Work Header

Testing Limits

Work Text:

Maybe it was Draco Malfoy’s upbringing, but he was a man of unfailing habit. His routine was rigid and practically inflexible, and he insisted on everything being a certain way.

Firstly, he always had to have three quills on his desk. Hermione had enquired why the number had to be three—surely two was enough?—but Malfoy had spent ten minutes explaining the variety of flaws one could encounter with a quill; breakage, dulling, ink splodging, uncomfortable grip, and statistically, one should have three quills to increase the probability of having one that works perfectly.

Secondly, the handle on his mug of his tea always had to be pointing outwards. Draco had explained, in another of their fascinating discussions, that he was more likely to knock to handle if it was facing inwards, sloshing the contents of his cup, ruining his precious work. The mug also had to sit on the right-hand side of his desk, so he could grab it with his right hand while writing—being the left-handed oddity he was. Hermione had attempted to tease him light-heartedly about his ‘deformity’ but all she’d earnt was a single raised eyebrow, and a ‘do you have the copies or not, Granger?’

Thirdly, he didn’t like lateness. In Malfoy’s ordered world, tardiness was the gravest of all sins. Usually, Hermione arrived at least half-an-hour before he graced the office with his presence, preparing his schedule for the day, and brewing a cup of tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. Usually.

But usually, Crookshanks didn’t vomit a concerningly green substance just before Hermione left, meaning she had to drive him to the nearest animal hospital—which happened to be Muggle. Usually, she didn’t have to wait an hour to see a vet—had everyone else’s animals decided to get sick that Monday morning?—before Hermione had discovered, upon arriving home (the cat remaining at said hospital) that Crookshanks had ingested all of her Floo powder. She’d rushed back to the hospital, nervous that the discovery of Floo powder by Muggles would be a grievous breach of the Statue of Secrecy, even if it was in her cat’s vomit.

To then top it all off, her lack of Floo powder meant she’d had to travel all the way into central London to flush herself into the Ministry, not having high enough clearance to Apparate directly to the Atrium.  

So Hermione’s usual eight am start, on that Monday morning, had turned into a ten forty-two am start, a serious breach of Malfoy etiquette.

She rapped on his office door, listening at the wood for his permission to enter. Hermione couldn’t help like feeling a little like a lamb waltzing into the slaughter yard, neck stretched out in invitation. Malfoy’s scolding’s were legendary, colder and quieter in nature than most others, but undeniably lethal.

“Come in.” It was muffled through the wood of his door, impossible to detect any kind of preliminary mood to his voice, so Hermione had not even the slightest warning to what she would face.

Hermione let herself in quickly, striding to stand before his impressive mahogany desk. His entire office was decorated in this fashion—dark wood bookshelves, heavy with novels and volumes; looming cabinets and hutches, neatly displaying artefacts and trophies of his travels and achievements. The only reprieve from the dominating furniture were the dashes of green around the room—the heavy satin curtains, his ergonomically engineered desk chair, all were united by the same shade of royal emerald.

“It’s quarter to eleven, Miss Granger.” Malfoy indicated after an appropriate silence, just long enough to leave Hermione squirming. He nodded towards a grandfather clock in the corner of the room, as though Hermione needed the reminder of the time, as though she hadn’t been checking her watch every five minutes for the last two hours.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, “Crookshanks fell ill, and I had to—”

Malfoy held up a hand, immediately silencing her. Hermione felt her face flush—for, one, allowing herself to be silenced by this man, and, two, for hearing how ridiculous her spluttering excuses sounded as she replayed them in her mind.

Even though she loathed to admit it, all evidence of the weak-willed and pretentious boy from their school years had all but disappeared. He was a fearsome bureaucrat, able to turn his charisma and good humour on and off as though he had a switch. His presence commandeered the attention of a room entirely, able to persuade anyone from individuals to large groups to subscribe to his way of thinking, negotiating trade deals and contracts with enviable finesse.

It probably didn’t hurt, either, that the cut of both his form and jaw inspired many giggling sessions over the office water coolers. And judging by the press and tailoring of his suits, Malfoy knew it.

Hermione had grit her teeth and refused to view him that way—her interest in the upkeep of professionalism was probably part of the reason why he’d hired her. But sometimes, in the depths in her mind where she couldn’t deny it to even herself, she’d admitted that Malfoy was fucking gorgeous—the prat.

“I didn’t ask, Miss Granger.”

The arrogance in his tone infuriated her a little, as though her slight mistake had given him leave to treat her with such discourtesy. How often, after two years of working for him, had she been late? If her memory served correctly, she couldn’t remember the last time.

“Well, sir, if I may go back to my desk and resume my duties, then?” Hermione tried to keep the acidity out of her tone, but it was there all the same, her hackles raised.

Malfoy considered her for a moment, apparently enjoying having her wait on his response, before waving a hand dismissively. Even the movement itself was arrogant, as though she weren’t worth even forming words for. But instead of snapping—Merlin did she want to—Hermione simply gritted her teeth, turning to stride from his office.

But she’d barely taken two steps, not even halfway through the expansive room, when something flew from the bookshelves, landing on the floor directly before her. It was, as would be expected from the place it flew, a book, titled unremarkably; Potion Feats of the Early 17th Century: A Detailed Guide. The distance it had travelled was the unusual part however, far too great to be any feat of gravity.

She snapped around to glare suspiciously at Malfoy, but he appeared to be preoccupied with the paperwork across his desk.

Reaching into her blazer pocket—Hermione had always preferred Muggle attire to the swampy robes in summer months like these—she produced her wand, returning the book to its place on the shelf.

But, as soon as the book touched the shelf, it flew back to its spot before Hermione, as though it hadn’t moved at all.

Turning, again, to fix Malfoy with a nasty look, she was surprised to find he was no longer preoccupied with his paperwork, and was now watching the debacle with some amusement, in the form of a smirk, plastered on his far-too-pretty mug.

“Well,” he nodded at the book on the floor, “pick it up, Miss Granger.”

Suddenly far more conscious now that she was being watched, Hermione slithered into an awkward crouch, entirely aware of pencil skirt and the embarrassment it could potentially cause her. Finally, after too much of her ungraceful manoeuvring, she fetched the book from the floor, rising and striding for the bookshelf it had evacuated. But as she stretched her arm to return the book, it flew from her grip, landing once more on the spot she’d twice moved it from.

Her frustration was mounting, bubbling over at this ridiculous game that Malfoy insisted on playing—she had work to do, making up for the hours Malfoy was so annoyed she’d missed,

“Malfoy!” she growled, outright glowering at her boss. Malfoy wasn’t feigning disinterest anymore, sitting forward in his chair, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingertips bridged, watching her with a renewed hardness in his gaze.

“Granger. Pick up the book.” It wasn’t an invitation, it was a command, his irrefutable tone not open for argument.

Something in his insistence warmed something deep inside Hermione, an area of herself that she attempted to smother during work hours—a dirty little voice that only whispered in her moments she shared with no one but a vibrating charm and her imagination, which always got carried away in those few seconds before orgasm.

“I…” she gnawed on her lip, torn between her overwhelming compulsion to maintain professionalism, and the faint voice in her head encouraging her on this path, just too see where it went. It was clear Malfoy was in a dangerous mood, if the glitter of his eye was anything to go by.

“If it helps,” Malfoy’s voice was low, “pick it up as you would if you were alone.”

Hermione knew how that would look, bending at the waist, uncaring of how far up her skirt rose, not afraid of ‘appropriateness’ in her own company. She often paraded around her apartment naked—especially in the summer months—with nothing but Crookshanks’ unamused eyes on her.

But the tingle was growing to a pooling warmth, just as insistent as Malfoy’s eyes on the hem of skirt, and the faint voice grew louder. The heat prickling under her skin, dancing down her spine, made her nerves feel extra-sensitive, aware of how her lace underwear rubbed and gripped as she shifted, the lovely friction of her thighs in the micro-movements she was barely aware of.

She bent at the middle, reaching for the troublesome book, trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment pinkening her face. The breeze she could feel on the back of her thighs was an indicator of how high her skirt had ridden. She knew Malfoy’s view would be generous, the combination of embarrassment and arousal created a confusing roiling sensation in her stomach, which she attempted to quash as she finally laid hands on the book. The whole display felt as though it had taken hours of her time—her humiliation and uncertainty making it stretch—and she was longingly aware of the distance between herself and the door.

The risk-taking, rarely-heeded voice was egging Hermione on, wanting to see where this dangerous little situation would take her—and her arousal seconded the idea, sensing its possible satiation.

Hermione moved to stand, both hands firmly gripping the book lest it fly away again. But—much to her horror and titillation, she found herself firmly stuck in place, glued to the book, which in turn, was stuck to the floor. She was stuck in this mortifying position, bent over in a ridiculously exposing stance in front of her boss’s desk.

She heard Malfoy leave his chair, as opposed to seeing it, her vision narrowed by her current situation. But the sliding of his chair again the wooden floor was unmistakable, as were the heavy but slow footsteps that followed, soon close enough to make Hermione shiver. It was as though her skin was overly aware of the slight changes in the air, sensing Malfoy’s body heat, the pulse rippling under the surface, warning of his approach.

Hermione’s instinct was planning potential escape—but her wand was back in her blazer pocket, far too tightly wedged to manoeuvre it out, and the fuzzy feeling in her lower belly slowing her usually sharp reaction time, thoughts slowing in its honey-like sweetness.

Then Malfoy was there, humming in amusement, “Garters, Granger? Isn’t that rather… cliché?”

Hermione was huffing out an explanation before she wanted to, trying to ease her own embarrassment, “Tights are uncomfortable—they roll down.” She said quickly, “Malfoy, please, I have work I need to—”

Her sentence was cut off rather abruptly as Malfoy ran the very tip of one finger up the garter strap, not touching her skin, and Hermione had to all but bite through her lip to mute a gasp that would’ve completely undermined her words. Malfoy hadn’t even touched the skin, his caress so feather-light it might as well not have existed, but it was something about her current vulnerability—how Malfoy felt able to take anything, even a brush of her not-quite skin, that had Hermione feeling heady for reasons she couldn’t explain.

“Sir, please, I—” she wasn’t sure what she was begging for now, to leave or to stay, but her mind was starting to give in to her body and its ever more insistent cries for—

The garter snapped against her flesh, in the supple spot where thigh met ass, and Hermione yelped. The sting didn’t dampen anything, only tuned her body-wide heat to something more specific, in the spot only centimetres from where Malfoy’s fingers hovered.

“Have I told you I like it how you call me ‘sir’?” another snap, on the other side this time, Hermione whimpered, “Very professional. But what I don’t like, is how much you talk. You’ve always talked too much, Granger, and frankly, I like you quiet.”

“Please—” snap, she didn’t know what she wanted, “I’ll…”

“Granger. You’re doing it again.” He sounded almost disappointed, but it was as though he’d expected her disobedience, like he was a little excited with it, “Here, I’ll help you.”

Her legs were trembling now, from the position or her internal frustration she wasn’t sure, but arousal was numbing all else to whimpers and pleads, and the dampness not-quite hidden by her skirt that needed relief. It was like a taut muscle, every shift and nudge reminding her, with a twang, of it’s almost painful presence, like a crick in the neck.

Hermione’s legs weren’t charmed straight anymore, and she felt her knees buckling beneath her. But her hands were still charmed to the book, and she found herself kneeling, hands still to the floor.

It wasn’t fair, he’d barely touched her, practically humiliated her, and the only feeling it had summoned in Hermione was a lust so powerful that she was almost bursting.

Malfoy made his way to her front, standing before her. Her current positioned looked akin to prayer, which he apparently found amusing, grinning as he towered above her—apparently happy to see her put in her place.

“You know, Granger,” Malfoy was frowning now, but now that he was in her line of sight, she recognized the mocking behind it, “I don’t feel as though you’ve provided a reasonable enough explanation as to your lateness.” Malfoy hands were slipping to open his robes, “your movements have a huge impact on mine,” he was popping open the first button of his fly, “and I don’t think you’ve truly,” another button, “acknowledged the inconvenience you’ve caused me.”

The final button popped on the last word, parting the black fabric of his tailored slacks. The opening revealed a silky, dark green fabric—the predictability of which Hermione would have usually rolled her eyes at. Usually. Instead she was extremely distracted by the solid band restrained by the fabric, the ridges just visible through the wisp of fabric. Hermione sucked her bottom lip—she’d heard rumours, of course, but everyone knew office gossip was largely unsubstantiated and mostly false, but—

“Granger.” Malfoy’s hand was on her chin, redirecting her gaze to meet his. His tone sounded tender, but she knew too much about Malfoy to be fooled, “Open your mouth.”

He’d been expecting her shock, anticipating her protest. Hermione looked up at him with as much disapproval as she could muster, even from a spot as degrading as the floor,

“I most cert—” her certain was cut off as Malfoy took the opportunity of her open mouth, ramming his cock down her throat.

“Jesus, Granger.” Malfoy groaned, holding her still for a second—her body heaved as she gagged—before pulling out slightly to give her reprieve, she inhaled sharply, “what did I say about the talking thing?”

He slid deeper again, but more carefully this time, giving her time to adjust to the weight of him on her tongue, nudging at the back of her throat. Her jaw ached—her throat a little raw from the first abuse—but her ambition had never limited itself to just her schoolwork—she needed to hear Malfoy break, feel him fall apart inside her mouth.

She was still indignant, she didn’t like being put in a such a vulnerable position, made to look like a fool. Malfoy had given her a sliver of power now, an opportunity to asset her dominance and control over him. He pushed deeper again, but this time she was prepared, hollowing her cheeks as he withdrew. She earned a groan, and she felt a flash of pride in her belly.

And maybe, hopefully, if she made him cum with her mouth, he wouldn’t want to take it any further than this. Though she worked for him—and she’d covertly admired him when he wasn’t looking—she still didn’t trust Draco Malfoy one bit. And if he drew any obvious kind of pleasure from her, it was something he could use against her later. Not to mention, she wanted to keep this part of herself unexplored, not needing to know why domination and humiliation aspects of Malfoy’s little act were warming her the most.

Malfoy’s fist was in her hair, slowly increasing the pace at which he fucked her mouth, and Hermione did her best to keep up, smothering chokes and gags that rose up. She made sure to flick her tongue over the spots that made Malfoy hiss, watching carefully for signs of approval at her manoeuvres, needing to be told she was doing well.

She felt when Malfoy swelled, his pace reaching a pace she couldn’t meet, he hissed ‘fuck’ so quietly she almost missed it, and she awaited the bitter tang of approval on her tongue. But Malfoy pulled out at the last second, and Hermione felt something lukewarm splatter across her cheek, catching her lower lip and quickly dripping down her chin, to her jaw.

Draco tugged her hair back harshly, so she couldn’t hide her face from his confrontational gaze.

She knew was probably a picture of sin—swollen, red lips, pupils blown out with arousal, mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and the obvious and very possessive smear across half her face.

“Can I—” her voice was throaty, “can I go?”

If it kept going, Hermione wasn’t sure what she would do. For now, it was all his action, she could lie to herself—pretending she wasn’t enjoying what he’d done to her.

She avoided his eye, worried he’d catch the lie in them, before he spoke,


The shock of her first name on his lips startled her—Hermione felt her guard slip, her gaze met his and everything was laid bare. She knew he’d caught it too, as the thin line his mouth had formed slipped into a satisfied smirk, one that had Hermione’s stomach bottoming out.

“Up.” He snapped, abruptly letting go of her hair, and taking a step backward. It was then she realized he’d dropped the charms on her hands—she stood shakily, stretching out protesting muscles and aching joints. One ache stubbornly remained, but she tried to put it to the back of her mind, watching as Malfoy summoned a chair from the corner of the room, positioning it so it faced Hermione directly. She didn’t dare move—if she gave her body an inch, it would take a mile—and she knew she’d do something embarrassing, like dropping to Malfoy’s feet and begging him to fuck her until she was cried.

Malfoy settled in, happily letting the silence stretch out, relishing Hermione’s obvious internal struggle between dignity and desire. She closed her eyes, not able to look at him as he looked so hungrily at her, especially with rapidly drying shame across her face.

But when he spoke, his voice was dangerously low, but filled the whole room, “Remove your shoes.”

Hermione was bending to fulfil his command before she could protest, shivering as she slid her heels off, listening to each one clunk to the wooden floor, still refusing to open her eyes.

But Malfoy’s gaze was so vivid he could’ve been touching her—his eyes skimming up her calves, tracing the line of each, before skimming the line where her thighs met in the middle, stopping at the hem of her not-so-modest skirt.

“Skirt.” He growled, frustration evident, and Hermione’s was forced to open her eyes again—shaking hands struggling to work the zip for only a second, before the fabric puddled at her feet, she took a step backward out of it, not wanting to enter his space any more than she had to.

But opening her eyes had been yet another mistake; there was a feverish flush to his cheeks, which looked strange on his usual pallor. His eyes were everywhere at once—and Hermione had never felt so savoured, but so entirely devoured in one moment.

“Shirt and bra.” It felt like he was trying to break her down, force her to admit how badly she wanted this—letting the shallow rise and fall of her chest spell her defeat, the way her hands shook, the obvious wetness that glinting at the juncture of her thighs, having soaked through the underwear she was wearing. The buttons took an age, but the clasp only took a second, and soon both items also dropped to the floor.

“Step backwards until you hit the desk.” He ordered, and Hermione took careful steps, not looking backwards, as though taking her eyes off him would give him an opportunity to pounce.

The edge of the desk cut a cold, hard line into the back of very tops of her thighs, but she was relieved to put more space between herself and Malfoy, to give herself even a moment’s breather.

But he closed the distance between them in mere seconds, caving to her silent pleads to touch her, his mouth latching to her neck.

After such an agonizing build up, Hermione’s knees nearly buckled at his mouth finally on her, biting and sucking a line ruthlessly down her throat. He moved to down her sternum, focused on the underside of her breast, teasing around where she wanted his mouth to be. Hermione knew he could feel her silent begging, as she unwillingly arched her back, and his mouth curved into a cruel smile against her skin.

She choked back a whimper when he finally obliged, sucking her nipple into his mouth with a decisiveness that summed Malfoy up. When he moved to the other one, Hermione wanted to run her hands through his hair, to show him how much she was enjoying his affections. One, because she’d never stoop to confessing it aloud, and two, because her mouth was too busy fighting back that gasps and moans that keep rising without her permission. But she couldn’t move her hands, as his were wrapped around each wrist, keeping her hands firmly pinned to the desk.

Everywhere Malfoy’s mouth has made contact felt like a trail of tingling, angry heat which Hermione melted under. But then Malfoy is shifting, and Hermione finds herself flipped with such speed her head spins (though that might be the fogginess of arousal) and pinned against the desk, belly cold on the wood, as she’s bent cleanly in half.

Absent-mindedly Hermione noticed his desk had been cleared—suggesting he’d pre-empted their encounter, as though he knew Hermione would inevitably end up bent over it. Maybe if she wasn’t so aroused, she’d take offense, but her mind was entirely elsewhere as she felt Malfoy behind her, his fingers skimmed over the skin of her backside as though he were trying to map the angle of the curve.

There was a pause, and then Malfoy’s mouth replaced where his fingers had been, his liberal use of teeth leaving marks that Hermione knows she’ll feel later. She can feel her legs spreading of their own accord, another betrayal by her body to show Malfoy how much she needs this.

It's when she felt a nip to her inner thigh—a little too high for her comfort—that she squeaked in surprise, suddenly aware of the silence of the room, interrupted only by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Malfoy’s mouth continued to chase up the inside of her thigh, sending Hermione’s hands skittering across the surface of the desk for something to clutch onto.

“Please…Malfoy, for the love of Merlin…” she gasped, her need blooming far past something she could ignore, until it was physically uncomfortable, “please, Malfoy, I—”

“I’m not sure what you’re begging for,” Malfoy said in a low tone, and she felt a tug as he gathered her underwear in his fist, “seeing as you’re supposed to be apologising to me.” With a violent tug, he ripped her underwear clean off, which chafed and stung in ways that didn’t help.

His fingers were dancing up the insides of her thighs, teasing over her clit in a way that made sure she knew they were there, but provided no relief, “So, why should I give you want you want?”

“I’m sorry—please—” the words weren’t hers anymore, she was practically incoherent, “I need—” she tried to wriggle closer to his touch, but his other hand was flat against her lower back, pinning her fast to the desk—she couldn’t move.

“I don’t think so.” He scolded playfully, and his fingers quickly moved away from her clit, and a muttered lubrication spell was her only warning before he slid two fingers into her ass, the lubrication easing his way past the initial resistance.

It was invasively sudden, and Hermione squirmed against the pain of the stretch even if it was translating into something dangerous pleasurable. Draco shifted and scissored his fingers, testing and stretching the give of the rim of her ass, and Hermione hands were gripping the edge of the desk at her hips for some semblance of control. She was trying to form a protest, but all she could manage were gasps and whimpers that only encouraged him.

Finally his fingers left her, and she was allowed a moment of frustrated relief before he was muttering more spells—a stamina spell, she thought she heard—and he lined himself up with her ass.

“Malfoy—” she managed, but he ignored her, slowly sliding home with an ease that was only possible with heavy lubrication. He could’ve slammed in, but his slow entrance was more tortuous—making her feel each inch as he filled her.

It was his fingers times ten. The burn was worse, but so was the accompanying pleasure, and she was practically sobbing when he finally pressed his hips flush against her. She felt stuffed full, in a way that was so much more intimate than her traditional intercourse.

She didn’t want to move, every microscopic shift just made it hurt more, but she found herself helplessly grinding against him all the same. Her frustration had built beyond her control, and even her dignity, and she wanted to beg him to move—regardless if everyone in the Ministry heard her, even if she had to scream it, her colleagues be damned.

And he knew it too, “Is there something you want?” he was mocking her, still as a statue, refusing to give into the tears that were welling in the corners of her eyes.

“Please—Malfoy, please fuck me! Merlin, please!”

The only indication of his wavering self-restraint was how quickly he gave in—she knew he could’ve dragged out the teasing, but he was rock hard within her, and she knew his stillness was giving him some grief as well.

He started with slow, deep thrusts, forcing her to take him flush each time. But then his hands were bruising on her hips, pulling her against him as his pace increased and he was fucking her with vigour, forcing sounds of Hermione with each slam home.

The heady mix of pain and mind-melting pleasure had Hermione feeling dizzy, but her clit was still woefully neglected, so she teetered painfully on the brink of orgasm—tears of frustration spilling over her cheeks in earnest despite the world-class fucking Malfoy was treating her to.

It wasn’t just the sensation however—it was the feeling of being filled up and used so roughly that had Hermione’s whole body thrumming, desperate for the orgasm she was being deliberately denied.

It was when Malfoy’s thrusts grew even rougher and a little choppy that he muttered something else—a spell she didn’t catch—and it felt as though something invisible was vibrating furiously against her clit.

That was all it took, and Hermione came with a silent cry. Draco’s body pinned her down as she shook—her nails digging so sharply into the wood they were sure to leave indents. But she was completely encompassed by the long-anticipated flood of relief, and her body keened with it, leaving her jerking and shivering on the desk’s surface.

Not until she arched against Draco, as he came deep inside her—a possessive and primal move—did she come back to herself, with a fluttering calm that was unparalleled by anything else. She felt entirely sated, and secretly lived for the seconds between an orgasm and when the ache of rough sex would inevitably set in.


“So that was how you pictured it?” Hermione asked in a business-like tone, buttoning her blouse.

Draco grinned like a cat that got cream, already lacing his boots in the armchair, “Darling, that was it and more. You were wonderful.”

She tried not to blush, but she had prepared carefully for the role, trying to walk the careful line between innocent reluctance and refusal, “You just like the idea of me being your secretary, because it would never happen in a million years.” She said primly, watching him stand and walk to the desk drawer.

He huffed in amusement, as it was a well-rehearsed squabble between them, “Well, I keep offering you a position at Malfoy Corp, and you keep refusing me. We’d do well with your mind on board, love, and the pay would be completely negotiable.”

She tried to bite back a teasing smile, “I don’t know—I heard the boss is a right sleaze.”

His smile mirrored hers, “I heard that he’s tied down now, and that wife of his is a proper ball and chain.”

Hermione tried to look offended, but he’d pulled something out of the desk drawer, and threw it towards her. She caught the platinum rings out of the air, slipping both on her finger.

“I suppose it is good having you at the Ministry—” Draco allowed, sliding his own platinum ring back on.

“So I can orchestrate your nefarious plans of world domination?” she was finished dressing now, and was pulling her hair back into a sloppy bun, if only it would comply.

“I was talking about using your office on Sundays for roleplay, but that works too.”

She grabbed her wand from her pocket, changing the décor back to its red accented norm. Draco made a sound of disgust.

“It’s my turn next, then.” Hermione watched her husband cross the room towards her.

“Any ideas?” he held his hand out for Apparition, she grabbed it.

“Maybe the injured Quidditch player and the strict nurse?”

Draco winked, “Sounds good, Nurse Granger.”