They did not leave their bed for two days.

When they crossed through the front door, hands reaching out for clothes, fingers undoing buttons and lowering zippers, mouths pressing urgent kisses, tongues licking up edges and curves and lines, teeth leaving marks over invisible fingerprints, Draco forgot about the rest of the world. If the way she held onto him, if the way she chased his touch was any indication, then he knew Hermione forgot about the rest of the world, too.

He did not know when that happened—when she became the sun, moon, and the stars (how she became the very fucking air he breathed)—but he somehow could not bring himself to resent her for that. Even if he was terrified by it, by how much she had taken from him and claimed ownership on. He just wanted to show her what she meant to him.

Draco had been craving her body for days, but he forced the animalistic pull inside of him to simmer down, to hide away in the shadows until Hermione wanted that side of him to appear. So when he had her on the bed, her brown curls splayed out like a bronzed crown over her head, his desperate, claiming hands became gentle, praising caresses.

The look in her brown eyes almost made Draco falter. For a moment she looked at him with bewilderment, with fear—like she did not know (did not believe) he was capable of such tenderness. His insecurity must have broken past the dark silver of his eyes because in the next second she was pulling herself up, pressing her lips to his and moving his hands back on her waist.

Draco was never a worshipping man (he never understood the necessity to kneel before a person or a deity, not since bowing to a madman left only death, destruction, and darkness), but for Hermione he got on his knees and praised every centimeter of skin she had to offer. With his hands, tongue, and mouth, he tried to show her she was the embodiment of a heaven he never believed existed—a heaven that would never belong to people like him, people with a past covered in blood.

The moment after she climbed down of the blissful heights he took her to, Hermione opened her eyes, settling her erratic breath to say, "Wait, Draco. Please."

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his thumbs running circles all the way up. "You don't want this?"

Hermione reached to cup the side of his face. There was such conflict in her gaze, Draco was sure she was going to draw the line there. He could not blame her if that was her choice; he had no recollection of having sex with her the first time, only the angry uproar that came after. He did not know (even if he had an indestructible ego) if their previous and only experience together had been impeccable, making her want him just as he wanted her at that very second.

"I do," she murmured, "I do want this. I want you, Draco. It's just...The last time I allowed myself to be vulnerable with someone, he broke my heart."

"I'm not going to break your heart, Hermione."

Tears pooled in her brown eyes, her fingers on Draco's jaw trembling as she whispered, "What if I break yours?"

Draco rose from his knees, taking a seat beside her on the wrinkled sheets caused by her previously quivering body. He took her hands into his.

"He doesn't get to blacken your heart, Hermione," he said with a careful voice. "He doesn't get to make you afraid of...of us. He doesn't get to make you hate yourself."

Hermione took a deep breath. "What are we?"

"Husband and wife," Draco told her, but the reply, even to his own ears, sounded too light to actually define the impact of who they were—what they were.

They were old enemies by intolerance.

They were strangers by choice.

They were hesitant acquaintances by others.

They were husband and wife by accident.

Now none of it applied to them.

Perhaps it was something too complex and tangled to deal with when she was naked and flushed pink by an ecstasy he gave her, so Draco leaned in to distract her brilliant mind.

Yet, when he found himself stripped of his last layers of clothing, when he found himself deep inside of her, connecting the two like lost jigsaw pieces, Draco knew what it was. He knew what it was the second his body was not just reacting to her naked glory, but the way her brown eyes glittered gold every time he moved, or how soft and devoted his name sounded when it left her perfect mouth.

When they both finally came undone, Draco thought she was asleep when he found himself thinking out loud. The words tell me you're staying rung in the air.

Hermione turned over, searching for his silver eyes through the midnight haze of the bedroom. His voice had been too quiet, too unsure—everything Draco did not allow himself to be in the presence of others.

But she was not others.

She must have seen exactly that reflected off his gaze because she had to take in a sharp inhale to settle the rattling in her bones.

They were a week away from the expiration date of their trial run marriage.

Draco had been crossing out the seconds from the first day, but somewhere along the way of lowering defenses and having sex beneath satin sheets, he stopped counting.

They both had.

"What if I'm not pregnant?" she whispered to him, asking a sharp truth she hoped would not shatter the fragile atmosphere wrapping them in their own ethereal bubble.

Draco's hand was cold when he brushed stray, tangled curls away from her face. "Then you're not."

She sat up, her fingers reaching to grasp the hand he had on her. The satin sheet pooled down to her hips, the faint, white moonlight gave her exposed skin a glow.

"It's the only reason why we stayed married," she reminded him, an edge to her voice that matched the nervous glint in her eyes.

"Yeah, it was," he told her, "but it isn't the reason why I want to keep it that way."

Hermione held her breath this time.

"I never thought about having children," Draco said, a raw sincerity wrapping the words, "not after I took my life back from my parents. Partly because I didn't want to give them heirs to continue the name, but mostly because I knew I was never going to find someone willing to see past my fuck ups."

"You're more than your mistakes, Draco," Hermione said defensively, like a reflex, like she has spent lifetimes defending him from others and himself.

It almost made him grin.

"None of this is fucking normal," Draco continued, putting his other hand on top of their intertwined fingers, "we aren't fucking normal. We are Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger—the world expected us to go to war, tear each other limb by limb, but instead here we are, naked and all shagged out. Married."

"Because we were drunk," she muttered, blinking away from his eyes to look at their hands.

There was something else she wanted to say, something at the tip of her tongue, something she had been wanting to say to him since brunch at the Burrow, her handprints on his expensive jumper and his request to meet her parents lingering in the air, but the words did not come out.

"My mother always said getting blackout drunk was never going to bring me anything good, but she was wrong. It got me you, Hermione," Draco said. "I know I didn't want it then, but I want it now. I want us now. Do you?"

The uncertainty was back in his words when he asked that question. It made her look back at him again—to see that vulnerability he was allowing her to witness as the days passed them by. She knew people were supposed to look at these wounds and see tragedy, but all Hermione saw in Draco's scars was beauty. The same she saw in her patients. The same she saw in the mirror. Because, yes, their skin was torn and marked, burned and stitched, inside and out, but they were real.

They were alive despite all odds.

Hermione moved her hand to cup his sharp jaw, looking him deep in the eye to say, "Yes. I'll stay."

When the sun broke past the dark blue and grey clouds, bringing rare sunlight to the cold British landscape, Draco and Hermione were forming patterns on each other's skin, leaving more fingerprints for archeologists to find, like fossilized proof that they had been there, with each other, connected as one.

It was dangerous how easily Hermione forgot a world existed outside of the four walls that echoed hers and Draco's sounds of delight, of want, of worship. In the back of her perfectionist brain she knew she had responsibilities to attend to, but somehow she trusted those would work themselves out. She trusted the world could be good and right for a few hours without her, all so she could become an expert on Draco Malfoy.

Draco had long given up the pretense that anything came before Hermione—he knew that the days he was without her, back when he thought he had lost her to his arsehole tendencies. If he had her right there, pressed against him, his silver eyes locking in on her brown from his place above her, or his hands on her waist, looking up at her with such strange wonder and devotion, then he would take advantage of every second she was only his.

"Ignore it," he commanded in her ear before biting at the lobe, the moment of distraction leaving her glittering gaze as the Floo Network signaled yet another caller. "It's only us," he said as he moved harder against her.

The sting on his back caused by her nails told him she would comply.

Eventually Life decided that the world did not stop spinning in its axis because Draco and Hermione wanted to devour one another, explore every line and curve and dip, and memorize the sound of their beating hearts as they reached for stars. People existed outside of their bedroom that were carefully weaved in their lives, demanding to be a part of a world that could not only include a population of two (even if they so wished).

"You are both so utterly disgusting," Pansy said to them as she threw them old, discarded clothes. "It smells like sex and feelings in here. I can vomit."

"I'll vomit at the mere sight of you if you don't piss off, Pansy," Draco warned her with a snarl, even though Hermione was slipping on a t-shirt over her after having pulled on underwear, too. "I don't care what fucking crisis you happen to be in right now."

Pansy ignored him with a huff as she kicked aside an old tray of food, scattering berries on the expensive, plush carpet. "Seamus and Lavender got engaged last night. We are going to Lux to celebrate the occasion—well, to mourn Seamus' loss of freedom to that nutter."

"Who the fuck is Seamus and Lavender?" Draco asked. "And why the hell are you taking over my club again, Parkinson? I told you, just because your family owns two percent of petty shares does not mean you get monopoly over it. It is my club."

Hermione managed to elbow him roughly before getting up from their bed. She had a grin despite her previous annoyance. "This is amazing news. I'm so happy for them."

"Be happy for me," said Pansy to Hermione. "I won't be charged with murder now that Brown has successfully sunk her claws in Seamus."

"Lavender does not want Ron," Hermione said with a scoff, like she has been making the same remark for years. "I told you, mistletoe means nothing. If it did, I'd be concerned about Neville, too. They snogged twice because of it."

Pansy narrowed her eyes at Hermione, chin raised high, and a sharp smirk taking over her red lips. "Longbottom was on my list, too, Hermione. Who do you think made him and Hannah Abbot happen?"

Hermione laughed, giving Pansy a light shove, like two old friends sharing a joke, and for a moment Draco felt a surge of happiness he never thought mattered—having your friends and your significant other like each other. The impossibility of Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger was just as unlikely as their union, but there they were, grinning at each other like all those years of bad blood, name-calling, and hatred did not exist.

Draco saw the same impossibility when he and Hermione arrived at Lux later that evening. A circle of their old classmates was formed in his largest V.I.P booth, rounds of shoots, tall, full bottle of liquor, and ice buckets of champagne and wine in the middle of them. He could accuse the neon lights ricocheting off every centimeter for blurring his vision, distorting all faces until he could not recognize anyone, but it was them. Draco could pick apart every single person in that circle.

He saw Pansy sat on Weasley's lap, arms around his neck, his around her waist, murmuring to each other like they had been apart for years. Potter and the Weaslette were there, too, sat side by side, sharing a laugh with Blaise and Luna, beer bottles in hand (all except for Lovegood, who for some reason had a cup of tea). There was Finnegan and Marcus Flint, starting a competition of shots that Thomas, George Weasley, Astoria, and Angelina Johnson were already betting on.

It existed, an alternate world where people were cured from darkness.

Or maybe it was the world Draco had already been on but refused to join. Maybe everyone had chosen to cure themselves while he clung on tighter to the darkness because he would never stop feeling guilty for his sins.

"I see Nott at the bar," Draco half-shouted at Hermione as she tried to maneuver them around dancing people to get to their friends. "I'll meet you there."

Hermione nodded, pressing a big kiss on his cheek before continuing her path.

"You love her, don't you?" Draco asked with a rough, mocking chuckle, adding a heavy smack on Theo's back when he approached the bar counter.

Theo turned away from Astoria and Dean Thomas looping arms to throw back their respective shots. He hunched his shoulders and took a long drink from his whiskey when her laughter pierced the blaring music and clawed at his ears.

"Yeah," Theo said, surprising Draco from the admission he was sure he would never hear. "I loved her since she was with Malfoy."

Draco raised a brow. "Mate, I'm Mal—"

"Fuck it," Theo grunted loudly, downing the rest of his drink without a grimace. He banged the glass on the bar counter, signaling the server he wanted another. As a familiar (and because Draco was sat right next to him), the bartender flicked his wand and the glass refilled. "Truth is I loved her since before Malfoy. She just liked to be treated like shit so she chose him instead."

"He didn't treat her like shit," Draco defended, even if he knew that was a fucking lie.

Theo scoffed. "He shagged her mother while they were still dating. Plenty of other random women, too, but I don't really blame him. I don't blame her, either. She doesn't know any better. None of us do."

Draco was about to ask what he meant when Theo turned in angle to better look at him. His blue eyes were rimmed red, his pupils wide and hazy. There was more than whiskey in his system—it was a surprise to Draco that Theo could even manage to slur words together well enough to form sentences.

Theo pulled back the sleeve of his charcoal-grey button-up, lifting his forearm to eye-level. Draco did not have to look to know the Dark Mark was burned on his skin. After all, Draco had been there when Nott Sr. forced his son to take the mark (after beating him blue and black when he had refused to serve by his own free-will).

"All of us think we are better than everyone else because we have loads of fucking money," Theo continued. "Because we have empires, mansions, and useless, priceless shit, but all that shiny is to distract from what's on the inside. We aren't better than anyone. We can barely stand the sight of our own bloody reflection when it's not covered in expensive clothes. I've seen Astoria cry, naked and scarred up, looking at the mirror like a monster has taken up host. She's been crying like that since our school years. She doesn't think she deserves anything good."

"She does," Draco said low and firm, his back tensing up at something he often ignored when he was dating Astoria. "You can be that for her."

Theo shook his head, clutching his glass. "Can't give someone good when you're no good. So Tori and me just fuck. Each other or other people. Other people when fucking each other is too close to love and comfort and we know we can't have that."

Draco looked over his shoulder, his eyes automatically finding Hermione in the gathered group of old school friends and enemies. She was rolling her eyes, righteous and smug, as Pansy demanded a rematch over a round of empty shot glasses.

He used to think that way. He used to feel as undeserving, as fucked up, as abominable as Theo did now.

Then Hermione came.

Draco wasn't good at motivating anyone (unless it was to do stupid, reckless shit), but he thought his friend deserved it. Theo had always been more of a hothead, more carefree and crude than Blaise and Draco, but he was masking more abuse than either of them.

"I thought my mate found it," Theo said before Draco could find the words to encourage him to really go after Astoria. "By accident and all that shit, but I thought Malfoy found a way out of all this darkness. You might have read it in the papers, he married Hermione Granger. Fucking Granger. He was pissed at first, but he started to fancy her. Really fancy her. But it turns out it's all just fucking bullshit. A laugh between friends to settle an old score."

Draco had barely touched his glass to his lips when he stilled. He felt a cold, sharp current surge up his spine.

"What are you talking about, Nott?"

Theo shrugged, resting his cheek on the counter of the bar, letting out a loud yawn like he could find some rest in the dim night club with blaring music and hot, sweaty, lust-filled people all around. "Heard it from Tori and her friends this morning. Granger was helping Flint—"

"Marcus?"

"Nope," said Theo, frowning when Draco gripped his shoulder. "Jenna Flint. She works at St. Mungo's with Granger. Told her how Malfoy shagged her then had her arrested. I tried to Floo Call him, but he never answered. Poor bastard."

"Who the fuck is Jenna Fl—?" Draco stopped himself.

The memory was resurfacing: a hysterical, naked woman throwing things at him when he told her she needed to leave after she wanted to prolong her stay like Draco and her were more than a one night stand. He had called Blaise for some Magical Law Enforcement assistance (to have her removed from his property). He never thought once about her again.

Because he ended up married to Hermione the next day.

Draco looked down to the golden band around his ring finger.

He had tried to take it off the second Hermione told him they had ended up husband and wife after a drunken night. It was Ministry policy—a magical fucking tie that so long as the marriage was valid and accepted by the Ministry, the rings would not be able to be removed unless the same official who conducted the marriage did the counter spell, ultimately ending the contract.

Draco had almost ripped off his own finger in a futile attempt of getting rid of the ring (of what it meant), he never thought to hex it off.

He looked away from a sleeping Theo and back over his shoulder where Hermione was. She was mid laugh when she caught his eye. She smiled so beautifully at him, so full of warmth and adoration, Draco felt his heart pick up in rhythm.

When she returned her attention to the people around her, Draco looked at his hand. The gold in the ring was bright, sending out its own light. It was the representation of a solid, unbreakable union he had been given by Hermione.

He brought his hand up to the counter, laying it flat as he focused silver eyes on the ring. He felt his magic breathe in his blood, stirring awake for the wandless spell he was about to use.

"Finite Incantatem."

The ring slid off, clinking against the side of his glass of whiskey.