I'll Be Gentle
Hermione waves her wand over Draco’s skin, the tip a hairsbreadth away from touching the still-raw wounds.
He takes a sharp breath when the wand wavers, accidentally grazing the lines made by the Sectumsempra.
“Sorry,” Hermione whispers softly, sitting up, “did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s fine.” He is laying on his bed in the Slytherin Boy’s Dormitory, Hermione straddling his lap. The curtains are drawn around the four-poster, muffling the sounds of sleep coming from the other boys.
“I’ll be gentle,” she promises, once more leaning over his chest and getting to work. Incantations he has never heard of before flow from her mouth like silk as she traces shimmering runes onto the air above his skin. They linger for a moment, suspended, before gently sinking down and into the sharp slashes. For a second the wounds glow white—deep canyons filled with a pure light that illuminates the darkness before fading.
Her hair slips around her shoulders, loose curls grazing his bare chest. His breath hitches.
“Am I hurting you again?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, not really comprehending the question, momentarily stunned by the image of the witch as she gazes up at him from underneath her eyelashes, her big eyes coloured with concern.
“I mean, no. No, of course not,” he stammers, his foggy brain finally catching up to his ears. “You’re perfect.”
Hermione gives him a warm, lopsided smile - his favourite. Her Muggle watch suddenly beeps midnight.
“Shit, it’s past curfew.”
She starts to get up but Draco pulls her back down and onto his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her.
“Stay, please?”