I'd give it all up
Theirs was a fire that burned high, all consuming in its obsession. Mind altering. They lost their heads in the thick of it, turning their attentions wholly onto one another and forgetting the world outside.
Obligations: they both had them. She, to a man who waited for her, had been waiting for her since they were barely out of childhood. He, to a family and faceless fiancée that expected the heir to do as he had been raised to do.
Promises: the words they’d given to those same others in their lives. Words uttered in complete sincerity…at the time. Words that were now a distant memory, a whisper of what could have been.
Plans: once they had each known exactly the paths that laid before him. Careers, marriages, the same friends and the same faces at every holiday function. Predictable. Safe.
A cage.
Now, her mouth moved against his, hands glided across skin, teeth and lips marked paths against flesh that they wouldn’t magic away for all the gold in the world. Hermione was reminded of the Lestrange vault, the coins that cascaded their malignant revenge on a would-be thief, only this burn was one she’d asked for, one she’d crave again and again for as long as Draco breathed and walked and called her his own. Maybe even beyond then.
He’d made it impossible to ignore him over the past year. First, he was persistent in his gratitude towards her. The testimony she’d given on his behalf had been the final push needed to nudge him beyond the bars of Azkaban. He started with donations to her most passionate causes, then moved to supporting every one of the bills she presented to the Wizengamot. The Malfoy name by itself didn’t hold much stock in the opinions of the Wizarding world anymore, but their money did. Even after reparations, their coffers overflowed with more wealth than he could ever hope to spend within several lifetimes. When she caught wind of his involvement, oh, how she’d threatened and raged. She didn’t need his money, she said. She didn’t want justice bought with an exchange of coins.
He’d moved on to tangential avenues out of her periphery. The good he did elsewhere inevitably affected her causes for the better, and it took her a surprisingly long time to find the connection. Again with the yelling, her Howlers finding their mark every time. She didn’t realise he cherished the sound of her voice, no matter the tone. He continued to do as he pleased, and she continued to owl him.
Eventually, the nature of their correspondence changed.
Not too long after, she accepted his invitation to launch a new organisation, one aimed at a matter she’d long held close, but never dared hope to see a reality. At least, not in her lifetime.
Accidental touches, convenient closeness as one read over the other’s shoulder, an increasing frequency in meetings over meals where not a second of conversation was spent on the intended topic.
Then, their first kiss. She’d later say he stole it. If Draco was asked, he’s say she asked him for it.
She ignored him for nearly a month after, burning the envelopes before they could even touch her desk, sending a liaison in her place anytime both of their attendance was required. But Draco was nothing if not persistent, and he cornered her when she least expected it in the midst of a squall that nearly tore London to pieces. She couldn’t disapparate without taking him with her, those hands she both loathed and adored holding fast, his head bent down to look at her, always her.
He bared all to her, his hopes, his dreams. Every single one of them included her. Every single one of them matched the desires she’d been too cowardly to voice. Hearing them aloud, rain-soaked and somehow warm despite the chill in the air, Hermione felt her resolve firm and take root. This was the moment. She could shake him loose and continue the course she’d set long ago for herself.
Or.
She disapparated, and he went with her.