Chapter 20: The Sick Note
The first thing she became aware of was the unfamiliar weight of the duvet, heavy and luxurious against her skin. The second was the scent—clean linen, woodsmoke, and something distinctly masculine, a spice she now recognized as him. Memory returned in a warm, liquid rush, tightening her stomach.
She opened her eyes.
Draco was already awake, propped on one elbow beside her, watching her. The morning light, sharp and clear through the massive windows, turned his hair to white gold and cast the planes of his face into stark relief. His expression was unreadable, a studied calm that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those held a darker, more familiar heat.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.” Her own voice was a croak. She tried to sit up, muscles protesting in new and interesting ways.
“I took a liberty,” he stated casually, as if discussing the weather. His free hand came up to trace the line of her shoulder, his touch impersonal, almost clinical. “Before you woke. Sent a Patronus to your department.”
Hermione went still. “You what?”
“A silver ferret is quite persuasive when it delivers a medical notice,” he continued, a smirk touching his lips. “You’ve come down with a rather severe case of dragon pox. Symptoms include fever, intense fatigue, and a complete inability to wear office-appropriate robes. Highly contagious. You’re on mandatory bed rest for at least two days.”
For a moment, she could only stare at him. The audacity was astronomical. “You forged a medical notice? To my employer? Draco, that’s—I have a presentation today! On revised Apparition licensing!”
“It’s been postponed.” He leaned closer, his breath warming her cheek. “Due to a tragic, blistering plague.”
Indignation bubbled up, hot and bright. “I cannot believe you! I don’t get sick days, I get research grants! They’ll check with St. Mungo’s!”
“And they’ll find a record, filed by a healer who owes me a considerable favor.” His smirk widened. “It’s a very thorough case of pox. Lots of weeping pustules. Quite graphic.”
She sputtered, searching for a curse vicious enough. He used her momentary speechlessness to his advantage, closing the last inch between them and covering her mouth with his. It was a claiming kiss, deep and languid, designed to steal the fight right out of her. And it was working. Her anger dissolved into a pool of molten warmth, her body arching into his before her mind could catch up.
When he pulled back, his eyes were black with intent. “Now,” he murmured, his lips moving against hers. “About last night.”
He shifted, his body rolling over hers, his weight settling in a way that was already becoming addictively familiar. He pinned her wrists gently but firmly above her head, his fingers interlocking with hers.
“The way you begged,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “The precise cadence of it. ‘Please, Draco.’” He imitated her breathless tone with startling accuracy. “And the sound you made when I wouldn’t let you come. That little whine in the back of your throat.” He lowered his head, nipping at her bottom lip. “It was… educational.”
She was burning up again, all thoughts of dragon pox and professional responsibility evaporating under his focused attention. “Is there going to be a test?” she managed, her voice unsteady.
“Continual assessment.” He released her wrists, but only to slide his hands down her arms, her sides, settling on her hips with a possessiveness that made her breath catch. “I want to hear it again. That specific sound.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re transparent.” He rocked against her, and she could feel him, hard and ready already. “You’re also wet. Already. For me.”
There was no point in denying it. Her body was a traitorous, willing accomplice. She wrapped her legs around his waist, a silent answer.
This time, there was no slow torture. The waiting had been done. He entered her in one smooth, sure stroke, and the fullness was so profound, so shockingly right, that a choked gasp escaped her. It was different in the daylight—more real, more visceral. She could see the strain in his neck, the flutter of a pulse in his throat, the way his eyes lost focus as he began to move.
The pace was relentless, a driven rhythm that spoke of a hunger that hadn’t been sated, only sharpened. The mahogany headboard tapped a quiet, steady beat against the stone wall. Each thrust was a punctuated statement, driving the air from her lungs.
“This,” he grunted, his forehead damp against her temple, “is better than any window. Any fantasy.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only feel. The coil was winding tight again, faster this time, fueled by the raw daylight and the sheer, improbable reality of him. Her fingers scrabbled against the sleek skin of his back, seeking anchor.
“That sound, Granger,” he prompted, his voice raw. “Give it to me.”
It broke from her, that same whimper he’d coveted, a high, desperate note of pure need. It seemed to ignite him. His movements became harder, less controlled, his breathing a ragged symphony in her ear. She splintered, the world dissolving into a shimmering, white silence, her cry muffled against his shoulder. He followed her over the edge a moment later with a shattered groan, his whole body tensing before collapsing into her.
The room slowly came back into focus. The distant valley, shrouded in morning mist. The dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. The frantic hammering of her own heart.
He rolled to the side, taking her with him, tucking her back against his chest. They lay there, slick and spent and silent, for a long time. His hand rested over her sternum, as if feeling the beat beneath.
“I’m going to have to kill you, you know,” she finally said, her voice husky. “For the dragon pox. It’ll be a huge scandal. ‘War Heroine Murders Upstanding Citizen Over Faked Illness.’”
His chest vibrated with a quiet laugh. “Worth it.”
She smiled faintly against the pillow, the outrage truly gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling contentment. She watched the mist begin to burn away over the valley, revealing the sprawling city below, so far away.
His fingers began tracing idle patterns on her skin again. “Stay,” he said quietly. The word wasn’t a command this time. It was simpler. Softer.
Hermione closed her eyes. She had a fake medical certificate, a clear schedule, and a man who faked magical diseases to keep her in his bed. It was the most irresponsible, reckless, ill-advised situation she had ever been in.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His arm tightened around her, just once.