[ - ]
Printer ePub eBook
Table of Contents | - Text Size +
Story Notes:
Hermione’s footsteps are light, so light he wondered at times if she didn’t walk on air. Half the wizarding world seemed to think she walked on water, some sort of hero along with Weasley and Potter. There had been talk about a statue being erected for the golden trio but Potter quickly put an end to that nonsense. Now there was a small collection of statues honoring those who had fallen during the war: Dumbledore, Snape, Black, Dobby, a handful of others.

They took him to Snape’s after it was done, let him touch the features of the man that had kept him alive, and they’d not said anything as he’d cried silent tears with the warm summer sun on his face. He reluctantly admired Potter for insisting on such a memorial because, if it had been him, he’d have probably asked for something even bigger and better in his likeness. Well, not his current likeness but what he remembered looking like before the first months after the war.

Weasley’s footsteps are heavy, scuffling against the floor and not at all delicate. There’s comfort in the noise, and he always had an insult ready for his former foe. It’s always Weasley and Hermione, not Granger anymore, not ever again. He couldn’t call the person who saved him by anything other than her first name. Besides, he could say it in a certain way that made her inhale in a very interesting way.

He liked to hear that catch in her breath, to know that he still affected her. He couldn’t see her face, after all, so he had to rely on the sounds she made and the way she felt. It wasn’t as easy with Weasley. Despite four years sharing a bed, Draco still had no idea when Weasley was aroused unless he felt it. There weren’t soft noises or heavy breathing to tell him Weasley wanted him. Instead, he had to touch. Soft hands against skin he remembered was freckled and tan, feeling for hard nipples and an erect cock.

There were times that Draco wished they’d had this before. That he had been able to see Hermione’s face flushed with pleasure as he licked her. That he had memories of Weasley’s face scrunch up as he came in Draco’s mouth. They had only been in the early stages immediately following the war. An attempt at friendship extended by Hermione with Weasley and Potter reluctantly following her example. Potter might be the boy hero, but Hermione led those boys around like they were on invisible leashes, and none of them even seemed to realize it.

There had been tension between all of them, always had been, but it hadn’t been anything he ever expected to explore outside of fantasies. Not with Potter, though. That hadn’t really been sexual as much as competition and jealousy. Hermione and Weasley were different. It had been those things, too, but also sexual. He hadn’t been able to resist a bit of flirting with both of them, could remember the way Weasley’s face would turn pink and he’d stammer, could remember the slight smile Hermione got when he was really trying hard and not being too successful.

When the attack happened, Draco had been in St. Mungos for weeks, having his skin repaired, healing wounds that magic could actually fix, and attempts at healing his sight proving unsuccessful every single time. There were still scars, not that he knew how bad they were or what they looked like because he hadn’t been able to look in a mirror to see them. Hermione touched them first, even before his own parents could handle the sight of him, and Weasley was next. Their hands gently tracing the scars that even magic couldn’t fix, day after day until he finally stopped cringing away from them and stopped wallowing in his self-pity. The hands touching his face gradually became their lips, and everything changed from there.

Four years later, and he no longer felt like a victim of Death Eaters wanting to punish his mother for her part in Potter’s success. He was stronger than that, they helped him find courage to get through it all and become something more. When Hermione touched his face, Draco turned towards her, letting instinct guide his mouth to hers. He heard Weasley sit beside him before lips were pressed against his neck. With them, he didn’t feel damaged at all. They made him feel whole again, in a way he never would be, and he loved them for letting him be part of them in this way. Draco didn’t need to see it in their eyes to know they felt the same way. He could feel their love for him in every touch, every breath, and every whisper against his skin.