Chapter Song: PILLOWTALK
The bass throbbed low through the floor of the upscale wizarding nightclub in Diagon Alley — more velvet and charm than chaos. Glittering lights shimmered like falling stars outside the enchanted windows, but inside the private suite Draco had paid for in advance, it was dim, golden, and intimate. A fire crackled quietly along the far wall, and everything was muted compared to the thunderous dance floor below.
Hermione leaned against the dark marble bar inside the suite, her cheeks flushed from both the firewhisky and the dance. Her curls were wild from moving to the beat, her lipstick slightly smudged, and her eyes gleamed with that dangerous, magnetic pull Draco had never been able to resist.
Draco tossed his suit jacket onto the couch, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up, collar loose, a hint of sweat clinging to his collarbone. He watched her — not like a man casually admiring his wife — but like a starved man watching salvation.
"You keep looking at me like you're going to hex me," Hermione said, teasing, her voice husky.
Draco crossed the room in three strides. "Hex you? No, Granger. I'm thinking of much more creative uses of my wand."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"I mean," he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've got quite the record with spells that leave you breathless."
Hermione turned, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a bruising kiss. It was hot, fierce, full of every emotion they'd pent up — the stress, the fear, the months of pain, the constant strength they had to uphold. In this room, in this moment, they were allowed to lose control.
Draco's hands slid to her waist, gripping her like he needed to anchor himself. She pressed him back toward the bed, lips never parting, until the backs of his knees hit the edge.
They collapsed together — heat and silk and tangled limbs.
"You planned this, didn't you?" she murmured against his jaw, nipping lightly.
"I hoped," he confessed, tilting her head so he could trace kisses along her neck, slow and devastating. "You in this dress? Merlin, Hermione."
Her laugh caught in her throat as his hand ran up her thigh. "Well, I wore it for a reason."
They didn't need words after that — just touches, gasps, heat that spiraled higher and higher. The bond between them, forged through fire, deepened every second. This wasn't just passion — it was release. Intensity built like magic itself humming under their skin, pulsing with every breath and every moan.
In the golden quiet that followed, wrapped in tangled sheets and each other's arms, Hermione rested her forehead against Draco's chest. His fingers brushed down her spine gently.
"For the first time in a long time," she whispered, "I felt free."
Draco kissed the top of her head, voice low and rough, "You are. And I'll fight anyone who dares try to cage you again."