The manor was shrouded in soft twilight when Draco and Hermione returned. The echo of their footsteps was swallowed by the thick silence — a rare peace since Mia's healing meant she was safe, spending time with Harry and the others. The house, once a cacophony of worry and protection, now felt like their sanctuary.
Hermione's cloak slipped from her shoulders, revealing a silky dress rumpled from their night out, her hair wild and kissed by the cool air. Draco caught her wrist gently, pulling her toward him, eyes dark with hunger and relief.
His fingers splayed over the curve of her waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ribs. She shivered under his touch — not from cold, but from the memory of their last heated moments.
"You have no idea how much I've missed you," Draco murmured, voice low and rough as he dipped his head to press a burning kiss along her neck.
Hermione tilted her head, lips parting as his mouth traced a slow, delicious path. Her pulse sped, warmth blooming beneath his lips where his teeth grazed gently, leaving the faintest, darkening bruises — marks of possession and adoration.
Days Painted in Fire and Silk
The days that followed were a symphony of whispered promises and stolen touches. Sunlight spilled through heavy curtains, gilding the mess of sheets tangled around them.
Morning light found Draco's strong hands tracing invisible patterns on Hermione's bare skin — the softness of her collarbone, the gentle swell of her shoulder, the delicate curve behind her ear where his lips paused, leaving a tender mark that blossomed into a kiss-shaped bruise.
Hermione responded in kind, her fingers weaving through his hair, nails grazing the tense muscles of his neck as she pulled him closer, the heat between them thick and undeniable.
They moved together in a slow dance of rediscovery, each touch a question, each sigh an answer.
In the Library's Quiet Corner
One afternoon, Hermione pretended to read by the fire, but her eyes were fixed on Draco, who was absorbed in a heavy tome. The curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed in concentration — it was all etched into her heart.
Unable to resist, she slipped behind him, hands sliding around his waist, fingers tracing the taut muscles beneath his shirt.
He stiffened, then smirked without looking up. "Always watching me."
She pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, her breath warm. "I need to remind you who owns you."
His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. His lips brushed her neck again — a faint, heated trail of fire.
"You wear my marks well," he said, voice husky.
Hermione's cheeks flushed, a slow smile curving her lips as she tangled her fingers in his hair. "I'm proud of them. They're proof."
Evenings Wrapped in Whispered Words
Night settled softly, and with it came the calm that only they could share. Hermione cooked in the kitchen, the scent of roasting herbs filling the air, while Draco traced lazy circles along the exposed skin of her shoulders, stealing kisses between words.
Sometimes, she leaned against him, head resting lightly on his chest as he read aloud from an old book — the steady cadence of his voice grounding her, reminding her that despite the darkness they had weathered, here in this moment, there was light.
A Love Rekindled and Strengthened
Their passion was no longer just fiery bursts but a steady, unbreakable flame. It was in the way Draco's rough hands soothed her weary muscles after long days of teaching, how Hermione's laughter returned — light, genuine, infectious.
The dark marks on her skin, the hickeys blossoming like secret love notes, were physical manifestations of the bond they shared: fierce, unyielding, and deeply tender.
Together, they dreamed aloud — of a future where their daughter could grow up unafraid, where love conquered old wounds, and where every scar was a story of survival and hope.