Epilogue
Draco wasn’t exactly comfortable with what Hermione had chosen for him to wear to the club. But he was thrilled with what she had chosen to wear, so he would make the necessary sacrifices.
His tattoos are out in bold fashion, his black cropped mesh shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. His dark black pants are entirely muggle, with zippers that serve no function and a silver chain dangling between two belt loops. His newest tattoo, an homage to Hermione’s namesake sits just above his waistline.
As merry as you will. When Shakespeare’s Hermione asks for a tale in A Winter’s Tale, she asks for a merry one. Draco thinks of his and Hermione’s story as one full of joy and sorrow. He thinks that having both made it better. For surely he wouldn’t have appreciated the sun had he not experienced the shadows.
After Hermione decided that she wasn’t going to let Mason’s parents control the way she lives her life, or how she raises her son, things got easier.
They spent almost all of their time together, with Draco moving out of his dingy flat right around Hermione’s 24th birthday. She’d called it his gift to her. Never being too far away. That was nearly two years ago now.
“Levi is all set at my parents,” Hermione says, sauntering back into their bedroom with a thick pair of leather boots in her hand.
The Grangers had recently moved back from Australia after finding out that they were going to have a second grandchild.
Draco hadn’t exactly intended to knock up Granger before marrying her but the universe had a habit of ignoring his plans. Not that he’d have things any other way. And not that he wasn’t going to remedy the problem soon enough.
“I brought these for you from Pansy’s. Theo said they would fit you,” she holds up the boots.
Hermione is wearing a delicious little miniskirt and the smallest bandana-shirt ever sewn. Her newest ink, the constellation of Draco’s namesake, stencilled across her hip and dipping below her waistband is in perfect view.
He’s probably imagining it, as they just got the news a few weeks ago, but he’d swear her stomach is a bit rounder.
“Hufflepuff would have to win the Quidditch Cup for me to wear those boots,” he shakes his head, refusing to even take them from her arms.
“But Pansy said they completed the look,” Hermione protests.
Draco doesn’t care. He grabs his wand from the bedside table and transfigures the offending shoes into a pair of sensible black Oxfords. He’d gotten his wand back a couple of months ago. Half way through the five years. He’d had every bloody war hero he knew testify at that hearing. Potter and Weasley had only agreed to do it when Draco promised to cover that night's pub tab.
The resulting majority vote had felt like a forgone conclusion at that point. Publicly dating the Golden Girl did wonders for one’s reputation.
“Well Oxfords certainly don’t match the tattoos and eyeliner,” Hermione sasses, tossing the shoes on the floor in front of him.
“The boots remind me of my DMM uniform,” he says.
Hermione stops giving him a cheeky look, softens, and walks over to him.
She loops her arms around his neck and pulls him down to kiss him. It never gets old.
Pressing against her soft lips, he widens his own to tease her bottom lip with his tongue.
She mirrors him and deepens the kiss, running a hand down until her fingers grab hold of his belt buckle.
“We were supposed to leave half an hour ago,” he says, though his hands move to the bow tied behind her back.
“So what’s another half hour?” She asks, pushing him back until his knees hit their bed and he lies flat, pulling her on top of him.
She straddles his waist and he reaches up, but her hands move to his wrists and she pushes them down into the mattress. Then she proceeds to press kisses all over his face and neck, until her hair tickles the spot just under his ear and he squirms beneath her.
She lifts her head and smirks.
“You look a bit whorish with all that eyeliner smudged across your eyes,” she informs him, looking extra pleased by it.
He’d feign offence, but he’d been hoping the severe dark lines would get her all worked up.
“Says the slut in the belt sized skirt,” he reaches a hand up to cup her arse cheek, squeezing at the patent leather fabric.
She laughs and pushes his hand away, pinning his wrists once more.
“Hands to yourself,” she scolds, slipping down his body and pulling at his trousers.
He shifts to help her lower them, his prick standing at attention from the recent grinding of her body against him.
Draco focuses on pressing his arms into the mattress, knowing what reward he’ll get for following her instructions.
She starts slowly, running her hand over his length and pressing light kisses to the tip.
He looks down his stomach to watch as she takes the tip into her mouth, warm heat enveloping him.
Moaning as she takes him deeper, he lifts a hand and has to consciously think about not moving it to tangle in her curls.
When she picks up her pace, taking him all the way into her mouth and down her throat, he swears, loudly.
Fucking incredible she is.
“I’m going to cum,” he warns her, knowing how she prefers for him to cum into a cloth rather than her mouth.
Pulling away, she nods and then quickly stands, slipping her panties off.
She straddles him again and sinks down onto his cock, clenching around him and digging her nails into his abdomen.
He helps her move by holding her hips and she lifts up.
Bucking slightly, he looks up into her eyes and watches the moment she adjusts, pressing her body back down and fucking him.
They move together, their flesh slapping together as he slips over the edge. Cumming deep in her cunt.
“I’ve got you,” he says when she lifts a hand to bring it to her clit. He holds her in place, stabilising her so that she can chase her own orgasm.
She moves her fingers swiftly over her slick skin and arches, helping Draco help her over the edge.
She comes with his cock softening inside of her and then climbs off, too quickly.
“We’re going to be late,” she states, as though they hadn’t just been having sex.
Draco curses and tugs his trousers back up, always surprised at her ability to remain on schedule.
But she’d agreed that they could spare another half hour so even when he’s got his trousers back in place he reaches for her wrist and pulls her into his lap.
She lets him, kissing him sweetly and letting him rub circles into the skin of her lower back.
By the time they get out the door and hail a taxi, they are over an hour late.
Draco doesn’t mind. Hermione’s outfit was really only complete after her curls had been thoroughly tussled by a quick romp. Draco had in fact re-transfigured the boots until they were a pair of black and white boots, comfortable and stylish and nothing like the pair Ray Fusco had forced upon him three years earlier. There is a bright fluorescent sign above the bar that is shaped like a martini glass and Draco has to wonder what sort of place Pansy had tricked them all into coming to.
Given they were only 25 and 26 years old, Pansy had insisted that they were much too young to stay home and play Parcheesi.
Draco has been living in the muggle world for three years and he still has no clue what Parcheesi is. But Pansy’s point was made anyway.
Once a month, Hermione and Draco allow their friends to drag them away from their fairy tale life in a London brownstone for a night of carefree drinking and bad decisions. It is a good reminder that they are still ridiculously young and attractive, and that they should make the most of life.
Draco had wanted a quiet life and he’s gotten it. Not in the sense that nothing ever changes or that nothing of interest ever happens. But one that is safe and easy. One that doesn’t make his knee bounce or his chest to tighten. One where the only time he lists potions ingredients is when he is actually brewing a potion.
Sometimes, he likes his quiet life to be quite loud.
Levi’s school friends running through the house while playing knights of the round table.
The bookshop’s reading club (headed by Denny) which frequently dissolves into drinking around books and arguing over what a certain character is meant to look like.
The last of which resulted in a very strong critique of Draco’s debut novel. Apparently it was much too romantic to be taken seriously. Sappy , Denny had called it.
He also enjoys Quidditch with his mates where they get in screaming matches over fouls that nobody ever calls.
And nights in muggle clubs, or pubs, or karaoke bars.
They only have to wait for a minute in the queue before Pansy pops out and drags them in behind her, screaming about how late they are and how many shots they’ll have to do to catch up.
The music isn’t just loud. It moves the entire building, sending a constant bass drum through Draco’s shoes.
He loves it.
The noise fills his brain and he relaxes more from the squeal of a guitar than he would from a shot of liquor.
Hermione keeps her hand in his but drops Pansy’s when they get near the dance floor.
They’ll find their friends later.
Now, they are going to dance.
It is the main reason Draco lets Granger dress him up and take him out on the town.
Because he gets to spend the night with her arse grinding against him, the smell of her hair in his nostrils and the feel of her skin flush against his.
He loves to dance with her.
Uninhibited.
The whole rest of the world fades away and it is just Hermione, the bass drum, and him.
He can’t tell you what song is playing, nor could he tell you how many songs they dance to. With his hands on her hips, Draco lets himself be overwhelmed by the sensations of it all.
He comes back to himself when her hand takes his again and she pulls him from the dance floor. They find some of their friends and have a drink, Hermione taking a shot of water so their news doesn't come out in the middle of a sweaty night club. Her hand never leaves his. Not until she drags him towards the bathrooms.
Locking them into a men’s room and casting a quick Scourgify, Hermione levels Draco with a look that says, “I dare you.”
“So fucking sexy,” he growls, pulling her head back by her hair and biting at her jaw.
He doesn’t bother taking off any of her clothes.
Just turns her around and presses her against the edge of the sink.
“Spread your legs for me, love,” he says, unbuckling his pants and shoving them down.
She does, presenting him with her perfect arse encased in her small pleather skirt.
He tugs the skirt up roughly and pushes her panties to the side, sliding his cock inside of her and slamming his palm against the mirror to steady himself.
Hermione’s eyes roll back in her head as he fucks her, the sounds of their ecstasy matching the thumping of the bass outside the restroom.
“Fuck me, Draco. Oh!”
It’s rough and hard and fast, and both of them climax at the same time, Draco having slipped his free hand around to play with her clit as his cock hit her g spot over and over again.
“I fucking love you,” he says, pulling her skirt down roughly and spinning her around.
He pins her back to the mirror, slipping a hand between them.
A mix of their cum leaks from her cunt and Draco pushes it back inside of her, setting her panties straight and then bringing his finger to his mouth, licking it clean.
“I love you so much,” Hermione rushes out, kissing him hard, the taste of herself on his lips.
A bang at the door reminds them that they are in a club, in public.
Draco relishes the blush that rises in her face.
“Come on. I want to keep dancing,” he says, helping her off the porcelain counter and pulling her behind him out of the stall.
Her blush deepens as the man waiting for the restroom’s brow lifts into his hairline.
“Merlin,” she mutters, pressing her forehead to the back of his arm.
“Fucking sexy as hell,” Draco replies, holding her tight and dragging her into the center of the club.
The music seems to get louder as they move with the crowd and Draco throws his head back and laughs, enjoying every minute.
He loves his simple quiet life.