o o

delicate-cherry  asked:

Dramione + angst + please don't kill Draco and Hermione 💜

pairing: draco malfoy x hermione granger

setting: modern, non-magical, high school au


Everyone finds out.

Everyone finds out they’re fucking, specifically, the Monday after prom, when half the senior class is still trying to wash glitter out of their hair and hide their Plan B receipts from their parents. Yearbooks are being passed around, skinny black Sharpies bleeding ink and ex’s and oh’s and the kind of burning, overwrought nostalgia Draco already wishes he had an eraser for.

It’s just a rumor until it isn’t.

It’s just a rumor until the iPad camera shutter snap echoes and echoes and echoes around the cavernous interior of the empty auditorium—and, oh, Draco will have to remember to laugh at that, later; getting caught, finally, on an actual fucking stage—when he doesn’t have her dressed pushed up and his boxers pushed down and the taste of her tart and sweet and wet on the tip of his tongue—

Everyone finds out.

Everyone.

That isn’t the real secret, though.


It wouldn’t be a big deal, if it was anyone else.

It wouldn’t be a big deal, if it wasn’t Hermione fucking Granger.


“What do you mean, that wasn’t the first time?” Potter’s voice cracks, slightly, on the last two words.

Draco smirks.  


Hermione wore a Yale sweatshirt to school the day she got her acceptance letter.

Navy blue and bright, bright white. Crewneck. Her jeans were tucked unevenly into the tops of her boots, and all Draco could think about was how much better she’d look in Dartmouth green. In Princeton orange.  

In nothing at all.


“After the shit he’s said?” Potter demands, sounding angry in a way that almost—almost—surprises Draco. Almost might as well be the story of his fucking life. “To you? About you? After the shit he’s done?

Hermione’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Yes,” she says simply, before reaching for Draco’s hand.


Draco had gotten better, over the years, at pretending.

It was a learned behavior. A conditional response to a childhood spent digesting the morals of Disney movies and anti-bullying campaigns and half-hearted reprimands to be nice. To be better. Smiles could be faked. Compliments could be forced.  

Letters of recommendation, however—character references, long-winded tributes to his sportsmanship and his discipline and his superior time management skills—those couldn’t be.


“I’m in love with him,” Hermione says, and it’s a little bit surreal how deeply Draco understands her honesty. “People can surprise you, Harry, even when you don’t expect them to.” She hesitates, curling her fingers into Draco’s palm. “Especially when you don’t expect them to.”


“Looks like we’ll be at school together next year,” Draco remarked the Friday before spring break.  

Hermione’s lips parted. Pink and full and bare. “You—Malfoys go to Harvard.”

He shrugged. Her sheets were itchy against his shoulder blades, patchwork red and gold flannel warm with residual body heat. “You’re the only thing I don’t want to leave behind,” he said.