When Hermione received her annual Hogwarts letter in the mail, a thicker envelope accompanied it that wasn’t particularly surprising. When the Head Girl badge slid out into her palm, she ran a thumb over the smooth edge and sighed. She promptly sent an owl back to McGonagall with a politely penned refusal. It was only another hour or so before the Headmistress herself was knocking on the door to her rented flat in muggle London.
She should have known the witch would talk her into it.
But honestly, all she had to do was say two words—one name—and Hermione interjected with an, “I’ll do it.”
There wasn’t a world where Draco Malfoy would be Head Boy and she would be below him.
The eighth year students were something of a spectacle. Everyone, particularly the younger years, stared at them—at her—like they were celebrities. She couldn’t imagine what they would be like if Harry and Ron had returned as well.
The awe seemed to settle after a few weeks, thankfully, but her situation with Malfoy did not.
She was prepared for arguments, hexes sent her way, and the sneer of his upturned pointy nose. She would have been able to handle him, expected it even, if he were doing any of that at all.
It was his silence that was unnerving.
For being roommates in the Head tower, they saw each other infrequently. Outside of the three classes they shared, they only crossed paths in passing here and there in the hallways or at their bi-weekly meetings with the prefects. Occasionally they'd share space in their common room, and sometimes he would catch her staring across the Great Hall.
Hermione was always the first to look away, the heavy weight of his gaze lingering and pulling until knots twisted her stomach and she no longer felt like eating.
Worst of all, he was being particularly agreeable. Which, instead of appeasing her, only made her hair and fingertips spark and sizzle with untapped magic, desperate for something to latch onto. It made her want to scream.
Whether he was trying to or not, he was getting under her skin and she was growing more frustrated by the day.
Little things mounted, building bit by bit as the days dragged on into November. Small hints of the Malfoy she knew were still underneath his calm new facade. His mask would crack here and there, just enough to let her know that she wasn’t going entirely mad with her disbelief that he had changed. There were still signs of the poncy aristocrat who'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a snide remark poised on the tip of his tongue.
Leaving his half-empty coffee cup on the counter right next to the sink in their little kitchenette. Changing the password to their portrait without informing her. Using just enough of the hot water from their shared bathroom to ensure the tap ran out right in the middle of her shower—leaving her to fumble for her wand while shrieking out a heating charm. Allowing her to take the lead in their prefect meetings yet interjecting and correcting her words the slightest bit until her cheeks tinged pink. Walking around in his blasted quidditch robes, hair slicked back with sweat after a practice and a knowing smirk plastered on his lips. He was certainly still a prat.
It was inane.
She’s on edge today, jaw tight and shoulders tense.
In a lapse of judgement, Hermione put off completing an Astronomy assignment to take over the patrol of an ill prefect. One thing lead to another, then another—because apparently she has a problem saying no to people—and now she is days behind her self-imposed schedule, and instead of enjoying some time at Hogsmeade with Ginny and Neville, she’s in the library on a Saturday afternoon.
Finger tracing over a row of book spines, she scans the titles with a quick glance and huffs when the one she wants doesn’t reveal itself. It seems illogical that someone would return it incorrectly, it’s a magical library for Merlin’s sake, but the registry at the front desk catalogued it as available, so it’s here. Somewhere.
She wishes she could just Accio the book, but alas, post-war, the sentient magic of the castle had yet to re-settle and the students have kindly been asked to refrain from the use of any unnecessary magic in certain areas. And of course, because it is just her luck, the library happens to be one of them.
With heavy steps, she turns down another aisle and scans each side of the shelves. Rinse, repeat—until she’s at the end of the line and the only thing left is the Restricted Section.
Gathering up one of the books from the first section, Hermione doesn’t pay much attention as she walks back to the study tables where she left her things in the back near the big stained glass windows.
The sight of Malfoy in a high-backed chair across the table housing her things has her pausing mid-step. He looks ridiculous in a pair of muggle jeans and his quidditch jumper.
There are about a million questions on the tip of her tongue—Why are you here? Of all the tables, why sit at mine?—but he doesn’t so much as glance at her, even when she yanks her chair out to sit, scraping it loudly across the floor.
Slamming the book down on the table, she shoves it away from her, then reluctantly brings it back. Cracking the spine open, the smell of dust wrinkles her nose and she brushes the first few pages off before flipping through the contents. There isn’t much to work with beyond the initial explanation of magical affinities.
With a huff, she pushes the book away again to dig through her bag for her class notes.
"What did that book ever do to you, Granger?"
He's smirking at her over the top of a thick, leather bound book. Her eyes stray from the sharpness of his raised brow after a beat too long. He’s got the book. Her book. Magical Cores & Natural Affinities. The one she’s been in search of for the better part of an hour.
“Give me that,” she blurts, standing from her chair so quickly it almost knocks back.
Malfoy’s eyebrow raises higher. “Give you what?”
She’s stomping around the table before she knows it, until she’s nearly stepping on his oxfords. “That.” She gestures. “The book you overheard me talking about the other day in Charms.”
He snaps it shut in one hand, flipping it to look at the cover and feigning surprise. “Oh, you mean this.” His eyes shine with an amusement that she finds utterly infuriating.
“Yes,” Hermione replies tersely. “It’s mine.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” He shakes the heavy tome in front of her, pulling it back just as her fingers reach out for it. “It’s not yours.”
“It’s for an assignment in a class you’re not even taking.”
Malfoy shrugs. “I enjoy a bit of light reading.”
Scoffing, her hip pops out as a hand curls into a fist at her side. “That’s hardly light.”
“I’m sorry, how many times have you read Hogwarts: A History for fun?” He tilts his head, fingers reaching up to push through the hair threatening to fall into his eyes. “Sounds like hypocrisy, Granger.”
She bristles. “That’s rich.”
His lips twitch and she has the urge to shove her hand forward and wipe that smirk clean off his face. “I think the rules dictate ‘finders keepers’ in this situation.”
For a moment, Hermione glances down at the book where it’s resting against the arm of the chair under his palm. Then, she lunges.
It wasn’t exactly a well thought out plan, she surmises.
Tripping over both their feet, she nearly falls into his lap as he yanks the book out of her reach only to dangle it back behind his shoulder. She’s got a knee between his legs and a hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself, gripping where the book had just been. Seekers, she gripes, nails digging into the velvety upholstery anchoring her in place.
“If this is all it takes to get you in my lap, Granger, I would have stolen all your books ages ago.”
“I’m not in your lap,” she mumbles, looking away from him and wrapping her free hand around his elbow to tug on the arm holding the book hostage. Her cheeks burn, but she swallows down her pride. He doesn’t budge an inch. “What do you want for it?”
“For the book?” Malfoy settles back in the chair, legs spreading wider. One hand is still on the chair, the other gripping his elbow, and she chances a glance at him. “Just one thing.”
She doesn’t speak, only watches the familiar, intense way he stares at her. It’s much harder to think clearly when she’s so close to him. In the Great Hall she can study him at a distance, here, she’s forced to endure it all mere centimetres away from his too smug face. She feels the way his eyes slip over the flutter of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheek, the bow of her lips as they part to take in a breath.
“Do you remember after the final battle?” He asks it so softly that she’s surprised it stings. “When everyone was broken and bleeding, mourning through their victory—you hugged my mother even as she cried over my father’s body, over a Death Eater till the very end.” His voice grows tight, pain etched on his face between all the hard lines. “Do you remember what you said to me?”
Hermione tips her head in a slow nod.
I’m so sorry, Draco.
“Did you mean it?”
One of the things she remembers most about that day is the look on his face—the relief that washed over him when Voldemort fell, the tremble of his shoulders when they levitated his father’s body away, the Malfoy insignia ring clenched tightly in his palm.
His breath fans over her lips in a quiet exhale. “Why?”
She sighs, her hand sliding from his elbow. “Draco...survival is your strength, not your shame.”
To her surprise, he laughs, bringing his arm down and pushing the book towards her. “You know, it takes a special sort of bravery to stay kind in a world made of cruelty. Fucking Gryffindors.”
“Sod off.” Hermione huffs, fingers curling around the book and hugging it to her chest. “You’re just giving it to me now?”
“All I really wanted was to hear you say my name.”
She feels incredibly warm at the satisfied smile that’s tugging on his lips. “That’s what you wanted?”
“I like the way you say it,” Draco murmurs, and a shiver tracks down her spine as the pad of his thumb brushes the side of her thigh through the corduroy fabric. “Never much cared for the sound of it before.”
“Well, it does sound quite pretentious.”
"You little swot."
He pinches her and she smacks him with the book, finally gathering her wits enough to stumble back to her feet. She can’t help but notice the tension that melts away from his shoulders as she takes a step back away from him.
“Do you want to walk to The Great Hall together?” he asks, rising from the chair and stretching his arms behind his back.
Hermione ignores the tight stretch of his jumper and scrunches up her nose. “Wasn’t it just lunch?”
“About six hours ago, yes.”
“Oh.” She blinks, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Was I really looking for the book that long?”
“—and being a right troll about it. Stomping all over the place. Your hair looks like it does during potions.” He reaches out to tug on the ends hanging over her shoulder.
“Well I’m not surprised, half of that is you.”
Draco raises an eyebrow at that, dropping her hair. “And pray tell, what does that mean?”
“No, no—” She shakes her head at his growing grin, turning on her heel to walk back to her things. “You have enough of an inflated ego already,” she grumbles, shoving the book into her bag.
“Oh come on, Hermione.” His voice is close to her ear, hands coming to rest flat against the table on either side of her hips. He’s not quite touching her, but she can just feel the shift of his jumper through her t-shirt as he leans in. “Indulge me.”
“I think I’ve done quite enough of that already today.”
"And leave me to form my own hypothesis? You wouldn't want me to be wrong though, would you?"
Perhaps she didn't want him to be right either.
"Let's just go to dinner. You can gloat about all the ways you make my hair frizzy another day."
Hermione realizes her mistake a second too late and she winces, because she can hear his stupidly perfect face forming that quizzical self-righteous smirk.
"All the ways? There's more than—"
She turns in place, until they're face to face, and she has to tilt her chin up to look at him—when the bloody hell did he get so tall. "Shut. It," she hisses.
His smirk only deepens, eyes glinting, positively alive with danger, and she thinks that this is Draco Malfoy, the one that's been hiding since their return to school.
He’s like a viper slinking from the shadows—
—and she's the lion lying in wait.
“Gladly,” Hermione says with nary a shake in her voice, grabbing a fistful of his jumper and rising to her tip-toes to press her mouth against his. It’s a split second decision, going in for the kill, but she’s nothing if not brave.
His lips are soft and still, and she thinks, for a moment, that perhaps she was in the wrong, but then a hand curls over her hip, and he steps into her. She feels like bursting out of her skin with the want that blooms so violently in her chest.
The panic in her mind suddenly feels so good, soothing, a controlled chaos—like she needed this bit of recklessness.
What’s sweet and slow grows into something more as they inch closer to one another, until Draco has her hips pinned to the table and her fingers are sliding up his neck to tangle in his hair, until he’s licking at the seam of her lips and working his tongue over the slip of her teeth, until she arches up against him when his leg wedges between her thighs.
Her body feels aflame, growing warmer with each press of his fingers as they inch under the hem of her shirt, as he presses harder against her.
Hermione tugs on fine hair between her fingers, rising higher on her toes as he pulls a gasp from her throat. He swallows it greedily, teeth pulling at her lower lip until she chases him, drawing him back to her mouth. They’re a clash of teeth and tongues, breath becoming scarce between them until they’re panting and gripping at each other with something that feels like desperation.
The sound of footsteps breaks them apart. Draco steps back from the cradle of her hips to run a hand through his hair as she blinks away the haze, turning on her heel and fumbling as she throws the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
Madam Pince appears around the stacks, a cart rolling just behind as her eyes narrow at the pair of them, but her lips only form a thin line.
Clearing her throat, Hermione asks, “Hungry?”
They walk to The Great Hall in a silence that’s not entirely uncomfortable, but she yearns to speak aloud all the thoughts that have her stomach fluttering. Each time she opens her mouth, however, nothing falls from her lips. She runs her thumb along the curve of her mouth, still feeling the lingering buzz from when he was pressed against her, and she has to wipe her palm along the length of her thigh to keep from shoving him into the wall and snogging him silly.
They part ways at the entrance without a word, but she feels Draco’s eyes on her throughout the entire meal. She doesn’t eat.
Excusing herself early, Hermione pauses as her fingers curl over the ornate door. She looks over her shoulder, seeking the place he always sits. Their eyes meet and a shiver runs down her spine as she draws her lip between her teeth.
Turning back, she walks away knowing that he’s not far behind.
They are going to the same place after all.
She barely makes it up her staircase—even with taking the steps two at a time—before she strains to hear the click of the portrait closing once more above the sound of her heartbeat.
His footsteps follow her path, and she dithers, fingers rushing to tug her bag off her shoulder and slip out of her converse, wand tossed on her dresser where she likely wouldn't need it. She sits on the edge of her bed and pulls an elastic off her wrist as she gathers her hair up from her neck to twist the strands into a high, haphazard ponytail.
The floor creaks to her right and she glances up, unsurprised to find Draco’s eyes fixated on her figure before flickering around her room.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
She’s rather distracted by the soft white t-shirt that was apparently under his jumper, the same jumper slipping from his fingers just as she nods. It pools on the floor, right next to where he toes off his oxfords, before his socked feet pad across the floor until he’s standing right in front of her. She hears the toss of his wand clatter next to hers, and feels more vulnerable in the shared space than if he’d pressed it to her throat.
It’s entirely domestic, and she almost wants to laugh as she picks her foot up and wiggles her own sock-covered toes before bumping his ankle. If Hermione had told her third-year self she was about to undress completely in front of Draco Malfoy, she would have laughed hard enough to have an aneurysm.
“There’s too much red in here,” he notes with a pointed sniff, hands grabbing at hers.
“Not enough green?”
“An easy fix.” Draco shrugs lazily, bringing one of her hands up and flipping her arm over so that his lips can press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. He looks up through long lashes, and the intensity of his stare makes her breath hitch.
She turns her hand in his grasp, running her knuckles down the sharp line of his jaw and watching his Adam’s apple bob with a measured breath. Her index finger hooks in the collar of his shirt, tugging gently, and he follows the motion until he has a knee between her thighs, pressing against the bed as he leans over her.
“Can I throw some of my things around your room, too, then?” Hermione quirks an eyebrow, breathing in his chuckle as his nose brushes hers.
“Only if it’s your knickers.”
“Hypocrite,” she tutts, turning away from the press of his lips so they land just at the corner of her mouth. He finds her jaw next, lips lingering with each press against her skin until his breath is hot in her ear, teeth scraping over the lobe. She swallows, one hand twisting in her duvet, the other in his shirt. “My undergarments aren’t even red, so that’s hardly fair.”
“Is that right?” His palm pushes at her shoulder, and his hips dip to press her flat against the bed.
Her toes barely skim the floor anymore and she curls them on instinct as his tongue flicks against her ear. She makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, her knees lifting to squeeze around his hips as he presses himself into the apex of her legs. Heat licks up her spine, spreading over her neck and cheeks until she feels the burn at the back of her throat.
“Are you going to show me?” he asks, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her shirt as his teeth and tongue find the sensitive skin just below her ear.
“Is that a question or an answer?”
Hermione blames the heavy feeling of her tongue for the way he makes her mouth drop open, sucking a tender bruise into her neck that she’s sure she’ll have to glamour with a strong charm tomorrow. And when she doesn’t answer right away, his hand slides from her side to drag down the front of her jeans between them. He pushes his thumb into the seam, and her hips tilt at the touch, craving more in an instant.
“Granger,” he intones with a growl that she feels in her cunt, her spine arching into his chest.
“Yes.” She sucks in a breath. “I’ll show you.”
“Good.” He breathes against the column of her neck, tongue following in a gentle lap. “Been wanting to see you in your knickers since sixth year.”
Shock twists her stomach, and she bites at her lower lip as his fingers toy with the zipper of her jeans, before moving to palm her hip. His pelvis grinds against hers, her hips tilted in his hold so she can feel the hard press of his cock. Denims are suddenly the most ridiculous garment on earth.
Something bubbles up her throat, the impossibility of his words making her brain work much harder than it should before she blurts out, “That seems impossible.”
Draco leans back to look at her, pupils blown wide—dark and glassy and she can nearly see all of herself in them. “You daft witch,” he huffs, reaching up to push his hand through fine blond hair. “You realize you’re bloody gorgeous, right?”
She blinks up at him, lips trembling with the word that’s echoed on her forearm. “But how could you want a mudblood?” The word tastes vile on her tongue and her lips part to take in a breath, half-afraid of his answer.
He looks angry and it hurts so spectacularly—she feels it more profoundly than when his wicked aunt carved letter by gruesome letter into her skin.
“I have committed some grave sins in my life. Tasting you is by far the most delicious.”
Hermione shakes her head, hand finding his cheek as her thumb brushes over the tinge of pink that leads across his nose to the faintest smattering of freckles that she has the urge to count, fingertip cataloging each one like a constellation in the sky. She wonders if she could find his namesake in the pattern of them.
There’s infinitely more to say but all that comes to mind is, “Then don't stop.”
He leans into her touch, a breath rattling his chest as he relaxes and lets his weight settle over her again. The swarm of butterflies in her stomach do somersaults as his hand slides beneath her shirt, rucking it up as he trails up the length of her stomach until his fingers graze the edge of her bra. His palm flattens over her sternum, fingers spread wide and warmth bleeds through her skin. She knows Draco can feel the race of her heart below his fingertips.
His eyes are like silver, endless skies of grey—hinged around the rims of wide pupils. Through every layer, every wall she’s ever built, it feels like he can see the whole of her. She feels a little like the calm to his storm.
“Do you want me, Hermione?”
She tries to think of a world where she wouldn’t and finds the task daunting.
So much has happened to them all in such little time. She feels far older than her age. War has affected every corner of the Wizarding World, some more scathed than others. They both have more scars to bear beyond just the marks on their arms. And somehow, somewhere along the way, things have shifted much like the tide.
“You touch me…” she begins, fingers cupping his jaw, hand twisting in his shirt to bring him impossibly closer, “and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I’m not sure what peace is supposed to feel like, but I think it may feel a lot like you.”
His laughter brushes her lips, the taste of him on the tip of her tongue. “I never imagined being described as peaceful.”
“Well,” she tugs him closer, lips grazing the softness of his own, “I didn’t say all the time.”
“I should hope not. I like when I can bring out that Gryffindor fire.” Draco licks into her mouth, words dissolving into a hum. His fingers dance over the thin skin of her chest, skimming her collarbone before descending back down and avoiding all but the heavy curve of her breast. His thumb slides over the fullest part, nail scratching over the bit of lace that decorates the cups.
Her hands grip at him, fingers twisting in the pale locks of his hair, in his shirt until it rides up his stomach, and she can feel the warmth of his skin against her own. His teeth drag over her bottom lip, and even when he lets go, she can still feel him there—she wants that pattern to echo everywhere.
“I’d argue you bring it out too much. You’re the only one that manages to get under my skin the way you do.”
His fingers are at the button of her jeans now, fingertips lingering along the waist. “Is it pompous of me to be pleased by that?”
“Yes.” Hermione whines as he withdraws his hand. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
His hair slips through her fingers as he disappears, his weight lifting until she can take in a breath that makes her chest ache. But then his fingers wrap around her wrist, and he tugs her up until her feet touch the floor again. He’s smirking in a way that has her pulse jumping beneath his thumb.
“I could bloody swear you said something about shame earlier, just an hour or so ago—”
She yanks her hand back. “That’s not even remotely the same context.”
“Maybe not. But maybe I just like seeing the way your eyes light up, hair sparking with magic at the ends, when I say something that brings out the lion within."
Her teeth grit but she’s betrayed by the heat that flushes her cheeks, betrayed by how much she wants him—infuriating arse and all.
Draco reaches up to grab at the back of his shirt, smoothly pulling it over his head to toss to the floor, and she barely has time to wonder when he got so fit before he pops the button of his jeans. The zipper dragging down sounds so incredibly loud in the quiet between them. He steps out of them, and she has to bring a hand to her lips to cover the smile that threatens to bloom across her face. His trunks are dark, Slytherin emerald. It’s predictable in exactly the same way that makes her positive there’s a little monogram on the waistband that displays his initials.
He nearly trips as he peels off his socks, and it’s the sight of his bare feet—in her room—that causes her to nearly choke on the nerves bubbling up her throat.
“Skivvies—let’s see them, Granger. It’s your turn.”
Hermione bends down to pull off her own socks, wadding them up to toss at his chest. He bats them away with the back of his hand, eyes locked on her as she stands. There’s a comment about reflexes simmering under her breath, but she swallows it and crosses her arms at the hem of her shirt to lift.
The thin fabric nearly gets caught on the mess of her ponytail, and her heart hammers against her ribs as she pulls it all the way off. It slips through her fingers to land on the floor near her feet, the chill in the air raising the hair at the back of her neck even as her flush extends down her chest. She unbuttons her jeans after a beat of silence, shimmying them down her legs until she can kick them away. Then, it’s just her standing in front of him in the matching set of undergarments she’d picked out this morning without a thought of what she would look like in only this. Pale pink, cotton—her only saving grace is the lace trim.
Draco takes a step forward. Then another until she can feel his breath along the top of her cheek, until his toes nearly touch hers. His fingers find her chin, tipping her face up, and she barely admires the view of his chest and the slope of his shoulders, before his lips are pressing against hers.
“Gorgeous,” he reiterates into her mouth, a hand curling over her hip and spreading wide over the bare skin. His fingers dip beneath the waist of her knickers and he squeezes her arse, pulling her so she stumbles into his chest.
Her hands find purchase along his sides, nails catching in his skin just enough to make him grunt against her lips. She sighs in response, tilting her head back as his fingers drift along her jaw and he breathes her in like he can’t get enough.
“Touch me,” she mumbles as her brain somersaults from the way his body feels pressed to hers with so little between them.
"Tell me where."
Hermione nearly groans, his fingers edging along the band of fabric until his palm presses to the front of her belly.
"You know where, you prat."
"Do I?" Draco’s fingers drift up instead of down, climbing to her breast until his thumb rubs over the fabric of her bra.
"You're a smart boy—I highly doubt you need a lesson." But she wraps her fingers around his wrist to drag his hand back down anyway.
"Maybe I do, Professor Granger."
He's smirking into her mouth, and she bites at his lip until he groans, his fingers spreading over the front of her knickers before cupping her sex. She tilts her hips up into his hand as he traces over the cotton that’s damp beneath his touch.
"You wouldn't like my lessons," she taunts. "I like a little corporal punishment as motivation."
His lips move to her jaw, teeth scraping down the column of her throat. He chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her knickers, scratching lightly through the trimmed hair above her cunt. It sends a jolt through her, curling in the base of her spine and sparking like a live wire.
"I don't mind the sound of that, as long as I get a chance to turn the tables. Always wanted to bend you over a desk and smack your arse for being such a swotty little know-it-all."
"You're such a prick," Hermione huffs, tightening her fingers around his wrist to push his hand lower.
He bites at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, hips rocking against her so that the hard outline of his cock rubs over the curve of her hip. "Prick is right—"
He laps at her neck with a laugh, tongue soothing over the skin he just sucked a fresh bruise into. His fingers slide lower, just grazing the top of her slit. "This what you want?"
She pushes at his hand again, head bobbing in a nod.
Her chest tightens on a breath, her lips nearly trembling with want. "I—please—I want your fingers in my cunt."
"Was that really so hard?" His breath curls in her ear, eliciting a heady fog in her brain as his fingers part her folds to slide through her sex. "Merlin's bollocks, you're so fucking wet for me."
Her mouth drops open, half-formed thoughts lost in her throat as he swirls his fingers through the slick of her arousal. He circles her clit in a rough swipe and she practically springs onto her toes, hands clutching at his shoulders lest she float away as though someone had cast levicorpus on her.
Draco nuzzles into the curls barely restrained by elastic, lips seeking to cover every inch of her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hand slides down from her jaw slowly, over the expanse of her shoulder until he hooks a finger in the cup of her bra to tug it down. The pad of his thumb rubs over her nipple, the hardened peak aching beneath his touch.
Her entire body feels aflame with the ministrations of his fingers plucking at her nipple, her clit—his teeth and lips marking her skin until she won't be able to look in the mirror without seeing his insufferable smirk just over her shoulder.
His fingers notch at her entrance, fingertips pressing into her pussy, and she feels the way her slick nearly seeps down her thighs. It's obscene—the sound that his fingers make sliding into her, but she only knocks her head back and bites her lip to prevent herself from moaning his name like a slag at such a simple action.
"Such a tight, wet little cunt. Can't wait to get my cock inside you." Draco breathes over the wet skin at her shoulder, fingers punctuating the words with a sharp twist of his wrist. She nearly shivers when he pinches her nipple and tugs in time with the way he grinds his palm over her clit.
As nice as two of his fingers feel in comparison to her own, Hermione nods along with his words, her mouth drying at the thought of him filling her, driving her into the mattress as she claws up his back. She wants him to be a pretty sight at the next quidditch practice, wants him to feel her every time he shrugs his kit on and off.
"Is that what you want, Hermione?" He drags her name out as his fingers rub along the front wall of her cunt, her back arching into his chest with the relentless rhythm. "For me to fuck you?" He pushes a little deeper for good measure—and her head lolls forward a little as a whimper sounds from her throat. “It’s what you wanted in the library, isn’t it? I could see it all over your face.”
She grits her teeth to hold back another moan, arousal and irritation clashing in equal measure. “Do you ever shut up?”
“You want me to?”
“Yes,” she hisses.
“I think that’s a lie.” He withdraws from her cunt to add a third finger and grinds deep—and Hermione nearly cries out with the surprise of it. “Because when I talk,” his voice is at her ear now, breathy and low and she has to squeeze her eyes shut, “you clench around my fingers. Like you enjoy it. Like you enjoy it very much.”
“I don’t,” she protests, albeit weakly.
His teeth nip at her earlobe. “Are you sure?”
Bugger, she really does—her cunt grips his fingers as he tries to angle them deeper. The base of his hand is still grinding against her clit with every movement, and between that and the way his thumb and forefinger are brushing at her nipple, she’s already horribly close to something earth-shattering.
“Why don’t you come for me, Granger? I know you want to.”
She may as well be one of the stars in the sky, a smooth stone on the bottom of the Black Lake, a single dry leaf falling to the floor in the Forbidden Forest. She feels out of her body for a moment, looking down at them tangled together as relief washes over her. Draco carries her through, fingers still curled insistently deep in her core, wringing her out and arching her back as she clings to him on shaky legs.
His fingers move slowly, sliding from her cunt to slip up around her clit, and it’s wet and it’s messy and she loves it even as she shudders and twists her hips away from his hand.
“Draco—” He pinches her clit between his fingers and she throbs. A whinge escapes her throat as she rakes her nails down the planes of his shoulders. “Don’t—” she groans— “make me beg.”
“There is no sum I wouldn’t pay to hear that, but I want you to come clenched around my cock, love.”
His hands leave her cunt, her breast, to wrap around her back and fiddle with the clasp of her bra. She nearly giggles with his huff of frustration, and it takes him more than one try, before he’s pulling her hands from him so the straps can fall down her shoulders. The pale pink fabric dangles from her finger before she drops it to the floor, watching as he drinks her in like Amortentia.
She gnaws on her lip as he sinks to his knees and looks up at her with a dark tinge to his eyes. His hands find her hips, fingers still wet as they hook in the waist of her knickers and her lungs burn with the hitch of her breath. The slow slide of the fabric down her thighs bringing her further from rational and deeper into depraved.
“Beautiful,” Draco whispers, his fingers at the back of her knees, tickling the skin and drawing goosebumps. His nose touches the jut of her pelvis, his lips against the smooth skin of her thigh as they trail down with slow presses.
It’s too much and not enough, and her fingers itch to fist through his pale blond hair and bring him home, to press his mouth to her cunt and come apart on his tongue.
His tongue slides over her slit—one swipe—and her head lolls to the side, fingers clenching into fists at her side. She aches, her core fluttering as he licks up her folds and circles her clit with the flat of his tongue.
“Thought you said you wanted to shag,” she nearly pants.
Draco glances up at her, lips closing over her clit to lavish attention on the swollen bundle of nerves. He sucks so gently that she has to swallow down a keen.
“I had to taste you first. I did skip dessert after all and it's my favorite part of every meal.”
Her hand finds its way into his hair after all, tugging until his head tips back and a groan falls from his parted lips. They’re shiny with the slick from her cunt and she watches, her belly clenching, as he flicks his tongue out to savor every last drop.
“Bed,” she breathes. “On your back, Draco.”
His eyebrows raise as he pulls her hand away, rising onto a tall knee until he towers over her once more.
“My room, my rules.”
“Well, then I propose we retire to my room next time. It’s only fair.”
Her heart skips a beat at his words and she nearly stumbles, kicking away her knickers. She has to bite her tongue as a retort bubbles up like champagne, daring to spill over her lips. Her chest heaves with a breath, heat simmering under her skin, and she looks away from his smug grin to watch as he tugs his pants down. Draco kicks them away and stands proudly before her. The git.
“Bed,” she bites out, dragging her eyes away from the length of his cock. He’s already leaking for her.
“Bossy little witch. Don’t know what I was expecting, though, really.” He steps around her as her eyes fall to his backside and she turns her gaze up to the ceiling.
When she finally faces the bed, she can see he’s made himself quite comfortable, reclined against her headboard and looking more delicious than he has any right to be. What’s worse is that he looks good against a backdrop of blood red.
She lifts a knee onto the bed, until she can crawl up his legs and settle on his thighs. Then it’s all very real, with her staring at him from the seat of his lap without even a hint of fabric between their flesh. Her hands twitch against her knees as she catalogues how his skin feels pressed against hers, how they shouldn’t be doing this at all, yet she wants more.
But she can’t bring herself to care that much when he reaches out to grip her hip in one hand and her chin in the other, pulling her in for a kiss. Their mouths move slowly, savoring each other with each slip of tongue over teeth, with each push and pull of their lips as they come closer together.
Her hands find his shoulders, settling in the dip of his neck, and curving around the column of his throat until her thumbs nearly touch his jaw. She tilts his head back as she shuffles in closer, until she’s undulating over his lap, over his cock pressed against their stomachs. Then she’s swallowing his groan, teeth biting at his lower lip that’s already swollen from their kisses.
“Hermione,” he mumbles into her mouth, tongue chasing her own as their shared breaths become heavy. “The charm—”
“I’m on the potion.”
His head tilts in a nod against her lips and she feels the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheeks as they pull apart to catch their breath. Her thumb swipes over his lower lip, swollen and red, and his gaze darts up. She swears she can see the sky, the swirl of the universe within his blown pupils. But all that reflects back is her.
She lifts onto her knees as he grips a hand around the base of his cock, tip nudging through her folds. As he bumps her clit, she sighs, hips rocking into the motion—the slip-slide of his length now coated in her slick makes her core begin to clench all over again.
Her thighs are already trembling by the time she sinks down over him, the stretch of her walls around him feels natural in all the ways it isn’t. Only better. He grabs her hips in both hands, thumbs pressing in against the bone and she tilts with the motion as helps her lift.
“Bloody hell,” he groans, chest rumbling with the throaty sound that makes her tighten around him. “You feel divine.”
They work up a steady rhythm, her dropping down onto his cock and rolling into his pelvis so that she can grind her clit against him. His hands push and pull at her hips, helping when she feels weak from the burn of muscle and the shudders that pulse up and down her spine.
After a while, her skin begins to buzz, fingertips and lips feeling numb, pleasant tingles forming at the base of her neck and scalp that feel like fireworks beginning to spark to life.
Through it all, he whispers filthy words between swollen lips.
Against the curve of her neck he swears, “This cunt was made for me.”
“So tight and wet around my cock, you feel bloody amazing,” settles into the shell of her ear.
He presses a kiss to the hollow of her jaw. “I want to live between your legs.”
“Going to come all over my cock, love?” The question feels rhetorical, because how could she not.
Leaning back up, he mumbles against her mouth, “Want to see you fall apart, just for me.”
“Please,” he echoes her moan as his hips rock against her just so, and she whimpers, teeth cutting into her lip until she tastes the tang of copper.
Hermione really does love the sound of his voice, husky and nearly a growl as he speaks. He could read the dictionary or even an Ancient Runes textbook to her and she’s positive she'd still get turned on.
She drags in a breath, nearly choking on it as her hips undulate and she yearns and seeks and finds—
When she comes this time, it feels like a quiet, inevitable thing. It breaks her apart slowly. She wishes they had days and days, but they have hours—minutes before their reality comes back down from the high they’ve reached. She says his name again and again as he continues to pull her hips down to meet his thrusts, her core fluttering through it all.
His hips stutter in the wake of her orgasm, rhythm turning uneven as he makes a low noise deep in his throat that she swears sounds like her name. Then he’s stilling, holding her hips so tightly that she expects to find bruises in the shape of his fingers painted on her skin in the morning. She doesn’t mind the thought of it as much as would with anyone else. Then, Draco’s spilling inside her, hot and warm and it feels more like comfort than she supposes it should.
Seeing the tension that wracks him melting away from his features is worth everything she’s endured to this day. And Hermione realizes something as his eyes slip closed, when he takes in a breath that heaves his chest as he settles back into the sheets.
He looks at her in a way that makes her feel empty when he’s not.
It's cliche to think of Draco as a part of her that's been missing—rather, he's the one thing she never thought she'd need at all. But it's like he's lit a fire in her heart that cannot be blown away. The echo of his warmth lingers on her skin like a scar, one she finds more pleasing to bear than all the ones before.
Sometimes she has trouble distinguishing the light the from the dark anymore, the right from the wrong, but she would risk staining her lips black to feel his fire again.