Promise me you won't do it
They were coming up on their anniversary and she knew Draco was up to something. Despite all his training, the many years of occlumency, she read him as easily as her favorite Le Guin novels. The man, for better lack of a phrase, was as dear to her as her own soul.
“I’ve got to head down to the nick and finish off some paperwork before our trip, but I should be back in time for dinner.” He dashed around the kitchen, draining his tea before tightening his cravat.
As he walked into the drawing room towards the Floo, his eyes slid towards the sideboard where his array of liquor sat, pointedly ignoring the bookshelf behind him.
Sauntering up, Hermione pressed her hands into the front of his trousers, fingers curling behind the belt and tugging him flush against her. One pale eyebrow raised in intrigue, and she grinned in response. Of course he leaned down for a kiss, as if he could resist her charms, as if he had no idea what his wife planned while he was gone.
“Promise me you won’t do it,” he whispered into her ear, all warm breath and nibbling lips.
“I make no promises I won’t keep.”
He growled at her honesty, and punished her with a light tug to the fistful of hair at the nape of her neck.
“Whatever happened to rewards for the patient?”
“Please, you know patience isn’t one of my traits. Not by a long shot.”
A smirk and another leading kiss later, he vanished into the flames and she was alone. The liquor cabinet was obviously a ruse. She pivoted on her heel and contemplated the layers of books threatening to burst out of their constraints. Little knick knacks squeezed in here and there, mementos to their years together: a feather from the beach where they celebrated her 30th birthday, a preserved forget-me-not after a weekend in the land of the midnight sun for his.
“Novis revelio.” To reveal that which does not belong.
She instantly noticed the hidden box behind the stack of Quidditch playbooks. Crowing in delight, she darted forward and dived in like a niffler, intent on her treasure. The foolish man didn’t even bother with detection charms, much less ones for security. It was as if he wanted her to find it.
The box opened without any resistance. She stared at its contents.
Nice try, dear.
The scrap of parchment with his familiar scrawl was the only thing inside, that along with her humiliation. Before she could curse his name a million different ways, the entire box disintegrated into dust of the most noxious lime green, coating her hands and lap where it had rested.
Now she cursed. Somehow she knew the evidence was permanent, much like some of her own spells—it would require a counter known only to the caster. She tentatively pressed one hand against the oak flooring, and sighed in relief. She could touch things without worrying about transference.
Fwoooosh.
Caught by surprise at the sound, Hermione tumbled to the side in her haste to turn around. Draco stood one foot in the fireplace, one forward into the room.
“I forgot my—”
Light grey eyes descended upon her form.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
She stood as gracefully as her guilt would allow, smoothing her frock as she cleared her throat.
“I wanted to organize the books and found something that didn’t belong.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I don’t know if it was some prank left by George and Ron, or some kind of expired product you forgot, but it made this mess.”
“Right.”
The tosser had the audacity to grin at her frown.
“What did you forget?”
“Oh!” Startled into remembrance, he bustled past her and returned clutching a file. He pressed another kiss against her temple and was just about to leave again before he left one last parting shot.
“Be careful, yeah? I have a feeling that’s not the only prank of that kind in the house.”
And then he was gone, and she was left with the distinct sensation of several ticking time bombs just waiting for her overly curious designs. If he thought that comment would stop her, he was sorely mistaken. She wasn’t called the “cleverest witch of her age” for no reason; she would reverse these spells onto their maker, and ensure they all went off at the same exact time.
Snort. “Happy anniversary, dear.”