Chapter 37

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Draco glared at the looming stack of parchment beside Healer Browning's chair. If the old healer wanted to make a point about the weight of Draco's omissions then consider it well-made. Apparently Draco had talked quite a bit about Hermione over the years, the evidence piled several feet high on the floor.

"Draco," Browning began in greeting, and though Draco desperately wanted to throw out a snide "Atticus," in response, he stuck with "Healer Browning."

The floating quill already performed its noisy duty just from the four syllables uttered by Draco.

Scratch, scratch, scratch...

"You've had quite the busy month it seems. Why don't we start with—?"

"I love her."

The quill stopped. Healer Browning stared at Draco.

"That's where this is all going to end," Draco gestured to the mountain of scrolls and papers that held all his past confessions and thoughts regarding Hermione Granger from years and years of sessions.

"I'm merely speeding the process up. I love her and the only people I've explicitly said that to are my mother and you. And technically Potter."

The quill jumped back to life as Browning collected himself.

"How did that conversation with your mother go?"

Draco relayed the tumultuous and accidental meeting between Hermione and his mother. He spoke at length about their holiday in France. He detailed what happened after he stormed out of his hospital bed in search of her. He divulged the soul-baring conversation he'd experienced with Hermione post hospital stay.

Browning bore all of this information as stoically as he always did, but Draco couldn't help but assume he'd somewhat surprised the man with the amount of information spilling out of him. Perhaps his healer might shower him with the barest modicum of praise for his willingness to open up more?

Not this time.

"Have you given any thought to how your relationship will be perceived by the public given Miss Granger's notoriety?"

"Umm... not really, no."

"You haven't discussed revealing your relationship publicly?"

Draco frowned. Did they need to?

"Well, those closest to us are aware and we're going through all the proper introductions to family and friends just now. I don't see how our personal affairs are any business of the public."

"Where do you see this relationship heading?"

The end of an aisle in my best robes? Fuck.

"I haven't thought that far ahead. We're just enjoying our time together," he lied through his teeth.

The healer dropped the subject then, but it left Draco with a slight feeling of unease long after he'd left the appointment. When he returned home to share a quietly awkward dinner with his mother, he found he could only pick at his food. Still unable to shake the dogged moroseness, Draco retired early, and only when he entered his bedchamber did he pinpoint what felt so wrong.

After almost two uninterrupted weeks of sleeping in the same bed as Hermione, climbing into his four-poster alone felt strange and uncomfortable. The silk sheets slid too cold against his skin, the bed felt too spacious, and the air around him too quiet. Nothing and no one beside him to either hold or be held. Gods, was that all it took? Barely two weeks and he suddenly pined for the way her monstrous hair practically suffocated him in the morning?

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