaky tirade immediately commenced.
“Ash on the floors!” His mother’s snobby house-elf, stood with her arms on her hips, massive green eyes narrowed and tiny lips pulled into a fearsome scowl. “Dirty soot on Letty’s garlands, young Mister bumbling into the house like a filthy vagrant—” she broke off with a dismayed gasp, having spotted the mess over his shoulder. “On the walls! For shame!”
With a groan, he leaned his forehead back, snapping at her: “It wasn’t on purpose, Letty."
“You isn’t to be tracking dirt into the Manor! You is a bad boy, Mister Draco” she continued in her high-pitched voice, as if he’d not spoken at all. She smoothed down her own impeccably pressed chiffon pantsuit—Letty was a paid worker, another Grangerism that Draco had adopted—and shook her head in disgust. “I’m telling your mother.”
And even though Draco was six months shy of turning thirty, a grown wizard with a Potions mastery and already tenured at Hogwarts, he suddenly felt like a sticky-handed seven-year-old, caught snooping in the kitchens for sweets.
He shot the house-elf a filthy look. “It’s Professor now. For nearly a decade in fact."
Letty raised a diminutive brow. “That is only making you even more pathetic, Mister Draco." With a snap, she rid him of the lingering ashes from the Floo journey. “At least tell Lettty you is planning to hang your cloak... Or was you planning to drop it on the floor?”
“Good Merlin. Picking on me—a simple snap—isn’t even difficult—little nightmare likes to clean, begs mother for—” Draco muttered to himself mutinously, shucking the cloak from his shoulders and tossing it neatly onto one of the many hooks, each tip featuring sparkling morning star. When his cloak draped around the closest hook, the star twinkled brightly. His house-elf watched the entire production with the kind of stare one might reserve for their dullest, most bumbling coworker.
Granger would tell him that he should be proud that he’d fostered a space in which Letty felt comfortable expressing herself. And then Draco would scoff and call her a bleeding-heart, and she’d call him a spoiled prince, but she’d look up at him with those incisive eyes, and her long, wild hair, and they’d share a little smirk. It was always like that whenever she dropped by Hogwarts; bright and effervescent, with the castle noticeably duller in her absence.
Not that she’d been by at all, recently.
With a blink, Draco jerked himself out of that thought spiral.
Stop pining, he told himself sharply. It was the holiday season, and he was here to spend the week with his mother, not spend even more time lamenting the absence of a witch who wasn’t technically even on the school payroll. There was absolutely no way Granger was spending this much time thinking about him, and anyway, Draco’s focus needed to be on pacifying his mother so she wouldn’t nag him about never visiting anymore.
And where was that fearsome woman, anyway? He swivelled his head around the small foyer as if expecting Narcissa to simply appear.
“Mother, I’m back!” he called out.
A tiny, squeaky throat was cleared. “Mistress is in the ballroom, Mister Draco. Not hiding under the winter decor.” Letty eyed him up and down, proving once more that she was the snottiest house-elf who had ever lived. “Or behind the blemish Mister Draco is sporting.”
“Uncalled for, Letty,” Draco shot back with a glare. “At the very least, could you—”
Before he could finish, Letty disappeared with a pop.
Apparently she could not.
Draco sighed, jammed his hands into his pocket, and strolled on weary feet toward his motherly doom.
The Christmas decorations hadn’t reached stodgy sitting room, apparently, but the long hall was hung with sparkles and snowflakes. The farther into the house he journeyed, the more lavish the adornments became. Therefore, it came as no surprise that when he finally burst into the ballroom, he found himself in a wintery wonderland.
Everything was silver and gold, to the point of flirting the line between bountiful and gaudy, though that was definitely an ‘inside thought’ never to be spoken aloud. Silver bells cascaded from charmed chains across the ceiling, and golden tassels lined the already intricate filigree. Silver and gold trees were crowded into the wide corners of the hall, enough to give the illusion that the Malfoy mother and son stood on the edge of a very expansive forest. Even the ancient mirrors along the golden wallpapered walls were covered in charmed frost.
His mother stood in the centre, back to him, wand in hand, adjusting the baubles on the overly large Christmas tree. She didn’t turn around.
“Ah, Draco, you’re home,” she said coolly. “I was starting to think nothing short of Imperio would do the trick.”
“I’d hoped the heart would grow fonder.”
“Truly insufferable, the way you speak to your own mother—” Narcissa started, turning. Her eyes widened, gaze zapping straight to his cheek, and she let out a dramatic gasp. “Goodness, wherever did that come from?”
Gingerly, Draco touched the small, red blemish that he’d obtained last week and winced. It was more like a freckle, if he was being honest. “It’s nothing, Mother.”
She sneered. “Don’t be obtuse, dear boy. I’m trying to find you a wife. It’s long past time, my dragon. You can’t parade about during the holiday ball with that horrid blemish upon your visage like some kind of lowly peasant!”
“It is not horrid.” Draco wandered closer to the Christmas tree to check his reflection in one of the large, mirrored baubles. “And I don’t think you understand the meaning of the word peasant—"
“Ah-ah,” his mother said, waving her wand threateningly. “Away from the tree, dear. Goodness, why haven’t you taken a Cure for Boils?”
He stepped back with a sigh, hands raised. “The Cure for Boils wouldn’t work. This tiny blemish is the result of a brew gone sour during advanced potions. One of my idiot sixth years blew up his cauldron.” He ran his fingers through his hair, agitated at the memory. "I’m starting to see why Professor Snape was always so ornery, if I’m honest.”
Mother clicked her tongue and glanced at him again from the corner of her eye. “It’s your fault for lingering at the school, I daresay. You ought not to spend so much time around children, Draco, they’re dreadfully unpleasant. Never met a single one I liked.”
“Not even me?” he asked, irritated.
She looked him up and down. “You were very sticky,” she said at last.
Draco tsked.
“But, you are my child, and I have always loved you. And I always will, even if you are rather dim. Which transitions nicely into my point, dear… You’ve had your fun at Hogwarts, but enough is enough. Once I’ve found you a suitable wife, you must take your rightful place as heir and give up your silly potions hobby.”
“I—you—hobby?” he sputtered. “Absolutely not!” He had worked hard to redeem himself in the eyes of the Wizarding World, to convince McGonagall to hire him. She made it sound as if he’d stopped by the store to pick up a potions mastery, then toodled down to the school for a potion or two before the pub.
His mother let loose the most dramatic, world-weary sigh he’d ever heard. One might think he’d have announced his intention to sell the Manor and live as a hermit in Siberia.
“You’ve always mystified me,” Narcissa said, clucking her tongue. “Extraordinarily bad decision making skills… Really, I don’t know where you get it from.”
“Can’t have anything to do with my father, can it? The one in Azkaban. I seem to remember he’d had a blunder or two himself.”
Narcissa studiously ignored this comment, instead drawing closer and inspecting his cheek with sharp eyes. “Well, surely we can do something about this monstrosity, at least?” She fiddled with her wand as she spoke, an unwelcome glint in her eyes. “Why don’t you let me…”
“Do not mess with my face, Mother!” Draco jerked his head back and scowled. “I have a potions mastery, I would know when to meddle. Don’t you think I’d have removed it myself, otherwise? We’d need the proper ingredients, the correct wand movements... I’d need to go to St Mungos. Trust me, it will fade on its own.”
She stared at him, unmoving, but he didn’t drop her gaze. After two deep breaths, she shook her head, defeated.
“Well, excuse me for being concerned about my only son,” she snapped tartly, sheathing her wand with a vicious jab. “We can’t all have Potions Masteries that we boast about incessantly. Some of us have to run the estate in your stead!”
“You don’t have to, I could hire Blaise!”
“Well, no matter. It isn’t really your fault, anyway,” Narcissa said with a wistful sigh, once again having selectively not heard anything Draco tried to tell her. “I’m certain it’s quite genetic. You must get all of that nonsense from your father… the layabout attitude, the bragging, that big head of yours. Must come with the hair.”
Miserably, he took a moment to ruminate on all the reasons he hated visiting Mother for the winter holidays.
“But don’t worry, my dragon,” she continued, patting her hair into place. “I’ll leave your little aberration alone.”
His shoulders slumped in relief.
“Instead, we’ll abide by your recommendation. You’ll go to St Mungos and have the blemish removed there.”
A protest had nearly left Draco’s lips before he paused, stopping himself just in time. Because a thought had just occurred to him.
Hermione Granger worked at St Mungos.
Of course, being Granger, that wasn’t all she did. She volunteered, she sat on boards and councils… And for the past three years, every two weeks, she had visited Hogwarts as a special guest lecturer in a rotating set of classes, his included.
Draco had become—enamoured.
Only, he hadn’t seen Granger in at least three months. St Mungos had experienced quite the staffing shortage, apparently. Or she hated him. But he was reasonably sure that it was the staffing shortage bit, because they got on rather well these days.
But now, with his own Mother’s blessing, he had the perfect opportunity to finally visit her place of work.
His insides warmed at the thought.
“Alright mother. Tomorrow morning.”
His mother, oblivious to the pseudo-date she’d just arranged, beamed.
*******
Another crowded day at St Mungos. Hermione gazed down the empty hall of the Artefact Accidents floor, surveying the wreckage with exhaustion. Even for the holidays, the shift was becoming particularly horrid.
The day had been a nightmare even before they’d wheeled that grouchy wizard in, the one who had consumed an entire vat of Volcanic Vaux’s Vengeful Fire-Breathing Hot Sauce and proceeded to set an entire dinner party ablaze. Then there was the man with exploding pimples on Level Three, the woman who was hexed to believe she was a beluga whale—couldn’t get a word out of her, it was all whale calls— not to mention the screaming little boy who had an unusually stubborn lizard tail and teeth to match.
Naturally, they’d all left a mess behind. Scorch marks on the wall, water pooling on the floor, portable beds overturned.
Part of it was just par for the course during a holiday season. Over the past week, there had been a fifty percent increase in duelling accidents, a thirty percent increase in visitors to long-term patients, and a one hundred percent increase in the hopeless headspace of the beleaguered employees. Hermione knew it wasn’t a competition for most tired Healer, but as one of the few multi-concentration experts, she fancied she might be winning.
Her weary feet dragged as she approached the shared desk in the hallway alcove. As usual, it hovered at just the right height for any sleep-deprived Healer to rest their weary elbow atop the counter. Which would have been lovely, if only there were any space upon the desk.
She frowned at the stack of papers in her hands, then at the towering mountain of files before her. Unceremoniously, she dumped the new pile on the rest of the heap. This was it. All hope was lost. Here lies Hermione, buried in a pile of papers.
She would have collapsed into a despondent heap if not for the cheery jingle of salvation came cling-clanging down the hall.
There was a tiny, lavender cart of tea and coffee that roamed the St Mungo’s halls in a semi-sentient path, and Hermione barely ever got to it in time. But now, with an auspiciously empty hall and that evasive little cart finally in sight…
She half-jogged, half-ran toward the tinkling trolly of joy, a flutter of optimism in her heart.
Just as she passed the swinging double-doors at the centre of the hall, a shout rang out behind her. Without looking, Hermione dodged a gurney holding a wizard with a cascade of tentacles sprouting upon his face.
Healer Justin Finch-Fletchley burst through the swinging doors, dashing after the hoarde, then skidded to a stop upon spotting her. “Ah, there you are! They need you in magical catastrophes in twenty minutes!” he cried. His hair was in a frightful state, and his healer’s robe was on backward.
But what about her caffeine? She gazed longingly over his shoulder. “Now?”
He barreled on as if he hadn’t heard. “They won’t push it any later, but there isn’t anyone to take your next three patients off your hands either. I’ve just sorted Tentacles over there, but he’ll be prepped and ready once—”
Hermione groaned. “But the trolley!”
Justin followed her gaze and clocked the moving cart. “You can catch it,” he said swiftly, “I’ll grab your files.” Without wasting another moment, Hermione dashed after the trolley before it could escape, nearly plummeting over it in her haste.
She’d just snatched an empty cup when a crash, followed by, “Oh bollocks!” caused her to whirl around. Justin was standing in the middle of an administrative tragedy; the floating desk was upturned, and the formidable mountain of files had exploded all along the hall.
Hermione’s stomach sank. “I’ll help—”
“Merlin, no! Turn around and make your damn espresso before it scuttles away,” Justin cried, chasing after a pinwheeling folder on his knees. “I can take care of this myself. Get your caffeine. Someone here needs a win.”
Something loosened in her chest. “I don’t deserve you,” she called out, chasing the cart that was once again moving.
Trying not to feel guilty, she scooped some grounds into the cup. As she cast her aguamenti and began the espresso charm, she reflected on how absurd her life had become. She was this grateful to have a second to make coffee. Not even coffee, but espresso, which she didn’t even like.
It was simply all she had time for lately.
If this case load kept up, she would have to quit her guest teaching role at Hogwarts. Which really smarted, considering that more and more, she looked forward to seeing a certain blond, redeemed Potions Professor, with his dry wit and admirable brain…
Though it had been so long, perhaps he’d forgotten all about her.
Espresso finished brewing, she knocked back half like a shot, suspecting she had very little time. Her suspicion was correct; Justin appeared behind her in a frenzy clutching a yellow file merely a second later.
“Okay, here’s your next patient, and he’s in room 204, and then the other two are on the top of the desk, and then don’t forget magical catastrophes after,” Justin said all in one breath.
Tossing back the rest of the espresso, she snatched the file and headed down the hall. “Thank you,” she called out, hoping he’d still been around to hear.
A quick glance at the chart resulted in a grimace.
Patient presents with a broken penis.
Oh dear.
Poor man. And if it had been the result of duelling trauma, the resulting medical care might be very delicate indeed.
Half-reading the file, half mentally preparing for possible complications, Hermione opened the door to 204.
Her eyes roamed around the tiny room. A pile of blankets was stacked in the corner. A small bed for sitting or laying upon was shoved into the corner beside the rack of potions and small, whirring instruments.
On the bed, Draco Malfoy was waiting for her.
Her stomach dropped; her heart soared.
Except—no, happiness was not the correct emotion for such a meeting. At least, not today. The man was probably in serious pain!
“Draco! Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Hermione stumbled over her words, mortified. Heavens, she really needed to get some sleep. At this point, she was barely running on fumes. “Well, I’m sorry to see you here today.”
Instead of the sheepish chuckle she’d been expecting—the usual response to such a comment—Draco winced. Ah, he must be in such pain, she thought sympathetically. But then he frowned, a crease appearing between his brows. “Is it weird I’ve come here?”
She glanced down at the chart and blinked. He wasn’t happy to see her at all, was he? And why would it be weird…?
Oh. She flushed. How idiotic. A broken membrum virile was quite the sensitive thing, and he was probably mortified to see a fellow colleague. “Oh dear, I’ve been daft, haven’t I? Goodness, shall I fetch you a male healer?”
“What—no! I mean, I want you. Or no, I didn’t mean…” he put a hand over his mouth then glanced up and down, taking her in. She wondered what he must see: frazzled body language, hair a mess, tired bags under her eyes. And there, he was even a bit red in the face. Perhaps he was embarrassed for her?
Hermione touched her hair self-consciously. “Yes, sorry… I’ve been quite busy, need a bit of sleep I think.” Goodness, now she was apologising for how she looked? What was the matter with her?
Meanwhile, the man continued to stammer, now waving both hands in the air like a confused conductor. “No! I simply mean, you’re fine. More than fine. Great, really. So, so great. It’s simply that you said you were sorry to see me—”
She’d offended him, then! “Oh! Oh dear, no. I’m only sorry you aren’t feeling well,” she rushed to clarify. “I’m… It was just a silly little joke.”
“Ah,” Draco said, nodding emphatically. Kind of him to let it go; he was likely in no mood for Healer jokes.
“You know what? Let’s forget the whole thing,” Hermione said, donning a brave face. “Let’s get you fixed up then, shall we?”
“Yes!” said Draco with a relieved smile, leaning forward in his seat on the bed. He folded both hands together and rested his arms on his lap, giving him a slightly hunched look. “First my shameful little problem, and now I’ve clearly forgotten how to speak… I don’t want to embarrass myself any further.”
“Oh, no, never! You aren’t embarrassing yourself,” she said, stepping closer, looking down into his lovely, silver eyes. With the way he was seated on the bed, she loomed over him for once by a head and a half. From this angle, he had an endearingly boyish cut to his smile.
He tilted his head down so his hair fell into his eyes and let out a small chuckle. “I certainly hope not! I mean, I’m only even here because of my mother.”
Hermione paused. “Only because of your mother?”
Draco tilted his head, blinking. “Well, I wasn’t going to make an appointment until she insisted,” he said. He nodded as if that cleared everything up.
Though, it really clarified nothing.
A quick glance down at her chart confirmed that she was meant to be addressing a broken penis. Could it be a symptom?
“Your mother referred you here then. So it… doesn’t hurt?” she asked, peering at him closely.
He scoffed, and the tops of his cheeks flushed. “Honestly, it’s too small to hurt.”
What?
Hermione observed Draco with new eyes, taking him in from head to toe. He said it so casually. It took courage to admit such a thing, she supposed. And she liked him for his wit, for his brain.
That must be why he felt comfortable sharing. Not to mention, she’d be getting a closer look soon enough. Plus, it isn’t the size that matters, she thought with a nod. It’s how one uses their equipment.
Hermione decided it didn’t affect her opinion of Draco.
Having quickly recovered, she returned to the matter at hand. “I’m sure it’s not that small.” Turning to her notes, she scribbled down everything she knew so far. “It’s best not to compare such things, in any case. It’s all very relative.”
“I suppose…” he said doubtfully, his voice halting. “That is to say, my mother thinks it’s quite large.”
Hermione’s quill paused as she absorbed this new information. “You had her look at it?”
When she glanced up, his forehead was scrunched in confusion, lips wavering into the beginnings of a frown. “I mean, it was a bit hard to avoid her seeing it, considering I’m back for the holidays. She was looking at it all afternoon yesterday.”
What?
She set down her quill, dread growing in her stomach. “Was she… erm, trying to fix it herself?”
“No, I didn’t let her touch it, don’t worry,” Draco said, chuckling. “She’s just rather meddlesome, so she always feels the need to comment. I really couldn’t stop her looking if I tried.”
Remain calm, Hermione told herself firmly, suppressing the urge to lunge forward and wrap the man in a hug. Perhaps the Malfoys were simply… very close.
Or nudists.
She needed to calmly collect more data.
“So. Your mother has always been this way?” she asked slowly, fingers twitching toward her quill. “Or is this a new kind of behaviour?”
Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s a bit worse recently. She’s been incredibly obsessed with finding me a wife. Just a bit fixated with making sure everything is in order. I think it’s a Pureblood mother thing.”
Then, his eyes widened. “Not to be dismissive—! It could be muggles, too, or—”
“No no,” Hermione interrupted quickly, a million emotions twisting in her gut. “I think in this case, it’s just a very different approach, culturally.”
“Yes, Greg’s parents are the same, and Blaise’s too.”
It wasn’t relief, exactly, but Hermione’s shoulders had certainly relaxed. So Purebloods inspected their children’s… private areas, like prized horses. Before marrying them off.
That was one problem solved, but it introduced a different, more selfish one.
Was Draco going to be married off?
Suddenly, Hermione just wanted to move this appointment along. She was far too exhausted to be worrying over this, she still had two other patients to get to, and surely the Magical Catastrophes Department was waiting for her.
“Why don’t we just get on with it. A quick pain potion and we can then smooth this over. Generally, I would recommend two visits—” Though privately, she wasn’t sure she could even make it through this one.
“Oh, I don’t think two visits will… I mean, I can see how busy you are. I’m only here because my mother made me come.”
Hermione froze.
Her mouth opened, and closed.
He probably only meant… But then, he had just been telling her how his mother liked to inspect him. Had he ever said how his penis had become broken?
“Draco. There’s a proper way to handle these things. Due to the way the tissue is healed, and the way the charmwork, well. Erm, most patients prefer… How do I put this… For the aesthetic quality of the skin, without losing any part of the fascia, it is recommended to—”
He narrowed his eyes and interrupted. “I know the process, Hermione. I’m sure for a larger aberration that is exactly the right call, but mine is tiny. There’s no need for the pomp and circumstance. We can take care of this in one appointment.” He took a deep breath, then met her eyes. “I just want it removed entirely.”
Hermione’s brain shut down.
“No.”
Draco’s mouth fell open. “No?”
“No.”
“You can’t be serious, Hermione.” Draco stood up. The height difference was jarring; she’d forgotten how tall he was. She tilted her chin up, refusing to look away.
“I’m completely serious. We—we need to handle this my way. I can’t—I won’t—remove it.”
His jaw clenched, and he took a step closer. “If you don’t help me, I’m just going to have to remove it myself.”
Merlin.
Hermione did not have enough brain power to deal with this. He seemed increasingly confused and agitated, running his hand through his hair over and over and staring at her like she was the one having a breakdown. Her tired, rattled brain knew only one thing: she could not let Draco leave this room.
“Alright,” Draco murmured. His shoulders slumped, and he glanced toward the door. In a panic, Hermione scrambled for something to say. “But aren’t you concerned about heirs?” she sputtered.
“My hair will be alright,” he said with a chuckle.
He had a child?
“Erm, sorry,” she said with a nervous laugh. “And remind me, what’s its name?”
Draco stared at her like she’d proclaimed her intention to become a Death Eater. He leaned in closer, studying her tired face, and his eyes filled with concern. As if she were the disturbed one! “My hair doesn’t have a name, Hermione,” he said softly.
She flushed, then shook her head. Of course. The child was unborn! Of course he thought she was losing it! He’d only seen her a few months ago, and a Malfoy child would have definitely been in the papers if he hadn’t told her himself.
But he would have. They’d become rather close… hadn’t they?
Or had she been mistaken?
“Look, I can see you’re really swamped here. I knew when you stopped visiting it must be bad, but I really think I’m only taking up your time—”
“Wait, no!” Hermione reached out, closing the distance between them, and grasped his wrist in her hand. “Wait, Draco. Please don’t leave. I just… Can I convince you to keep it?”
His eyes widened as he stared down at her. “You like it?”
“Why don’t we just start easy so I can take a look.” Hermione took a deep breath, then released him and took a step back. “Alright, Draco. Take off your trousers.”
*******
Draco stared at Hermione in shock, his mind reeling with a thousand different thoughts.
As the appointment had gone on, he had slowly begun to realise that Hermione was losing her mind at St Mungo’s. No wonder she hadn’t had time to drop by the Hogwarts classrooms. She was tired, miserable, and clearly overworked.
After all of this was over, he was going to donate a mountain of Galleons to this hospital if that’s what it took to improve Hermione’s life.
Though Draco definitely had the impression he’d agitated Hermione greatly, he couldn’t quite figure out how. He’d been concerned it was about his reference to marriage, and he’d meant to clear it up.
But then, she had told him to drop his trousers.
Was this his luckiest day?
Or…
Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to him.
“Is this part of the treatment?” he asked carefully, scanning her small frame for signs of a breakdown. The way she clenched and unclenched her fist, rolling her wand between her hands, the way her tired eyes stared up at him with unfathomable depths of despair.
She shook her head at him, eyes wild. “It’s absolutely a vital part of the treatment. I can’t fix anything if I can’t see your penis.”
Well, Draco was incredibly sure that wasn’t true.
However, if this was her unhinged way of finally coming on to him, he did not want to spoil the magic. Quickly, he disrobed, first the outer layer, then unbuttoning his underclothes.
Finally, he dropped his pants. The cold air of the office hit his erect shaft like a phantom wind.
His skin prickled; either from the brisk chill, or perhaps from the hungry way she eyed his member.
“Draco—” she shook her head, then looked up at him. Did she look… was that a tear in her eye? Was she disappointed? His entire body was hot, and he was sure he was blushing. He’d never in his life had such a confusing, humiliating sexual experience.
Then, Hermione continued, with a bizarre assessment. “It’s beautiful. And large,” she said in a firm tone. "A pillar of manhood."
Had… his todger brought her to tears?
No, that was absolutely impossible. What on…? Oh. Everything clicked in Draco’s brain, and he nearly sighed in relief. How had he already forgotten how stressed Hermione seemed? She was probably overwhelmed from having to take the lead in this encounter while he simply stood there, naked and unmoving like a useless lump.
She probably wanted him to take the reins.
It should have occurred to him long before now. Though, naturally he didn’t want to scare her either.
Perhaps leading questions would be best, he thought with an internal decisive nod.
“Do you, erm, want to touch it?” Draco asked, leaning against the table enticingly. He tried to flex his muscles a bit, and turned to his better side.
Hermione furrowed her brow. “I think I have to at some point, Draco.”
His stomach dropped to the floor. Have to? He was going to have a stroke with this much whiplash. Pausing the muscle show for now, he tried again: “But you don’t want to?”
Looking worried, Hermione bit her lip. “I mean, I really ought to stay professional—”
Draco froze.
“This is part of the treatment, isn’t it?” He wasn’t a healer, but if the Brightest Witch of Her Age… Oh Merlin. He was sick to his stomach. Which meant he was probably being a foul little perv!
“Hermione, I’m—” Draco broke off, another thought occurring to him. As he watched her bite her lip, clearly getting her fill of the goods, he experienced a deeply disorienting fear. What if she got off on this?
What if she did this often?
Terrible, boiling jealousy filled his body like water flooding a bath. Before he could censor himself, the question flew out of his mouth in a sneer, as if he were suddenly thirteen again. “Ask wizards to drop their pants often, then?”
She sucked in an offended breath. “I ask men to drop their pants when I require a look,” she said icily. “But seeing as you want to remove it…”
Draco’s brow furrowed. For the first time, it occurred to him that his extreme flusterability in front of his crush might have caused him to misread the situation.
“My… blemish,” he said slowly. “I want my blemish removed. Not my penis.”
Hermione drained of all colour.
Before either of them could say another word, Healer Finch-Fletchley burst into the room. “IT’S THE WRONG FILE!”
The man’s head swivelled from Hermione, pale and mortified, to Draco, who had never been more aware of his own naked body and his pitiful, confused prick, which was wavering at half-mast.
Justin’s eyes widened. “Erm, here,” he said, handing her the right file. With utmost haste, the man exited the room.
With a trembling hand, she opened the new file. Her eyes darted back and forth across the pages, and she turned a flaming crimson.
“You’re here… for a blemish,” Hermione said slowly. “Not… for a broken penis.”
“Oh, Merlin.” Draco let out a string of curses as he yanked up his pants and stuffed his arms into his robes. “I’ve made a complete arse of myself.”
“No, this is all my fault!” Hermione cried miserably. “I haven’t slept, I should have…”
“No need!” he cried in a high pitched tone unlike his normal one. “No, don’t need to explain… Can’t… even with… No need for me to be…”
And he Apparated on the spot.
*******
Hermione was crushed.
Lost in a fog that only comes from extreme sleep deprivation, she had finally taken a long, long rest.
When she had woke up, her thoughts were already spinning round her head like an unhinged carousel.
She should have realised much earlier that she’d had the wrong file. She should have helped Justin clean up when the papers had toppled. She should have handled so many things differently.
And she needed to explain herself to Draco, let him know that his advances, while seemingly out of left field at the time, had not been unwanted.
Which was why she stood at the door of Malfoy Manor, a bouquet in her hands and a brave mask upon her face.
When Draco opened the door, his eyes widened, and he tried to swing the door back shut.
She jutted her foot out and caught the door.
“Wait, no! Let me talk, Draco,” she said. “Please.” She took a moment to let her eyes rove over him. He was still handsome in his pointy way, even looking miserable as he did. The blemish, she noted, was still there on his cheek. Really more a freckle, honestly.
“Alright,” Draco said, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat.
“I’ve slept for about seventeen hours,” Hermione said. “And my mind is clear.”
His face had started to take on a light tinge of green. “Get it over with, then.”
Oh, he hated her, didn’t he? But she needed to get through this. They needed clarity. “I had thought we were getting along at Hogwarts…” She steeled herself. “And I like you, Draco. I was excited to see you. And I understand now that you clearly don’t like me—”
His eyes widened.
She thrust the flowers into his hands. “These are for you,” she started, talking very quickly. “And, obviously, I’d better go—”
Draco threw the bouquet over his shoulder and grabbed her face, a hand on each cheek.
“No, you’d better stay. Let’s avoid any more misunderstandings,” he said, nose touching hers. “I’ll start, and I’m going to be perfectly, straightforwardly clear: I fucking adore you. I want a relationship with you. And I want to kiss you.”
“Oh thank heavens,” Hermione breathed. “Me too. From now on, we say everything as clearly as—”
He cut her off with lips pressing hers. A hand snaked around her back, pulling her close.
“I’ve made a donation,” he murmured against his lips. “To St Mungo’s. So you won’t be so understaffed.”
With each touch, each hand in hair, they left no room for questions.
Everything was perfectly clear.