Yellow
The days turned into weeks, and Hermione and Draco spent more time in the room assigned to them as Head Boy and Girl than in their own dormitories or common rooms. They always returned to their respective beds in Gryffindor Tower and the dungeons, but only in the late hours of the night—sometimes even at dawn. To everyone else, their constant companionship only seemed to solidify their relationship, to the point where even their Heads of House appeared resigned to accepting their unlikely union. After all, they remained exemplary students, and as far as public displays were concerned, they seemed to abstain entirely. If they were going to engage in anything improper, it would be in the privacy of that room. They were adults now, after all.
However, not everyone shared the general sentiment.
This year, Hermione had decided to spend the holidays with her parents, only joining the Weasleys for Easter. Most of the family regretted her absence, but she reasoned that she hadn’t spent Christmas dinner with her parents in six years, and it didn’t feel fair to keep postponing it. What she didn’t admit was that Draco had seemed restless at the thought of her spending time alone with Charlie. At first, it annoyed and even unsettled her—it felt like an unspoken command, as if Draco had any right to decide for her. When had their relationship stopped being just a façade? Yet, even though he never outright asked nor had any power to impose anything on her, Hermione noticed the relief in his eyes when she told him she’d be spending the holidays with her parents and only visiting the Burrow for Easter. And for some reason, that made her feel strangely satisfied.
With Christmas approaching, Hermione found herself at a crossroads—she needed to choose a gift for Draco. What could she possibly give to someone who seemed to have everything?
The last weekend before leaving school, Hermione and Ginny headed to Diagon Alley for their annual Christmas shopping trip, a tradition they had maintained since Hermione was fifteen and Ginny fourteen. They both knew exactly what to get for everyone—except for themselves. To avoid that dilemma, Hermione had already planned Ginny’s gift: an elegant set of enchanted quills with self-refilling, waterproof ink, perfect for her classes and for writing letters without worrying about smudges or spills.
The rest of the gifts were relatively easy to choose. As always, upon entering Quality Quidditch Supplies, they quickly found the perfect presents for Harry and Ron. However, Hermione still couldn’t find anything suitable for Draco. Nothing felt quite special enough, quite meaningful enough.
Sensing her frustration, Ginny suggested they visit Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment, as she wanted to buy something for Theodore Nott. That, at least, didn’t surprise Hermione. They entered the shop, and while Ginny busied herself with an enchanted journal that answered closed-ended questions, Hermione’s gaze was drawn to a display case. Inside, a small silver pendant, intricately crafted in the shape of a Snitch—but in silver—caught her attention.
Just then, a wizard appeared beside her.
“It’s not just a decorative piece,” he murmured, as if sharing a secret. “If the wearer holds it between their fingers and focuses, the delicate wings engraved on its surface will vibrate ever so slightly, pointing in the direction of what they desire most in that moment.”
He hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice even further.
“We don’t know why it was made in the shape of a Snitch, but we do know that only three were ever produced.”
Hermione considered it for a moment. It wouldn’t give Draco an advantage in the game, but it would serve as a constant reminder of his instincts as a Seeker—of what he truly longed to find on the pitch: the Golden Snitch.
Or perhaps, beyond the pitch, something else.
“I’ll take it,” she said with quiet determination.
That Friday would be the last time she could meet Draco in that space. The next day, they would leave for their respective homes. Hermione lay stretched out on the couch in the common room, positioned between their two bedrooms, when Draco walked through the door. Before she could sit up, he was already on top of her, trapping her between his body and the arms of the couch, his lips pressing against hers in a kiss softer than usual. Hermione smiled in response, wrapping her arms around his neck—an instinctive gesture now, one that hinted at an intimacy that hadn't existed before. She rested her nose against his, hesitating for a moment before speaking.
"I know this relationship is, in theory, fake… even if we've added certain benefits to the arrangement," she murmured.
Draco arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his expression.
"I'd call them more than just benefits, Granger. And if I’m being honest, I think we both know perfectly well that the pretending ended weeks ago."
The statement caught her off guard. Draco no longer seemed so reluctant to express his desires openly when they were alone. In public, he maintained a possessive air around her, but in the privacy of their shared refuge, he was more transparent—more real. And yet, his words only widened Hermione's smile, something Draco found himself enjoying more and more. To him, it was a delicious prelude to what could turn into a spectacular evening. He’d had Quidditch practice that morning, and they hadn’t seen each other since—until now.
Draco pulled away with a casual air and disappeared into the room they never used. Hermione heard the sound of movement but remained still. When he returned to the common room, he was holding a long, rectangular box wrapped in emerald-green paper, tied with a silver ribbon.
"I suppose I should say ‘Merry Christmas’ and all that, Granger, but this is the most you're getting out of me," he said with feigned indifference.
Hermione stood up and, rising onto her bare toes, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his lips before accepting the box.
"It’s more than I would have expected," she admitted, surprising even herself with her sincerity.
"But less than you'll get as long as you keep being mine" Draco replied with a smirk.
It felt too easy. The dynamic between them had shifted so much that the time they once spent researching the nature of their pact was now consumed by losing themselves in each other. Their initial goal—to find a way to break the enchantment binding them—had been pushed aside, along with the restrictions they had originally set for themselves. Restrictions they had clearly failed to maintain.
Even the motivations that had originally led them to make the pact and the lack of love they had experienced for those people seemed to have been sidelined.
Hermione returned to the couch with a satisfied smile, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation as she untied the ribbon. She lifted the lid of the box and found a book inside. Looking up at Draco, she caught an expression on his face that had become more frequent lately. Seeing her happy disarmed him. It filled him with something wild, something that made him smile despite himself. At first, he’d tried to suppress it, knowing she would notice. But over time, he had stopped fighting it. Now, he simply allowed himself to feel the same warmth he imagined she did. And strangely enough, it satisfied him.
Hermione picked up the book, running her fingertips over the cover.
"The Tales of Beedle the Bard," she read softly, with wonder.
"They’re stories for wizarding children," Draco explained, shrugging. "Theo once mentioned that Muggles have something similar, and I thought you might find it interesting. Then again, you find anything with bound pages interesting, so…"
His words were cut off when Hermione kissed him without warning, still clutching the book in one hand as she reached up to hold onto his neck. The kiss was passionate, yes—but it was also something more. Something Draco couldn’t immediately identify. When their eyes met, Hermione whispered, her voice barely above a breath:
"Thank you."
Draco cleared his throat and looked away.
"It’s not just any edition. Open it."
Curious, Hermione pulled back and flipped the book open. The moment she turned the first page, the illustrations began to move, coming to life in a way that took her breath away.
"It’s an enchanted copy," Draco explained. His tone, usually laced with sarcasm or arrogance, had softened with her.
Hermione flipped through the pages, mesmerized by the animated drawings—until she noticed small handwritten notes at the bottom of several pages.
"Did you write this?" she asked, her eyes shining.
Draco shrugged, feigning disinterest.
"Just a few thoughts I had about certain passages. Nothing impressive."
Hermione looked at him with such intensity that he felt a lump form in his throat. Suddenly, her own Christmas gift to him seemed painfully impersonal compared to what Draco had given her. He noticed the way she was staring at him, and, shifting uncomfortably, he added:
"The ink adjusts to the lighting, so you can always read it perfectly."
But Hermione kept looking at him as if she had just uncovered a hidden treasure. Draco averted his gaze quickly, unable to hold her stare. And in that moment, she understood.
She felt it—an undeniable truth settling deep inside her, slow but relentless.
Against all logic, against everything she thought she knew about herself, Hermione Granger was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.
It should have terrified her. It should have made her panic at the implications, the risks, the inevitable heartbreak.
But instead, she felt a warmth spread through her—unexpected, but not unwelcome.
A warmth she didn’t resist. A warmth she embraced, fully and without hesitation.
And judging by the way Draco wasted no time in pulling her close again, kissing her as if his life depended on it…
He felt it too.
It was strange to think about how it had all started and where she stood now. She should have been worried about the effects of her emotions, about what Dumbledore had said, about the discoveries she had made regarding the pact.
And yet, all she wanted was to stay lost in this whirlwind of feelings Draco had pulled her into.
After catching her breath, she slowly pulled away, setting the book beside her bag before reaching inside. She pulled out a deep crimson box with a golden ribbon, and when they both noticed their matching color choices, they couldn’t help but laugh. They were becoming far too predictable.
Hermione stepped closer, pressing a kiss to each of Draco’s cheeks.
“Merry Christmas, Draco.”
He, ever the well-mannered pureblood raised to show no outward emotion, offered her a measured smile. He had hesitated about getting her a gift—this wasn’t something he usually did. But when he saw Theodore pick out something for Ginevra Weasley, who wasn’t even officially his witch, Draco realized he couldn’t fall behind. After all, he had been raised to be a gentleman, even if he rarely acted like one. And for some inexplicable reason, he wanted Hermione to feel as important as she was starting to become to him.
But he had never expected to receive something in return.
He lifted the lid of the box, revealing a soft black velvet lining. Resting inside was a silver Snitch, attached to a delicate matching chain. He picked it up, rolling it between his fingers with curiosity. Suddenly, the tiny wings fluttered, tugging him ever so slightly toward Hermione. She smiled knowingly.
Draco met her gaze, waiting for an explanation.
“It’s enchanted,” she said, clearly enjoying his intrigue. “If the wearer holds it and focuses, it’s supposed to pull them toward whatever they desire most at that moment.”
A faint flush crept up Draco’s neck.
“I thought it might be useful during your matches,” she continued, her voice casual. “If you ever lose sight of the Snitch, maybe you could use it to—”
She never finished her sentence.
Draco silenced her with a kiss.
It was instinctive, intense, born from an impulse he didn’t bother suppressing. His free hand tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him, while her hands fisted against his chest as if bracing herself against the sheer force of what she was feeling.
Merlin… would it always feel this good?
When they finally broke apart, Hermione noticed something different about his gaze. She had long observed how Draco’s eyes changed with his emotions. Now, his stormy gray irises glowed with a silvery light, flickering between hesitation and certainty. When he was angry, his stare darkened, steely and impenetrable, like a brewing tempest. When he lied, his pupils constricted ever so slightly—a trick of nobility, learned to mask emotion behind a veil of indifference. But now… now his eyes gleamed with something raw, something he wasn’t ready to say aloud.
“It seems to work well for the purpose you mentioned,” he murmured, idly rolling the Snitch between his fingers. “I’ll use it on the pitch if I ever need to—though I doubt I will. I always find the Snitch on my own.”
“Of course,” Hermione replied, though there was something unreadable in her voice.
They held each other’s gaze, caught in a silent conversation that said more than words ever could. Thoughts laid bare, emotions unguarded. And somewhere in the middle of it all, a quiet certainty settled between them—undeniable, inescapable.
Hermione swallowed.
“Yours.”
Draco’s lips curled, more to himself than to her.
“Yours.”
The room was bathed in shadows, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth. Hermione felt the heat of the flames licking at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning inside her as she looked at Draco. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the golden glow of the firelight catching in his pale hair, and his eyes... those gray eyes, usually cold and impenetrable, now looked molten, like liquid silver.
They had been kissing for what felt like an eternity—a desperate dance of lips and hands that knew exactly where to touch to draw out sighs and gasps from the other.
She shouldn’t feel like this. She shouldn’t want him this way. Their pact forbade it. But in that moment, with Draco’s breath mingling with hers, the pact was the last thing on her mind.
"Tell me to stop," Draco murmured against her lips, his voice rough, weighted with something beyond desire. It wasn’t a command—it was a plea.
Hermione opened her eyes just enough to see the struggle in his expression. Draco Malfoy, the boy who had sworn never to love, the same one who had mocked her for years, was now looking at her as if she were his undoing.
But she didn’t want to be saved. Not from him.
Instead of answering, she let her fingers trace over the bare skin of his chest, sliding down to the edge of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. Draco let her, watching her with a mix of reverence and hunger, his pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted.
When her hands met his skin, a shudder ran through him. Hermione felt the power in that touch, in knowing she could unravel him with a single caress, that she could make Draco Malfoy forget the world just by touching him.
“You’re mine,” Draco whispered against her neck, his teeth grazing her skin before capturing it between his lips.
Hermione arched against him, gripping his shoulders.
“And you’re mine,” she answered.
Draco began unbuttoning Hermione’s shirt with expert ease, the same skill he had demonstrated countless times before. Yet this time, his fingers hesitated—just barely—as if, despite his confidence, he was still giving her a chance to stop him. But Hermione held his gaze, her message clear, her thoughts even clearer.
So he continued. He slid the fabric down her shoulders, baring inch after inch of her skin. Her skirt pooled at her feet with a quiet rustle as she pushed it down her thighs, while Draco rid himself of his own trousers with restrained urgency. In the blink of an eye, they were both down to their underwear, the tension between them humming in the air, thick with desire and unspoken promises.
Draco straightened, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do, Hermione.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Let me guess… you’re going to make me figure it out?”
His smirk deepened, the expression of a predator toying with his prey.
“Remember when you told me that if I wanted to keep you close on the Quidditch field, I’d have to throw you over my shoulder?”
Hermione’s eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Draco’s brow lifted arrogantly.
“I thought by now you’d understand that what a Malfoy wants, a Malfoy gets.”
She barely had time to let out a startled gasp before Draco gripped her firmly by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.
“Draco, put me down this instant!”
Her protest turned into a sharp inhale when she felt his hand skim over the curve of her ass before delivering an unexpected slap. The heat of it spread across her skin, but instead of displeasure, a shiver of pleasure shot through her. Draco noticed, and with a wicked grin, smoothed his palm over the spot he had just punished, caressing it with deliberate gentleness… only to repeat the motion, this time with less force but even more intent.
The muffled sound Hermione made was enough to send his blood boiling.
The walk to the bed was short, and when they reached it, he laid her down with reverence. Then he hovered over her, balancing on his hands and forearms, drinking in the sight beneath him.
Hermione was no longer the shy girl who used to cover herself when he looked at her without clothes. Now, she stared right back at him, filled with confidence and desire, driving him insane. But this time, there was something else in her eyes—something that made Draco’s breath catch.
“You are too beautiful, Hermione,” he murmured, a devotion in his voice that even he didn’t fully understand. “I never imagined anyone could look as perfect as you.”
Hermione held his gaze, and for an instant, everything else faded away. In Draco’s mind at that moment, there was nothing but her. The certainty wrapped around her, warm and absolute: he was his. His and no one else’s. And that knowledge sent a sweet shiver down her spine, filling her with a quiet reassurance she hadn’t expected.
The blush on her cheeks only intensified his hunger. With a touch both electric and possessive, he traced the outline of her body, his fingers gliding from her thighs to her ribs in a slow, deliberate caress.
When he brushed over her nipples through the fabric of her bra, Hermione exhaled a shuddering breath. Draco felt the rapid beat of her heart, the anticipation thrumming between them like a pulse. He leaned down, letting his tongue graze over the thin material, reveling in the way her body responded to even the smallest provocation.
With the same deftness he used to unfasten Quidditch robes in the locker room, he slipped his fingers beneath the clasp of her bra and unhooked it with a practiced flick. His gaze darkened as he took her in, completely bare before him.
It was a sight he would never tire of.
He lowered his mouth to her breast, capturing a nipple between his lips, his tongue tracing slow, languid circles over the sensitive peak. He felt the way she arched into him, surrendering to each touch, every brush of his tongue, with absolute abandon.
But this time… they weren’t stopping there.
They both knew it the moment their eyes met. There was no hesitation. No turning back.
Draco began his descent, leaving a trail of kisses from her neck to her stomach. His tongue traced the curve of her hip while his fingers toyed with the waistband of her panties.
“Lift your hips for me, love,” he murmured against her skin.
Hermione obeyed without question, her breath shaky, her hands fisting the sheets. Draco took advantage of her momentary submission and, with deliberate ease, caught the delicate lace between his teeth, dragging it down her legs agonizingly slow. The sight of her bare skin, flushed and waiting for him, made his pulse stutter.
Tossing the fabric aside, he began his journey back up, pressing kisses along the inside of her thighs, her knees, her ankles—even the delicate arch of her foot. Worshiping her. Devouring her.
And when his mouth finally claimed her, his tongue moving with unrelenting devotion, Hermione stopped thinking about the pact, about the rules—about anything that wasn’t him.
Draco's tongue moved with expert precision over her center, making Hermione lift her hips and thread her fingers through his hair, gripping lightly every time he pulled away the slightest bit from her most sensitive spot. She caressed his scalp as she breathed his name into the air... Draco.
The wetness pooling between her thighs mixed with his saliva, and Draco had never tasted anything more intoxicating. He had done this only once before, and it couldn’t compare in the slightest to the way Hermione surrendered herself to him in that moment. He could, and wanted to, stay there for hours, but his tongue began to feel the rhythmic pulses of her walls, spreading in waves that he could taste against his lips. He looked up, watching her come undone, her breath ragged and her body trembling—he knew this sight well. Every time he had brought her over the edge with his fingers or the friction of his cock through their clothes, she looked just like this. He knew her too well by now, and he knew exactly what was coming. Hermione was right there, on the precipice.
He reached up, brushing his fingers over her nipple, and Hermione caught his hand in hers, holding it gently so he could keep moving. The last thing he heard before he felt her climax spill over his mouth was the broken, desperate sound of his name falling from her lips.
—Draco.
In that moment, he swore he would never tire of hearing his name from her lips.
He placed a soft kiss against her pubic bone before pulling himself up, wrapping her in his arms as her body trembled, soothing her by tracing slow, comforting circles down her spine. His hand drifted from the mess of curls on her head to the curve of her ass, guiding her leg to drape over his.
Hermione lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Draco—liquid mercury, stormy and intense. She kissed him with a tenderness that tried to contain the desire clawing at her insides just from looking at him. Draco responded immediately, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had yet to wane. Her hands tangled behind his neck, and he pulled her onto his lap, straddling him. She paused, letting her fingers roam his chest, tracing every defined ridge and dip until they reached the waistband of his boxers. Draco tensed slightly, and for the first time that night, she saw it clearly—he was just as nervous as she was.
But Hermione wanted him. She needed him. And she could see in his eyes that his desire mirrored her own—if not burned even hotter. The pleasure simmering beneath her skin had been momentarily satisfied, but his was still left waiting.
Draco broke the silence first.
—Are you sure?
—When have I ever been wrong?
Draco smirked. —You insufferable, arrogant witch. That’s why I love you, Hermione Granger. Only you could make every contradiction feel so natural, so clear. You give meaning to everything.
Hermione smiled before asking, —Do you know a contraceptive charm?
Of course, he did. But for some reason, he felt embarrassed to admit it. He didn’t want any memory of before to taint this moment. Hermione noticed his hesitation, reading him effortlessly, and gently cupped his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.
—It doesn’t matter what happened before, Draco. Think of it this way: everything that came before had to happen so that we could be here, right now. Maybe this was always the path we needed to take before finding each other like this—before it could be just you and me in this moment.
A half-smile curved his lips. He couldn’t believe how easily Hermione accepted it all when he, on the other hand, burned with jealousy every time he thought about that idiot McLaggen putting his hands on her. He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the warmth of her touch.
—Do you want it to stay just you and me?
The question caught Hermione off guard, but her walls didn’t go up—she was simply honest, as she always was with Draco.
—I don’t know if this will have a happy ending, but I do know that I want to see you smile every moment we have together.
She felt a knot form in her throat, forcing herself to blink away the tears before continuing.
—Your family’s expectations are nothing like what I am. But it’s enough for me to meet yours, Draco.
It was too intimate a moment, too fragile. Draco didn’t want to think about expectations, not now. He just wanted to exist here, with the witch who had broken down every one of his walls and was now offering him her heart without hesitation. If he had to ignore those expectations now and forever, so be it. Hermione met his gaze again.
—Do you think you’ll miss me when this ends?
Draco held her stare, his gray eyes darkening into a storm Hermione had never seen before.
—If it ends, Hermione. I’d miss you even if I had never met you.
That was all she needed. Hermione crashed her lips onto his, and Draco, with practiced ease, removed the final barrier between them. Their bodies met in a desperate collision, a union of all they had waited for. Draco looked at her once more, whispered an "Accio Wand," and cast the spell low over her abdomen. Hermione barely felt it—just a faint warmth blooming inside her.
That was all.
Hermione drowned in a desperate, deep kiss. Draco, with deft hands, removed the final barrier between their bodies. They collided with the urgency of those who had waited too long. He looked at her one last time before murmuring an "Accio wand" and whispering a spell over her abdomen. Hermione barely felt the magical knot forming inside her before surrendering completely to him.
Nothing existed outside of Draco. Nothing mattered in that instant except the way he made her feel, how he shattered her defenses with just a look and turned her into a creature ruled by desire. Her mind burned with a single certainty: she wanted him.
"I don’t want you to stop," she whispered, and she knew there was no turning back when Draco’s eyes gleamed with what must have been the reflection of her own.
A low, guttural groan escaped his throat before his mouth crashed against hers with renewed ferocity. Hermione did not let herself be intimidated by the force of his desire. She wanted to command him, as he had done before, to keep his eyes on her, to look at her while she felt him inside her—but she couldn’t. The waves of pleasure were already surging in her belly, making her arch her hips against the unmistakable hardness pressing between Draco’s legs, desperate for more.
But he had no intention of rushing.
"It might hurt a little at first." He let his hand drift down between her thighs.
"Fuck, Hermione, you’re so wet. I think that will help make it easier."
The barely-there brush of his arousal against her made her tremble.
"Are you ready?"
Hermione only nodded, gathering the courage to cup his face with both hands, losing herself in his eyes, letting him drown in hers and in the infinite pleasure he would find there.
Draco seemed to be trembling slightly at first. He moved over her, sliding inside with exquisite care. Hermione felt herself stretching around him, little by little, accommodating him. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, and she saw Draco’s eyes darken into molten silver. Once he was fully inside, he withdrew just as gently, his lips hovering mere centimeters from hers, never breaking eye contact. He moved over her with torturous precision, pulling back just enough before rocking into her again in a slow, measured rhythm that made her gasp into his mouth.
Hermione moaned and clung to his shoulders when he thrust deeper, harder, making her feel every inch, every pulse of his need.
Pleasure hit her immediately—raw, overwhelming. Draco let his head fall into the curve of her neck, his breath ragged as he filled her completely.
"Fuck, Hermione…" His voice broke into a hoarse groan, the control he had fought to maintain unraveling as his body trembled with the intensity of the moment.
And then he moved faster. Harder.
Each thrust was a direct hit to her sanity, an intoxicating rhythm that dragged them both mercilessly toward the edge. Hermione felt it in every fiber of her being—in the way her body molded to his, in the way their gasps tangled in the space between them, in the way Draco murmured her name through clenched teeth like it was a spell, a curse, a plea.
The sound of her name on his lips sent her spiraling. She felt the tension inside her coil tighter and tighter, her walls clenching around him, urging him on. She began to move in sync with Draco, lifting her hips to meet his, dismissing the faint sting in favor of the overwhelming pleasure, the desperate need to match his frantic rhythm.
Hermione felt him tense above her, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate, as the tension inside her reached a breaking point.
"Hermione…" His voice was wrecked, pleading.
She dragged her lips to his ear, catching his lobe between her teeth, whispering her own undoing.
"Come with me, Draco."
She met his gaze, drawing his eyes to hers. His pupils were blown wide, molten silver and darkness swallowing her whole, just as their bodies merged into one. And for a fleeting moment, beyond thought, beyond words, she saw it—
She saw herself reflected in him, not just in his eyes but in his soul, as if they had been written in the same language since the beginning of time. And Draco saw himself in her, in the way she held him, in the way she gave herself to him without hesitation, without fear. He had never belonged anywhere more completely than he did in that moment, inside her, with her.
A guttural sound tore from his throat, the only warning before he buried himself deep one final time, his body trembling as his climax crashed through him, pulling Hermione with him into oblivion. She felt the shudder of his muscles, the way his hands clung to her skin in desperation, as if she were the only thing tethering him to reality while he unraveled inside her.
Draco remained still for a moment, his breath ragged against her neck, before collapsing beside her, pulling her with him, still inside her, wrapping his arms around her with what little strength he had left.
Hermione remained there, her face buried against his chest, his warm breath ghosting over her curls.
Draco had had sex dozens of times before. He had longed for others before. But a truth settled deep inside him, undeniable in the aftermath of what they had just shared—he had never made love before. Not until now.
As they lay entwined, Hermione felt something shift within her magic, as if their pact had responded to what they had done, to what they had now become to each other.
Draco felt it too, but like Hermione, he said nothing. He only watched her skin glow under the moonlight like—
Like the stars had woven themselves into her flesh, like the universe itself had conspired to make her luminous in his arms, golden and endless, something worth worshiping.
Draco held her tighter against his chest, their bodies slick with the remnants of their passion. Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against her own.
They said nothing. They didn’t need to.
But they both knew the truth.
They had broken their pact.
Love had found them.