Chapter 47: The Distraction
The spell of the last few days broke with the soft pop of Dobby’s departure. The scroll on the bedside table seemed to pulse with a cold, institutional light. Hermione felt the shift in Draco’s body immediately—the protective laxity hardening into coiled alertness, his arms becoming a cage as much as an embrace.
His knot had begun to subside. The intense, binding intimacy receded, leaving a dull, sweet ache and a sticky mess between her thighs. The physical separation felt like a loss.
“Ignore it,” he muttered, his lips against her temple. His voice was rough, still thick with sex and sleep. But it was an order, not a request.
“I can’t.”
She shifted, and he let her go with a sharp exhale. The cool air hit her damp skin as she sat up, reaching for the scroll. Breaking the Ministry seal felt like committing a crime. The parchment crackled as she unrolled it.
It was from her direct supervisor, Gawain Robards. The handwriting was his tight, aggressive scrawl.
Granger,
Your ‘potion reaction’ note was received. Unfortunate timing. The Leeds operation is moving up. Intel suggests the smuggling ring is relocating portkeys tomorrow night, not at the end of the week. Briefing moved to 8 a.m. tomorrow. Your presence is non-negotiable. Report to my office upon arrival. No delays.
—R
She read it twice. The words ‘non-negotiable’ seemed to enlarge, bleeding into the parchment.
“Well?” Draco’s voice was flat. He was sitting up now, back against the carved headboard, watching her. The sheet pooled at his waist.
“Briefing tomorrow at eight. I have to be there.” She let the scroll fall onto the rumpled silk. “The case moved up.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he pushed himself out of bed, his movements fluid and tense. He stalked to the window, throwing back the heavy drapes. The last dregs of sunset cut across the room, outlining his naked form in angry orange light.
“So that’s it.” He didn’t look at her. “Back to the grind. Back to pretending.”
“It’s my job, Draco.”
“I know what it is.” He turned, his expression unreadable in the gloom. “You think I don’t know the cost? I can smell the conflict on you. It’s sour. It’s wrong.”
He crossed the room to her, a predator’s glide. He didn’t touch her, just loomed, forcing her to tilt her head back. “You’re sore. You’re tired. Your body is still cycling down. You should be resting. Here. With me.”
“I have a briefing.”
“Fuck the briefing!” The snarl was sudden, echoing off the stone. He raked a hand through his hair. “Merlin, Granger. You were just in heat. Your system is vulnerable. Going back into that viper pit tomorrow… it’s not just stubborn, it’s stupid.”
His anger was a live wire in the room. It should have made her defensive. Instead, a perverse part of her warmed at the ferocity of his concern. She stood, meeting his stormy gaze. The ache between her legs was a persistent reminder of his claim.
“It’s my life,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t get to veto it.”
“I know.” The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a weary frustration. He reached out, his thumb brushing a lingering mark on her collarbone. “I know I don’t. But the bond… it hurts knowing you’re going to walk into stress and danger when you should be recovering. It’s not logical. It’s just there.”
That admission, raw and unvarnished, disarmed her more than his shouting.
“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led her to the adjoining bathroom, a marble cavern lit by enchanted sconces. He ran the bath, pouring in salts that smelled of birch and clary sage. Steam rose, fogging the mirrors.
When the tub was full, he turned to her. His touch was different now—practical, gentle. He helped her in, the hot water a shocking bliss on her tender muscles. She sank into it with a groan, closing her eyes.
Then he was in behind her, sliding into the water, pulling her back against his chest. He took up a sponge and began washing her. There was nothing sexual in it. It was methodical. He washed her shoulders, her arms, the curve of her spine. He lathered her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp with a precision that made her sigh.
For minutes, the only sounds were the drip of water and their breathing.
“I’ll be fine,” she said into the steam.
“You will be,” he agreed, but it sounded like he was convincing himself. “You’re the most capable witch I know. It’s just…”
“What?”
His hands stilled on her shoulders. “I hate that you have to leave this house smelling like me, and walk into the Ministry, and act like it doesn’t mean anything. Like I don’t mean anything.”
She turned in the water, facing him. Droplets clung to his lashes. The cold grey of his eyes was soft, almost uncertain. This was the vulnerability he showed only in the aftermath, when their bodies were sated and their guards were down. It was rarer than his tenderness.
“It means something,” she whispered. She kissed him, a slow, water-soft press of lips. “You know it does. That’s the problem.”
He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the humid air. “Stay tonight. At least give yourself one full night of proper sleep. I’ll have Dobby bring your things from your flat. You can leave from here in the morning.”
It was a compromise. A small one. She nodded. “Okay.”
He finished washing her in silence, then helped her out, wrapping her in a towel so large it swallowed her. He dried her with a care that felt like a ritual, patting the towel over her skin, even kneeling to dry her legs.
In the bedroom, fresh sheets had appeared on the bed. A simple cotton nightdress, far plainer than his silks, lay folded on the pillow. Dobby’s work. Her small beaded bag was on the dresser.
Draque pulled on a pair of sleeping trousers and climbed into bed. She slipped the nightdress over her head and joined him. He didn’t reach for her, just turned on his side, watching her. She turned to face him.
“Read to me,” he said, echoing her own request from what felt like a lifetime ago in the sitting room.
She Summoned a book from his shelf—a dry-looking volume on the applications of moonstone in advanced alchemy. She began to read, her voice quiet in the dark room. He listened, his eyes fixed on her face, until his breathing deepened and evened out.
She read until her own eyes grew heavy. Then she put the book aside, extinguished the lights with a whisper, and settled into the hollow his body made.
She slept deeply, dreamlessly, ensconced in the scent of sandalwood and safety.
Morning came too quickly. A grey light filtered through the drapes. She awoke to find Draco already dressed, leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of coffee. He handed her one.
“It’s six,” he said. “I’ve drawn coordinates for the main Apparition point at the Ministry in the downstairs fireplace. Direct floo. Less chance of anyone seeing you arrive from here.”
He’d thought of everything. It should have been comforting. It just felt like an efficient send-off.
She dressed in the professional robes from her beaded bag, applied a powerful, French-designed scent-masking charm he supplied from his own stores, and twisted her hair into a severe bun. With each step, she felt Hermione Granger, Deputy Head, slotting back into place, armoring over the omega who had spent days being claimed in this room.
He watched her from the bottom of the stairs, his expression shuttered.
At the hearth, she took a handful of powder. She turned to him. The casual goodbye she’d planned lodged in her throat.
He closed the distance between them in two strides. His kiss was hard, possessive, a brand. It stole her breath.
“Go,” he said, pulling back, his voice gravel. “Do your job. But remember where you belong.”
He stepped away, giving her space.
She threw the powder into the fire, the green flames erupting. “Ministry of Magic, Main Atrium!”
As she stepped into the emerald rush, her last sight was of him standing alone in the dim cottage, his hands in his pockets, his grey eyes following her, already looking like a man waiting for a storm to return.