That hurts
Her therapist had recommended Hermione try out some hobbies outside of her rigid schedule of work and Burrow dinners. While she already read with all of the passion of a young love entrenched in its honeymoon phase, the good doctor added further stipulations of open air and exercise. The hallow hunt put running far down the list, and no matter how much the boys promised satisfaction in Quiddich, she viewed the broomstick as a tool only to be considered in moments of life and death.
She instead turned to gardening.
The space around her modest cottage included the stereotypical babbling brook and a treeline obscuring her home from any passerby. While Hermione adored the natural wildflowers that sprung up along the walkways around her home, she had always dreamed of growing her own produce and plucking fruit from trees in the backyard.
Two years later with a not insubstantial amount of magic to aid her efforts, Hermione’s garden was almost perfect. She had saved the most intimidating for last, and it was time to stop avoiding them.
”Merlin, that hurts!” She yanked her glove off to the sight of a large bead of blood already welling up on the pad of her finger. Sucking at it, she glared in betrayal at the rose bush she had attempted to trail along the trellis gate. “I don’t know how Narcissa makes it look so effortless, but these roses are basically death traps.”
Draco snorted as he pried her hand out of her mouth, muttering a healing spell over the wound before pressing a soft kiss to the offended digit. “Mother has worked her gardens for several more decades than we’ve even been alive. If you’d like, she’d be more than happy to come over and help.”
“Yes, I’m sure she would be, right before asking us once again about a forthcoming wedding and multiple grandchildren,” she retorted as she slipped her glove back on.
“I assure you, she would not since I’ve already told her the date. And you need different gloves when handling thorny plants like roses.” With another wave of his wand, Hermione’s gloves extended up to her elbow and felt noticeable thicker when she splayed her fingers.
“Oh! I completely forgot! Thank you, Draco.” As she turned back to the roses, his words finally caught up to her. She slowly faced him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did you just say what I think you said?”
His smirk somehow deepened as he tilted his head to consider her question. He waited several awkward seconds, watching her shift impatiently from one foot to another. “How about you finish what you started while I gather the peaches out back and we can talk about this after?”
He had the audacity to whistle as he spun on his heel and sauntered around the cottage, and Hermione felt the impulse to torch the ridiculous bushes. Certainly tomato vines could be just as pretty as roses, couldn’t they?
She pulled her glove off and stared at the naked skin of her ring finger and its unblemished tip where she had so recently stabbed it. She could still feel the warmth of his breath washing over it, and the days-old stubble prickling along with his kiss. Her hand curled into a fist and she leveled the flowers with a glare that’d make even Narcissa nod in approval.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?”