Chapter Text
“Hurry up, Draco! Our Portkey leaves in thirty minutes.”
Draco popped his head out from behind the curtain. “You know,” he said with a coy smile, “I would have been done ten minutes ago if we had showered together like I suggested.”
“Or,” Hermione pressed, “it would have taken twice as long because you would have found other things to do while we were in there.”
“In which case, the length of our single showers or the length of one double shower would have been equivalent, and I would have gotten to ravish you senseless before I’m forced to endure this wretched evening.”
Draco waggled his eyebrows, and Hermione aimed a washcloth at his water-slicked chest. “Don’t make me get in there!”
He smirked. “Threat or promise?”
Metal scraped across the curtain rod as Hermione slid it shut amidst his amused chuckles.
“You now have twenty-eight minutes,” she said, ignoring the heated flush of her cheeks. “And before you suggest it, no, you cannot Charm us another Portkey if we miss the first one. We will not be late for Ron and Susan’s wedding.”
The bathroom door shut behind her, hardly concealing Draco’s continued laughs. Then again, their Verdellian studio flat was so small, it was impossible to go anywhere without hearing him—not that Hermione would have it any other way. Merlin, she adored that wizard, even when he was being purposefully ridiculous.
A few minutes later, the pounding water shut off and Draco stepped out of the bathroom, towel hung low around his waist. Hermione’s attention pulled from their wardrobe as her stomach involuntarily flipped.
“Would you look at that? Hermione Granger still stares at me when I get out of the shower.”
Hermione laid her dress robes on their bed and admired her boyfriend. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”
She kept her gaze on Draco, not caring one bit if she was staring. Of course she was staring. How could she not? It was even more impossible not to admire him ever since Draco had gotten his most recent tattoo: a string of vines covering the scar he’d gotten from that curse. It was her favourite tattoo of his… for now. Locked away was the memory of Draco saying that he hoped to one day connect the stars in his mountain tattoo with the constellations after which his children were named. Hermione couldn’t help but picture that too.
A year into their relationship, certain aspects of it still felt surreal. The mere fact that Hermione was even dating Draco never ceased to amaze her. Not because of his past—they had long ago moved beyond that aspect of their history— but because she couldn’t believe how fortunate she was to have found him again. Sometimes, Hermione wondered about a different version of her life: the one where she hadn’t taken Charlie up on his offer to visit the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. A world in which she and Draco both settled for the lives they thought were enough, unaware that happiness wasn’t that far out of reach, if only their paths crossed once more.
They were never more than a few feet away from each other as they finished getting ready: Draco in silk black dress robes, Hermione in forest green. The robes were far more expensive than anything she and Draco could afford on their own, but Narcissa had insisted that they couldn’t attend such a high-profile wedding in something they already owned. The final bill from Madam Maulkins had cost more than Hermione’s half of their Verdellian and Diagon flats. And while Draco had argued with Narcissa for the countless time that he and Hermione were perfectly happy without her Galleons (especially after the dragon keepers’ recent raise), Hermione secretly wasn’t complaining. As good as Draco looked shirtless, he was just as irresistible in dress robes.
The miniature Ivayr trotted across the bathroom vanity while Hermione applied her fourth dollop of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. Draco slipped behind her and scooped some for himself.
“Excuse you,” Hermione said as Draco flattened out a few strands of his bun. “It’s polite to ask you know.”
“Says the witch who regularly steals chips from my plate whenever we’re at the Dennfyre.”
She rolled her eyes. “You never finish them anyway.”
“Only because I know you want more and I am utterly incapable of denying you anything.” He pressed a short kiss to her blushing cheeks. “But if my stunning girlfriend would be ever so gracious, I’d prefer to finish my own dinner tonight. If there’s one thing I trust Weasley to do right, it’s picking a good meal for his wedding.”
Hermione snickered. “I think I can make an exception.”
“How very kind,” Draco said, grin matching hers in their mirrored reflection. “Although, if you’ll allow me, I believe there’s something still not right with your hair…”
Fleeting worry twisted inside her. “I tried putting in enough Sleakeazy’s to make sure it wouldn’t frizz, but it was much easier to anticipate my hair’s temperament when I knew I’d be dancing in the Great Hall, not in the Burrow’s backyard where—”
The green ribbon slipped out from Draco’s pocket and he looped it where her two twists of hair met at the back of her head.
“There,” Draco said once the green ribbon was in place. “It’s your turn to carry it.”
Hermione admired the new addition in her reflection. The ribbon matched the dress robes perfectly, which, of course, wasn’t a coincidence. When Narcissa Malfoy offered to pay for custom-designed robes, Hermione knew instantly what fabric she wanted them inspired by.
She popped up and gave him a quick kiss, feeling the ribbon sway behind her as she moved. “Just remember you gave it to me when you’re drunk later tonight and are concerned that you lost it.”
“That was one time,” Draco defended along with a coordinating poke to her side. “But that reminds me to set out Hangover Potions for us. I will not be able to endure lunch with Mother tomorrow if I have a flock of Ridgebacks pounding inside my head. Merlin, just the thought of hungover Apparition to Wiltshire makes me preemptively queasy.” He paused, lit up briefly, then added, “On second thought, perhaps we should owl her and—”
“We are not rescheduling,” Hermione said before Draco had the chance to suggest it. “Having lunch with her is the least we can do after she gifted us these robes.”
“Fine, fine,” Draco conceded without any fight, yet that didn’t stop a smirk from spreading across his lips. “For the record, though, I would much rather spend a lazy, hungover morning with you expressly not wearing these robes.”
He left the bathroom, smirk still fully plastered across his stupidly handsome face, before Hermione could make a retort. Ever since Narcissa, too, had moved back to Britain (full time, not part), she invited Draco and Hermione over the first Sunday of every month. It appeared blood status no longer carried as much weight now that her son was so happy.
Hermione followed Draco into the main room where he rummaged through his suitcase wedged between their bed and the sofa.
“I know I packed Hangover Potion in here somewhere.” A pile of black shirts cluttered the floor next to his knees. “I brewed another batch after we finished the supply we had in this flat.”
“After you finished the supply we had,” Hermione couldn’t resist correcting. “Or do I need to remind you who had to down three whole vials after getting home from Ron’s stag weekend?”
He shot her a challenging look. “Alcohol was the only way to survive.”
“Was it now?” Hermione teased. “Because Charlie told me that despite you claiming you were only invited because you’re my boyfriend, you, Ron, and Harry got along quite well that weekend.”
“I was civil.”
“You were cordial.”
“Civil.”
“And just where exactly did I last hear you use that word?” Hermione grinned as Draco deadpanned, already knowing her argument was won. “Oh, that’s right, I believe you last used that word in reference to the witch who is now your— What did you call me again? Your stunning girlfriend?”
He zipped up his suitcase then folded his arms. “Do you want me to pour your Hangover Potion down the drain?”
“That would require you finding it first,” Hermione said with a playful lilt. She followed him to the kitchen where Draco opened every cabinet. “Admit it, Draco. You’re becoming friends with Ron and Harry.”
“Acquaintances.” A cabinet slammed shut. “Isn’t it enough that I’m already best mates with one Weasley?”
Hermione smiled. “I can accept acquaintances.”
It wasn’t worth debating that bi-weekly Quidditch games between the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary versus the British Auror Office constituted at least some form of friendship.
“Fucking Salazar!” The slam of a cabinet door pulled her attention back to Draco. He tried an Accio, but when the spell came back empty, Draco resigned himself to a groan. “I swear, Granger, when we get married, I’m buying us two homes with the Floos connected so we don’t have to keep lugging our things between Britain and Romania.”
Her stomach lurched. Her heart skipped a beat.
“When we get married, huh?”
Draco snorted, all agitation about the missing Hangover Potion instantly erased. “If you don’t think I plan on marrying you, you deserve to have your brightest witch title stripped from your Chocolate Frog card.”
“Have my Chocolate Frog card memorised, do you?”
Her heart transitioned into a sprint as her whole world narrowed to Draco and his smile.
“I suppose you could call me your biggest fan.”
He pulled Hermione by the hand and collided their lips at once. He could kiss her a thousand times a day, yet the buoyant feeling never waned. They had never brought up the topic of marriage before—at least not in relation to them. It somehow didn’t feel necessary. As if they had always just known. But hearing him say it, confirming that this was where they both saw this heading, infiltrated her senses like her veins were filled with Felix Felicis.
“Merlin, I love you. More than I could express in a hundred lifetimes,” Draco said when their kiss broke. He took her cheeks into his palms. “If you hadn’t shown up at the sanctuary, I would have lived the rest of my life out there, not knowing what I was missing by continuing to avoid my past. But the past doesn’t haunt me anymore. Now, I’m only looking forward to the future. Our future.”
His hand slid up and released the green ribbon from her hair. But instead of returning it to his pocket like Hermione expected, Draco took Hermione’s left hand into his and wrapped the ribbon around her finger. Her ring finger.
“I love you, Hermione,” he said again, giving the green ribbon a kiss. “And while this isn’t the real thing, it’s a promise of how serious I am about us.”
She stared at the green ribbon, speechless. She would never forget the first time he told her he loved her: three months into their relationship, shortly after Draco had spent Christmas morning with her parents and right before they walked into Christmas dinner with his mother. He’d said it every day since, and each time felt just as sweet. But the ones today were just as special. Just as important. And though it was still a distance off, she couldn’t wait until those “I love you”s were tied to a vow of forever.
Their first adventure was long ago complete, but ahead still laid an unwritten journey with countless more paths to explore.
From the corner of her eye, she saw it.
The Portkey glowed in warning.
One minute.
But the glow of a Portkey no longer nerved her. A year ago, it meant the potential of leaving. Of not knowing when she’d see Draco next. But now, a Portkey meant a connection to him on the other side or a new destination for them both.
A beginning. Not the end.
For even after this Portkey left, she and Draco would still have a hundred million minutes more. From now until the end, each other’s teammate.