Shielded

Hermione couldn’t help her gasp of surprise. O. Doherty, the co-author of the book she had bought in Norwich, was Maeve’s sister!

“Maeve, we recently bought one of her books!” she said excitedly.

“Really??” the woman responded with an eager tone.

“Yes! Draco is reading it right now!”

Maeve burst in renewed tears, this time laughing through them. She tried to speak, hiccuped, and then started laugh-crying again.

“My goodness, what is going on here??” came Robert’s deep voice from the lounge entrance, making them all jump. He stood impassively, surveying the scene in front of him, with Hermione consoling Maeve and Malfoy sitting across from them.

“Oh Robert, you’ll never believe it, but these two are reading one of Orla’s books!”

Robert’s eyebrows shot up his bald forehead. “So… so they’re…”

“They’re magical!” explained Maeve, beaming at Hermione and Malfoy.

Robert immediately looked at them suspiciously, but Maeve waved her hand dismissively, rising from her seat, and said, “No, no, no worries, they weren’t after us. They’re too young anyway. Those men from Andover were at least 20 years older. I just told them the story of Orla and it turns out they had recently purchased one of her books for… what was it, dear?”

“Our own research.”

At Hermione’s response, Maeve wailed again, throwing herself in Robert’s arms, where he patted her back with bemusement.

“Well what are the odds,” he murmured, mustache twitching into a smile. Over the muffled sobs of Maeve, he continued, “I just came in to let you know that I made the majority of the fixes needed to get your car running again. I was going to come in after an hour, but you seemed to be chatting away nicely when I glanced in the window, so I didn’t think I’d disturb. Looks like I misunderstood the situation.”

“Oh, no, no, they were very lovely,” insisted Maeve, finally gathering herself with bright eyes.

Hermione smiled at the woman. “Yes, we truly appreciated the story, sad as it was. It’s so exciting to get to meet someone who had been in the life of such an amazing woman.” She then looked at Robert. “And I’m so happy to hear that the repairs are going well! Is the car running again?”

Robert inclined his head, arm still wrapped around his wife. “Yes, it’s running. I just need to perform some final routine maintenance on it, but I’ll be able to finish that up in the final hours of daylight, and you should be set to go tomorrow morning.”

“Final hours of daylight?? What time is it??” Hermione pulled out her phone and yelped, looking frantically at Malfoy. “It’s almost 3! We have completely overstayed our welcome!”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” reassured Maeve. “My apologies for spending most of that as such a mess. Please, feel free to stay as long as you’d like. I meant what I said when I told you I’d like to know more about you, and I’d love to hear more about the magical world – it’s been so long.”

“Oh, well… of course, we have no other plans.” Hermione sank down next to Malfoy again. He chuckled under his breath, but otherwise didn’t react.

“Wonderful! Let me get some more tea, and I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Robert, kissing the top of Maeve’s head before going back outside.

Hermione leaned back in her seat, getting comfortable for the afternoon ahead.

—

The sun had set by the time that Hermione had announced that they needed to leave for dinner. Maeve invited them over for breakfast the next day, which they agreed to, and with Hermione’s arms laden with the books she had selected (she refused to let Malfoy touch a single one, but only because it seemed to frustrate his gentlemanly sensibilities to leave her struggling), they headed back to the church.

They chattered happily between themselves on their way back, in high spirits from the pleasant conversation they had had with Maeve. She had wanted to discuss a multitude of topics, magical and not, and seemed content leaving out mentions of the war, so other than some joking jabs at their academic rivalry, none of Hermione and Malfoy’s strained past had been brought to light. Maeve laughed with Hermione at wizarding understanding of the Muggle world, and bonded with Malfoy over sharing a magical childhood. They all discussed the nuances of balancing the magical and non-magical worlds, and Hermione explained her success with research after combining magical and non-magical approaches, which excited Maeve greatly. She, in turn, had told them of all the ways that Orla had exposed her to magic, from showing her every spell she learned to giving her all the books she found useful on the topic.

“It was very clever of Orla to cast illusions over her magical books when she gave them to Maeve,” said Hermione to Malfoy as they walked, reflecting with appreciation on how even she had dismissed them as Muggle books. “Maybe I’ll do the same to the magical books we have with us, just in case they get left out in public.”

Malfoy nodded his agreement at the plan. “That would be smart. Just make sure it doesn’t divert me, too.”

“Of course.”

With only the last lingering lights of the day to guide them, they turned into the church courtyard, continuing this line of conversation. Suddenly, the church door slammed open.

“You scoundrel!” boomed Deacon John’s slimy voice. “I knew you were good for nothing the moment I set eyes on you!”

Hermione and Malfoy froze in their steps, looking at him with matching expressions of surprise. The deacon waddled down the church steps toward them, smooth face shimmering with ire.

“Excuse me?” said Malfoy.

“Yes, I think I will excuse you! What do you mean by this, making this young lady carry everything! Is this what chivalry has become?? Women must labor away while their men strut along?? She deserves one hundred times better than you!”

Malfoy’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Ah, can’t defend yourself, can you? As I thought! I saw the way you were hanging off her in bed this morning – it was positively indecent! She couldn’t even distance herself from your salaciousness! You’re clearly a womanizer and a lecher, and this poor woman had no idea what was happening to her when you wooed her into your bed and defiled her. Well, I know! I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and intend to report you to the law for forced matrimony! She will be freed of you, and able to find someone better for herself!”

Malfoy’s face was now completely pale. Hermione felt like she had just been knocked over. What was happening??

“Come, madam, and we will find more suitable accommodations for yourself. You can separate yourself from this crude, ungentlemanly filth.” Deacon John made to reach out to her. She absently noticed he was so flushed with agitation that even his hands were red. She automatically stepped away from him. Uncertainty flickered in his face briefly.

“Didn’t you hear me? You’re safe now! I understand you did what you believed was best for the situation you had been in, but I can protect you. No need to tie yourself to such a… a cad.” He spat this last word at Malfoy and grabbed her upper arm. Malfoy’s responding flinch finally shook her of the shock. 

She was inflamed. This… this… worm of a man had spoken to Malfoy like he was dirt, all because he felt morally superior to Malfoy and therefore entitled to her. Hermione knew that this was all just a misplaced attempt to be her hero. She had seen Deacon John’s leering behavior, and though gross, had mistakenly found it harmless. But instead, he had taken it on himself to act, clearly believing her too weak to defend herself, and decided he’d play the role of macho protector. He’d even go so far as to have Malfoy arrested – not out of true concern for her wellbeing, but out of a desperate desire to impress her. She was furious at the blatant misogyny of it all. She yanked herself out of his grasp and stepped in front of Malfoy protectively.

“How dare you?” she seethed at the deacon. “How dare you speak of my husband in this way??”

She had thus far only used simpering and pathetic tones with Deacon John, and the strength in her voice clearly startled him. He jolted in surprise, before starting again. “Madam…”

“Don’t ‘madam’ me!” she said, voice raised. “My name is Mrs. Mal…low, and I demand you treat my husband with respect! You are throwing unjustified accusations at him, and threatening him without proper cause. I repeat, how dare you!”

The deacon stared at her, dumbfounded. “But, you told me yourself, you were coerced by your situation…”

“I lied,” she interrupted, saying the words slowly. The blood drained from the deacon’s face.

She wracked her brain, trying to think of the most shocking and incendiary defense she could to back up Malfoy. “It wasn’t my husband who defiled me! It was I who defiled him! He held a vow of celibacy, and I seduced him! And after I was done with that, I married him, as I liked– no, loved what he had to offer and knew, now that he was compromised, he wouldn’t refuse!”

Deacon John began sputtering in affront.

“So if anything, deacon, you should be calling the law on me. But unfortunately, that would require my husband’s claim that he was forced into this position, and he wasn’t, were you, dear?”

She whipped around, eyes flaming, to look at Malfoy, whose gaze was locked on her, mouth still open. He shook his head dumbfoundedly.

“And there you have it!” She turned back to Deacon John. “Now, please leave me and my husband in peace to have our final night in this godforsaken place so we can finally continue our journey, and stop throwing baseless accusations at visitors you have passing through! I thought you were meant to be a man of God!”

At this, Deacon John turned even redder than before, and began to shake in earnest. Hermione would have been concerned if she hadn’t been so angry. She shifted the books in her hold to one hand, used the other to lace her fingers through Malfoy’s, and stomped off to their lodge. They were almost at the door when the deacon finally managed to stop sputtering enough to speak up.

“I… I should have known! With your conniving manners and temptress ways! You’re clearly a fallen woman, and a WHORE!”

Malfoy spun around.

“WATCH HOW YOU SPEAK TO MY WIFE!” he bellowed at the deacon, hand grasping even more firmly onto Hermione’s. The deacon stumbled back in surprise.

“Well I… I never,” he panted, eyes dilated with fear. “Mark my words, I will tell the head priest about this!”

“Be our guest!” taunted Hermione before yanking open the door, pulling Malfoy through, and slamming it shut behind them. She stood momentarily, staring at the closed door, trying to catch her breath. She could feel Malfoy behind her. After their mutual outbursts, the silence in the lodge was deafening. 

She turned to face him, and found that he was looming inches from her, chest heaving with a vigor that matched hers. His attention, like always, was locked on her, but at this close distance, she could see that the eyes, which had been so dead when he first walked into her house, were now burning and alive, pupils blown wide open. To her surprise, he didn’t back down when they locked gazes. Instead, he seemed to almost… lean in. His nostrils flared. She felt every nerve in her body heat in response. They kept staring into each others’ eyes.

Suddenly, so fast that she almost missed it, he glanced down at her mouth before returning to her stare, and she opened her lips to let out a silent gasp. He glanced again. Her chest constricted, and she realized that her nerve endings were not just alert, but pulling her toward Malfoy.

He was so, so beautiful. Yes, he was handsome, but he always had been. His aristocratic bone structure, smooth skin, silky hair, and brooding, temperamental disposition gave him an almost fantastical appeal, and Hermione remembered eyeing him inconspicuously as a girl, being reminded of the dark princes from the storybooks she used to love. As an adult, this comparison still held true. But it was now, looking into his open, heated face, that Hermione realized it was more than his attractiveness. This man was passionate. 

She presumed he always has been, but from a suppressed and entitled upbringing, it was only exhibited by the extreme behaviors of being either removed and dismissive or petulant and demanding, none of which were to his favor. As a child, he was forced to use the fire inside him to align with what was expected of him, and this distorted its vibrancy into something ugly. And it probably would have continued to do so if he hadn’t broken free of those pressures. 

But he had. And as Hermione kept staring into his eyes, she saw that the energy burning inside him lit him up from within and shone through. He had passion for life, for protecting those he cared for, for expressing himself. As much as he had been bred to be proper and contained, his nature ran hot, not cold, and as intensely as he must have felt anger as a child, he now felt everything else as well. She suddenly wondered if he would use the same fervor to kiss, to love.

Almost as if reading her mind, his eyes flicked down to her lips a third time, and they both leaned forward imperceptibly. She could taste his breaths, panting inches from her own. Minty.

“Draco…” she murmured, breaking the silence between them, not sure what she was going to say.

And she would never find out. At the sound of her voice, he jolted upright, face stricken, looking around in shock. As if just remembering where he was and who with, he regarded her with an ashen face, and stumbled back two steps. She had righted herself in the meantime as well, watching disconcertedly as he opened and closed his mouth silently.

“Malfoy, are you alright??”

“I… I…” he flailed for a moment, eyes dashing around.

“Malfoy, it’s okay, please calm down,” she pleaded, reaching out to grab him by the upper arm, but pulling her hand back immediately when his entire body froze at the contact. Ugh, she had thought they were past this.

“I… I need a moment.” And with that closing remark, he turned on his heel and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and leaving Hermione alone.

–

On the other side of the door, Draco thumped his forehead against the cool wood and tried desperately to catch his breath. He was overwhelmed. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating. He was so, so, so aroused. 

There was no way he’d be able to simply ignore it this time. He fumbled at his zipper, yanking down his jeans and boxers to pull himself out. He was so hard it hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut at the immediate relief that the first two strokes gave him, and tried to keep his mind blank, focusing on the sensations of the movement. But unbidden came the thoughts of the woman who was just on the other side of the door. She was so close – he was sure that if he just opened the door he’d be able to reach her in a few steps. He thought of opening the door, of allowing her to see him like this, and had to raise his other arm to muffle the groan that escaped him.

He imagined her proud, chin up, posture self assured, as she had been when she had been standing up to Deacon John. That’s how she would be now, watching him pleasure himself. Except for some reason she would be naked, wearing only the teal knickers he knew she had on and her hair plaited down her sides. She would see him like this, and inspect him, almost as if assessing his worth. Her eyes would be imposing, intelligent, and fiery, passing her judgement. She would walk toward him slowly, all glorious confidence and power, relishing the hold she had over him. He bit his arm, the next groan harder to muffle. His hips started thrusting back into his hand.

Yes, she would be in her underwear and plaits, standing tall. He remembered all the moments they had touched – her grabbing his wrist last night, her bum between his thighs on the horse, her fingers running through his hair, her pulling him by the hand… him sitting against her at Robert and Maeve’s house, and being pressed up against her this morning in bed. She had been so soft, so warm. He now knew her hands were simultaneously rough and smooth, and he imagined those hands moving his aside to replace his own, the slight friction as she confidently took over what he was doing, her smaller fingers running along his length. In his mind, he heard her repeating what she had told Deacon John, but she was murmuring it into his ear instead, her breath tickling the back of his neck.

It was I who defiled him 

I seduced him

After I was done with that, I married him, as I liked– no, loved what he had to offer

His hand sped up, still imagining it was hers, and he felt his core tighten. He imagined her unwaveringly looking up at him as he became undone, her staring at his face with the same ferocity in her eyes as she had after she had slammed the door shut. She was watching his reactions, eyes locked on him, her plaits fluttering as she furiously pumped his length. She held his gaze as she now pronounced herself loudly, to the world,

I defiled him

I seduced him

I married him

I loved what he had to offer

He groaned out loud, uncaring of where he was, and came against the back of the door. The release was so hard and so much he saw stars behind his closed eyes. He immediately had to let go of himself, as he quickly became overstimulated, and raised both arms to brace his head above the door as he kept panting, willing his heart to calm, mind blissfully blank.

As his pulse slowed, reality began sinking in. He opened his eyes, and saw his release coating the back of the door. His first realization was that Granger must have heard him, and mortification began burning through him. He turned to grab some toilet paper to begin cleaning up his mess, but then he stopped in his tracks, his insides freezing over as a second realization struck him.

Draco Malfoy, for the first time in his 27 years, had just experienced sexual pleasure due to another person.

And he desperately wanted to do it again.

–

Hermione stepped through the entrance of the lodge to find Malfoy hovering in the middle of the room, and gave him a small smile as she gently shut the door behind her.

“Sorry, I was so worked up from that whole Deacon John fiasco so I thought I’d step out to cool off a bit.” For some inexplicable reason, Malfoy blushed in response to this.

“Oh… uh… no worries,” he stammered. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact, but being how close they had been to… something a couple of moments ago, Hermione didn’t entirely blame him, and decided to do what she could to move past it.

“Welp, getting riled up makes me hungry. How about you? Are you hungry?” To Hermione’s alarm, Malfoy burst into a coughing fit, and she rushed to grab him a cup of water from the sink. He gulped it down gratefully before gasping out, “Yes, I could eat” hoarsely.

Worried he may be getting sick, Hermione decided to make a soup, grabbing the last few vegetables to begin preparing them as Malfoy recovered. She felt him watching her, but ignored him, and rummaged around in search of a peeler. Finally locating one, she got to work on the potatoes. Almost as if unable to help himself, Malfoy drifted towards her, and although he kept his distance, he watched her progress with immense focus.

“Can I try?” he asked after a moment of observation.

God, something about Malfoy humbling himself to ask for her to teach him something always got her so flustered and warm.

“Of course,” she said, stepping out of the way. He self-assuredly stepped in, carefully picked up the vegetable and peeler, and began mimicking her movements. After a bit of adjustment, he figured out the mechanics, and almost unconsciously smiled to himself as he got more efficient. With him so absorbed in the task, she could observe his profile unobstructed. His bangs were getting long, and a few strands were hanging in front of his eyes, while the rest had been brushed to the sides. With the small smile, a dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth. Hermione felt the absurd need to run her hands through those hanging strands and press her lips against the dimple.

Instead, she stepped away, and moved to her own cutting board to start dicing an onion. When he finished peeling, she showed him how to cube the potatoes, and he seemed to enjoy the additional effort that the hard potatoes required. They worked companionably, with him practicing his new dicing skills on other vegetables, and her tossing the leftover sausage, herbs and seasoning, and vegetables into the pot before pouring water over it to let it simmer. Having noted his enjoyment with cutting the potato, she asked him to cube up the dried bread Deacon John had brought that morning as well, and after pouring some oil and seasoning over that, she put it in the oven to toast up for croutons.

She then, by his request, showed him how the hob was controlled, and seeing his excitement for the different knobs, tasked him with the very important job of keeping an eye on the soup, telling him to adjust the flame under the pot to ensure the soup was kept at a simmer. He solemnly accepted his assignment, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was actually quite hard to ruin soup, so when he grabbed a ladle to periodically stir their concoction, she instead just gathered their clothes from yesterday to wash, a small smile on her face.

As she worked, she ruminated on the strange feelings she had towards him. She was starting to get concerned that she was developing a crush. He was a wonderful person to be around. He was sweet and considerate, reassuring and intent, smart and funny… and she was very attracted to him. Very, very much. In fact, she realized, she hasn’t been this attracted to someone else in a long time… maybe ever.

But at the same time, it was a hopeless investment on her part. He had said he wasn’t interested in other people, so clearly the attraction was only one sided.

Or maybe not, a small voice whispered inside her, remembering the something that had happened between them just now. True, she had been very overwhelmed, enough that when he had removed himself from the situation she had immediately had to step outside to calm down as well, but still, she could have sworn that he was just as drawn toward her as she had been to him. He had leaned in, hadn’t he? And glanced at her lips? She looked at him from the corner of her eye as she hung the cleaned clothes over the fire. Did he know how to initiate? Should she have? He admitted to not having had much experience in the arena.

But on the flip side, it was exactly this inexperience that gave Hermione pause. Not because she cared about his history, regardless of which side of the spectrum he fell on, but because she was worried that she’d be taking advantage of his isolated past if she jumped on him in a moment of heightened passion. Considering the way he had bolted from the room, he didn’t seem too eager to do anything at all. And he froze almost every time she touched him. She wouldn’t be surprised if he passed out if she were to make a move.

She felt her stomach twist in disappointment. Okay, so she’s definitely developed a crush. And she definitely can’t do anything about it.

That’s alright, she decided. She was a grown woman, and there are worse things than unreciprocated feelings. After all, once they finished this journey, they’d be going their separate ways and she wouldn’t be coming across him again, or at least not to this extent. The feelings would surely dissipate with time at that point, she reassured herself.

Finished with the clothes, she went back to the food preparation, and after showing Malfoy how to use a fork to verify the potatoes were cooked through, they served themselves soup and topped it with the croutons before sitting down to eat. Like always, Malfoy began scarfing down the food like a starved man.

“I’ll take it you were hungry?” she quipped, smiling slightly.

“Huh?” He stopped shoveling. “Oh… not really. This food is just really, really good.”

Hermione laughed once in disbelief. “This isn’t that good! I was working with limited resources! The beef stew we had had in Norfolk was much better and you barely ate that!”

He scrunched up his face. “That stew?? No, this is definitely much better.” He returned to inhaling his food.

She watched in bemusement. What a strange, endearing man.

“Anyway, what did you think of Maeve’s story?” she asked, sipping a spoonful of the soup.

“Wild that we came across them, isn’t it? I mean, what are the odds?” said Malfoy, getting up to refill his bowl.

“So infinitesimally small that it almost feels fated,” concurred Hermione. Malfoy made a noncommittal sound before sitting down to eat his next bowl.

“Is that sort of thing common in the wizarding world?” asked Hermione.

“What, coincidences?”

“No, no, I mean that Albert took credit for Orla’s work the way he did. It’s quite common in the Muggle world that men take credit for women’s work, but somehow I don’t think I’ve come across it as much in the wizarding community.”

Malfoy thought this over. “Well, I can’t compare it to the Muggle world, but I’d say yes, common enough. Especially among pureblood circles, where we have these antiquated attitudes about what women can and can’t do, it’s almost expected that the men take credit for women’s work. And it’s very rarely rectified, even if it does eventually come out that that was what had happened. I think the most high profile case of someone actually caring in the last couple of decades was when Lockhart was exposed for stealing his findings from predominantly women, but most of the time these sorts of things are swept under the rug.”

Hermione sighed. “Unfortunately, it sounds like the magical and Muggle worlds are similar in that respect. Orla deserves better. Now her legacy is this skewed, limited version of her actual discoveries.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, chasing his last potato around his bowl with his spoon. “Speaking of her discoveries, do you think Maeve would be willing to give us Orla’s research? Or a copy of it?”

“I would believe so,” said Hermione. “Why? Do you think it would help us?”

“I hope so. As I had said, it was mostly Doher— Orla’s research that would have been helpful from that book. I know Maeve said most of it was destroyed, but I’m hoping this subject qualified as something Orla deemed important enough to keep. And she had said Orla had been coerced to help Voldemort — I have to believe that she wasn’t making brand new discoveries while working for him, and that whatever she did she had researched in advance.”

He looked up at her. “I think she’s the missing piece.”

“We’ll just have to ask Maeve in that case,” agreed Hermione, tipping the bowl to finish the last of her soup.

They cleaned up from dinner, and deciding to take a research break, spent the rest of the night reading the books they had brought for entertainment. Hermione started looking through the books she had gotten from Maeve in further detail.

After a couple of hours, Malfoy got up to prepare himself for bed, and after he finished, Hermione went into the bathroom to do the same. As she wove her hair in the two plaits, she realized it was getting dirty again already. So soon? It’s only been a few days! To be fair, she reflected, a lot of those days were spent walking or riding horses or sitting by a fireplace. Too tired to wash it now, she decided she’d do it whenever they reached their next destination.

When she came back out, she saw Malfoy had taken some of their pillows and lined them up in the middle of the bed. When he saw her, he straightened and looked at her plaits, but after swallowing once, he shook himself of his response quickly enough. He looked at her face again, where she was standing with a raised eyebrow. Noting his attention, she indicated the pillow wall a jut of her chin.

“Oh… er…” he blushed. “Well, I realized I was a bit of a bed hog last night, so I wanted to try and keep myself on my side,” he stammered. Ah, the morning wood incident.

“Got it! Well, whatever makes you comfortable. But don’t worry on my account.” She smiled at him meaningfully, but he still didn’t look reassured, so when she climbed into her side, she made a show of poofing the pillows between them and then placing herself some distance from those as well. After a moment, he seemed to accept his fate and got in, shuffling briefly to turn off the light. Hermione stared into the dark, racking her brain to think of something to discuss.

“I wonder if Deacon John will condescend himself to set up our fireplace again.”

Malfoy chuckled at this. “I’m sure he’s unwilling to expose him to such a wanton character as you.”

She laughed. “But I told you, didn’t I! They have double standards – if it had just been you who had been the perpetrator, they would have been willing to overlook it, but now that it’s actually me, I wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up tomorrow morning to kick us out.”

“True, true. Too bad he managed to convince himself you needed saving, otherwise this would’ve been a completely pleasant trip.”

“I don’t mind,” she smiled. “It was kind of funny seeing him so affronted. And I hope it knocked him down a couple of pegs.”

“I shudder to think what he would’ve been like with someone that had less backbone than you. I can’t decide whether he’d prefer the meekness, or if it was the fact that you were so self-assured that made him desperate enough to confront me in the first place.”

“Oh, I don’t know, men aren’t usually desperate to fight for strong women. They like feeling like they’re saving damsels.”

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. “Maybe men like Deacon John aren’t desperate for strong women, but I don’t know if I’d generalize that to all men.”

“Hmm,” she yawned tiredly, only half listening. “Well, I guess you’d know better than I would.” She turned to her side. Through the shuffling sound of the blanket as she moved to adjust herself, she almost thought she had heard him murmur something. Hoping her brain would process it retroactively, she started drifting off to sleep, letting the sound bounce around in her head. In the moments before she lost consciousness, her last thought was that he had said Yes, I would.