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‘And is that never?’ Luna asked as Ginny looked on with wide eyed shock.
‘Not never…’ spluttered Hermione, already feeling the pink rise on her cheeks. ‘I have before. I...used to...be able to.’
‘And how long ago since you’ve been able to?’ Luna continued her questioning, her dreamlike voice cutting across Hermione’s embarrassment. She tried to think about the answer but, as always with this particular topic, her mind was blank.
‘It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly-’
‘Have you only ever been able to do it by yourself or with others as well?’ Ginny practically shouted at her, the wine in her glass sloshing around as she almost leapt out of her seat to interrupt.
‘By myself and with others.’ Hermione rolled her eyes.
‘With my brother?’ she asked, a gleeful smirk on her face. Hermione sighed now, her face in her hands.
‘A few times, yes.’ she answered honestly and chuckled as Ginny broke into hysterics.
‘It’s not that unusual Hermione,’ Luna reassured her, placing a hand on hers. ‘Many women never come to completion at all. It’s not a mark of success or failure - as long as it still feels good.’
‘Of course it still feels good,’ she muttered, ignoring the way Ginny continued to chuckle about her brother. ‘I just - I just work myself up about it and get frustrated and then - it makes dating hard for me because I don’t want to have to fake it but men are obsessed with knowing if you have or not.’
‘Good point actually -’ Ginny said, finally back with the conversation. ‘Harry and I couldn’t have sex when we were together without him asking if I had.’
‘And had you?’ Hermione asked, desperate to find out if she was the only one. Ginny smiled at her sadly.
‘Yes, sorry. But to be fair, the ones I get with Luna now are 1000% better than any I had with Harry.’
Hermione fell into silence then as she listened to Luna berate Ginny in a strangely kind voice, telling her to be more sensitive to their friend's plight.
‘I just can’t believe it!’ Ginny sighed ‘Our friend, Hermione Granger, unable to orgasm.’
As she has told them, it wasn’t as if Hermione had never had an orgasm before, she had had plenty of them - in the past. Of course, as a teenager they had been something of a myth and legend with the girls in her Gryffindor dormitory, something that they thought could only be achieved with a boy. Hermione remembered Lavender vividly telling them one night that boys found it hard to give girls orgasms because it took girls a lot longer and they got bored quickly. A few years later she had amended that statement to tell them that actually, it just took boys a long time to find the clit. Hermione actually remembered cringing and shutting the curtains, knowing that the only reason she knew that was because she had been out that evening with Ron.
But she had been able to give herself a few orgasms in the showers and prefect bathroom of course, but then the idea of touching yourself does really lose its appeal when your best friend is at the top of the kill list of a crazy murderer, you have to erase the memories of your parents and then have to live in a tent with two boys and no privacy.
After the war Hermione had, what she liked to call, her sexual awakening. That summer, with the threat of imminent death lifted and the first real boyfriend she had ever had, the lure to touch one another and have sex had been great. Of course, there had been downsides - her boyfriend had lost a brother and she had crippling PTSD, not to mention the fact that they were all staying in her boyfriends family home whose mother thought premarital sex was wrong - but they had taken their chance and gone at it like proverbial rabbits. Of course, the elusive orgasms had come, sometimes - but the playing together was great enough for her. When it ended between her and Ron she had been sad, but they knew they were better off as fierce and fiery friends and, when they had all finished Hogwarts and she had moved into her very first flat in West London, she had been nervous and exhilarated to find out what adventures lay before her.
‘And do you think that’s when it started - your inability to reach an orgasm?’ Anne asked her.
Hermione looked up at her mind-healer and shrugged pathetically.
‘Not then exactly, I suppose. I do remember that sometimes in that year it was more difficult. Living alone… my nightmares came back, pretty hard and…’
‘These are the nightmares we have spoken of before.’
‘Yes, but they are very different from the ones I sometimes have now.’ She wanted to be really clear with Anne. It had taken her years to work up the courage to see a mind healer, it was actually Harry who had gotten off his arse first and that had shocked her enough to look into it. Anne was her third mind-healer. The first, Jackson, was an older gentleman who didn’t really seem to think that PTSD existed. Her second, Henry, had been far too attractive and friendly, something that made Hermione very uncomfortable. When she found Anne, she promised herself she would always be honest to make sure that it would work.
‘I was so tired all the time, what with the nightmares and work and ...well the press hounding didn’t help. I was so exhausted that I never...well I never spent time on me’ she finished in a small voice, a red flush creeping up her neck.
‘Hermione, we have talked about this before. You don’t have to be embarrassed about using certain words. You didn’t have a lot of time to masturbate, touch yourself, that’s okay.’
‘I know, I just…’ she wanted to tell Anne she was embarrassed but she couldn’t work out why. ‘Anyway- I had been asked out on a date and I was really excited - we had been on a couple before and I was sure that I was going to bring him back to mine, and I did. Only - I couldn’t seem to come.’
‘Was he not any good?’ she asked softly.
‘No, he was really good. It felt amazing, we did a lot of foreplay, he was built like a greek God underneath the grey cable knit jumper he was wearing and he found the clit. It just never happened and I could tell he was getting a bit frustrated with me...so I faked it.’
‘And were you disappointed in that?’
‘Not particularly...at first. Then it happened and...well - it happened every time and so I just stopped seeing him.’
‘And did you see others?’
‘A few, but the same thing happened and I got in my head and so...I just stopped dating and…’
‘Do you get sexually frustrated, Hermione?’ Anne asked, her quill poised to take the answer down in her notebook. Hermione sometimes wondered what she wrote in there against her name; broken?
‘Sometimes but...not really.’
"Listen to me, I still want you to come in every other week and I want to look next time at the subject of your school life - but in regards to this, I don’t want you to panic.’
‘Does it not matter then?’ Hermione asked, the panic rising inside her despite the words of a professional.
‘If it matters to you, then of course it matters. But your friend is right - orgasms are not win or lose situations and they do not define you as a sexual creature. Give yourself some time - you know you are still healing.’
Hermione understood what Anne was saying, she knew that it wouldn’t fulfil her if she could suddenly orgasm, but sometimes she did wonder that she thought too much and something was standing in her way.
Huffing back to the Ministry, she traipsed through the hallways towards the records and research department. She had first started in the Department for Magical Creatures, defiant to put a stop to the use and abuse of house elves. Hermione had been sure it would take years to push new legislation through but it seemed that she had misunderstood her own power as a war hero. The Wizenagamot had approved her notions almost unanimously and, trying to move onto other projects, she had quickly picked up the plight of the werewolves. Within 5 years she had done everything she had wanted and had moved from department to department, the Daily Prophet tipping her as the favourite for the next Minister for Magic. But she had been approached by the Department of Mysteries instead.
‘But, you will have to keep secrets from us!’ Ron had whined when she had told them all about their research offer over a Chinese takeaway.
‘Well, they actually want me to come on board to make sure that their practices are a little less secret.’
‘But what’s the point of being a Department of Mysteries is there is nothing mysterious about them,’ Harry chuckled, an egg roll half way to his mouth.
‘I can see what you mean but you said yourself not two weeks ago that you wished you knew more about the inner workings of the Ministry. Isn’t this what we fought for, more transparency in your government, more accountability?’
‘Of course.’ He said, sitting forward and putting his chopsticks down. ‘It’s just that what happens when people have access to information and magic that is dangerous’
‘Don’t you think that secrets and mysteries are what helped Voldemort infiltrate and take over the Ministry so easily last time. Maybe someone does need to go in there and shake them up, bring them into the 21st Century. It is 2004 after all.’
‘Sounds like you have your answer for them already,’ laughed Ron, his eyebrow raised.
And it had been the perfect move for her; out of the large spotlight and into the realms of magical research and power. At the moment she was working on an update to the Statute of Secrecy and how the incorporation of Muggle technology might be the answer to the issues facing a lot of young witches and wizards today. Her team was behind her, the Minister continually impressed and her research partner was a great help. As she entered their shared office, he looked up at her and smiled.
‘Unspeakable Granger,’ his smooth drawl issued.
‘Unspeakable Malfoy.’
Removing her jacket and hanging it on the obnoxious coat stand he had insisted on when they first moved into the space together, she smiled to herself at their usual greeting and moved around to sit at her chair. She could feel him watching her, waiting for her to look over the few interdepartmental memos on her desk and flick through the papers she had been reading before she left a few hours earlier.
‘How was it then?’ he asked once she had placed them down and folded her hands together, looking towards him expectantly.
‘It was fine, as usual,’ she smiled politely.
‘Has she done that thing yet where she seems to pre-empt what you are going to say? She used to do that to me all the time. That was when I knew I had found a good one.’
‘Not quite yet. But I am pretty sure she also told you not to talk about her with me or it might ruin my treatment,’ she teased. Draco raised himself from his own chair and sauntered towards her, perched on the edge of her desk and placed his hand over his heart.
‘I would never dream of such a thing Unspeakable Granger. I am sure I am more committed to the healing of your brain than I was my own.’
If Hermione was honest with herself, he was probably right about that. It had been Draco, after all, that had put her in touch with Anne, and Draco who had been concerned for months when she did nothing but eat takeaway and work herself to death in a depressive state.
They had started working together not long after she had joined the department, and he had not been best pleased about it. Hermione had known that Draco worked as an unspeakable, and had done so since graduating their final year of Hogwarts. The papers liked to say that it was because he had been touched by evil and that his Dark Mark allowed for him to make all sorts of dark curses that the Ministry could examine and abuse. But she had known, without even really knowing him, that the reason they had asked for him was because he was damn good at what he did. When she had finally got around to suggesting her changes and put forward the Statute project, they had paired them up immediately. Draco had been nervous and angry, over apologetic and sour; he didn’t want her to hate him but hated working with others, he wanted to advance in his career, but on his own merits.
But in the year together, they had grown, they had matured and had found an easy way to work together, perhaps better than anyone she had ever worked with before.
‘Are you going out to the Leaky today?’ she asked, quickly changing the subject. Draco huffed and dropped his aristocratic posture to slouch, the very notion of this despicable.
‘Those Gryffindor boys tolerate me sure enough - but you know Potter and Weasley detest me.’
‘Harry does not hate you,’ she chuckled. ‘He just…’
‘Yes, Hermione?’ He looked at her with a strangely angelic smile.
‘He tolerates you just fine. I can’t say anything against Ron, he really does hate you.’
‘And I can’t be bothered to get all dressed up to spend another night at the Leaky watching them all not being able to handle their whiskey. What’s worse is Potter all buys expensive but drinks it like it's cheap.’
‘You love getting all dressed up!’
‘I prefer getting undressed more…’ he smirked, his eyebrows lifting as he looked at her.
This was somewhat of a new development, the flirting. Well not particularly new, just recently more aggressive and forthright. Hermione knew how it was when people worked together for a long time; there became an ease between them, a symbiosis of thoughts and humour. Theirs had come in the form of Hermione trying to explain why her dates were all so bad without telling him that she just couldn’t come and Draco had been equally as forthcoming with his dating life. After a broken engagement, he had seemed destined to trawl through pureblood society’s more eligible bachelorettes without so much as a second date on the cards.
‘I should just give up and marry you Granger,’ he had sighed dramatically one day.
‘When hell freezes over I think,’ she had snapped right back, her posture straight and surprised.
‘You should be so lucky to find a catch like me.’
This simple comment, the way she had reacted so perfectly, had set off a fire in him, to bring her ire with his wanton ways whenever he could. He was insufferable and conceited and, Hermione had to admit, so fucking attractive that she could cry. Draco Malfoy used to be thin and sharp. He used to look mean, with a sneer that could kill baby animals - and she was pretty sure it had. But now...well he had filled out, like all the boys now men in her life had. He was tall, his shoulders were wide, his muscles developed, his attitude calm and - he was just so funny that she often found herself biting her own lip to stop herself from laughing at him, knowing that if she did, he would hold it against her for the rest of her life.
‘Speaking of undress,’ she smiled back, reminding herself that professional Hermione was the best Hermione. ‘How was your date last night? Who was it again; Princess somebody or other.’
Draco pulled himself back to standing and threw his arms up in the air in frustration.
‘Oh, don’t remind me.’ He did always have a flair for the dramatics in their office, Hermione sometimes said to herself that she was sure they would have been great friends much earlier on if she hadn’t been a muggleborn he hadn’t been so set on the destruction of her race. ‘And her name was Countess Irina Blightly.’
‘A Countess - what an honour.’
‘It’s a fake county - I am pretty sure her Father just created some stupidly useful potion that saved wizard kind.’ He slumped into his chair, leaning back and looked at her woefully.
‘Not good then, I gather.’
‘She was boring.’
‘Boring? What’s boring when you are rich.’
‘Usually Granger I would agree with you, but honestly I couldn’t even get through pre-dinner drinks with her. She droned on about her father and his money and how he was thrilled to hear she was having dinner with a Malfoy.’
‘Draco,’ Hermione admonished, wanting to bring up the fact that he never used to be able to hold a conversation with anyone without bringing up his father, but knew it would put him in a foul mood for the rest of the day. ‘You didn’t just leave that poor girl without even finishing your date.’
‘Oh, I didn’t need to,’ he almost shouted, his frustration clear. ‘She saw her friends from Beauxbatons and went off to speak with them and never came back.’
‘Never?’ Hermione asked, her eyes wide.
‘Well, I waited for an hour and then walked out. I paid the cheque, before you ask, although I damn well wished I hadn’t. She sent me an owl this morning thanking me for the drinks and asking when we could go out again. She is oblivious!’
‘Well, maybe you should give her another chance.’
‘Hermione - she looked like a horse,’ he sighed, shaking his head and looking down to his memo pad.
She chuckled at him as she put her head to work once more, penning an answer to Minister Shacklebolt about her position on mobile phones and how it would put owl breeder’s out of a job, the answer for which she would have to find some research she had already logged into the stacks.
‘I thought I would find you here,’ Draco said. ‘Didn’t you start looking for that on Tuesday - you know it’s Thursday right?’
Hermione looked up from the purple and gold file she had in her hand and looked at him with contempt. He leaned against the end of the stack, his usual robes must have been left behind at the office as he was dressed down in just a shirt, no tie, far too much of his skin on show.
‘Yes, thankyou,’ she replied sarcastically, her face screwing up in an ugly manner. ‘You know full well that that idiot Jeskins had it.’
‘Isn’t he the main opposition against our fight to combine technology?’ he asked, his tone severe as he strode towards her.
‘Yes,’ she huffed. ‘If he thinks that he can stop us by hoarding our research then he is sorely mistaken.’
‘Of course he is,’ Draco chortled, moving closer again. ‘I once remember being chased around by Madam Pince because I dared to hold an important tome for more than one day. When I asked who needed it so badly, she pointed you in my direction.’
She felt herself flush. ‘That was important!’ she whispered. Draco nodded slowly, stepping forward again, crowding her against the stack.
‘I’m sure it was. You know, Hermione, all you had to do was ask, I would have been more than happy to - share’ he lifted his hand and plucked the folder. She felt the material slip slowly from between her fingers, to be replaced by the tense air that surrounded them. She swallowed - hard.
‘I could go and speak to him,’ he continued in almost a whisper. ‘Defend your honour.’
She met his eyes then, her head snapping up, her nose in the air. ‘I don’t need you to defend me, Draco. I can handle myself just fine.’
‘Oh, I am sure you can,’ he smiled, his eyes slowly dragging over her body. ‘I would like to see that.’
Hermione put her hand on his chest then, pushing his back slightly, but regretting it when she felt his heartbeat under her fingertips. It was beating fast, he was hot to the touch, he was just as flushed as she was; just better at hiding it. He immediately stepped back, looking down and placing his hands in his pockets, a silent apology for his inappropriate behaviour.
‘Was there a reason you came down here other than to torment me?’ Her voice was shaky, breathy.
‘Torment? Hermione, I…’ his eyes were wide and it was obvious he hadn’t meant to offend her. She moved past him, knocking his shoulder with her own and smiling up at him.
‘So...you came down here because…?’
‘Asking if you were going to come to the Leaky,’ he said quietly, pulling himself up to full height. ‘If you were going I...I might consider it.’
His eyes were shining, bright and silver as they met hers and the small smile that graced his perfectly pink lips sent shivers down her spine.
‘We can walk together if you like,’ she whispered, and his smile only got bigger.
The night was cold, the moon high above casting pale silver light across the cobblestones of Diagon Alley as they walked. Their shoulders brushed once. Then again. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was an accident, but she didn’t step away.
“You know,” Draco said eventually, voice pitched low, “I used to find you exhausting.”
She gave him a sideways look, arching a brow. “How flattering. Please, do go on. I just love being emotionally eviscerated by moonlight.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I mean that in the best way. You’ve always had this... intensity about you. You still do. But lately, it’s... different.”
“Different how?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual, as if her pulse hadn’t just kicked up in her throat.
“There’s a softness there now,” he said, slowing slightly. “Not weakness—never that. But... something that makes me want to lean in instead of defend myself.”
Hermione stopped walking. The cool air wrapped around her like a shawl, but she ignored it. She turned toward him fully, standing beneath the flickering halo of a lamplight.
“Softness,” she echoed, tilting her head as she looked him over. Her eyes raked over his figure—broad shoulders beneath his wool coat, a black cashmere scarf wrapped around his throat, his hands buried in his pockets like he was afraid of what they might do otherwise. “You make me sound like a kitten someone found behind the bins.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at you and thought: ‘helpless stray,’” he said, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement. “You’re more... a particularly sharp sphinx who’s recently discovered she likes being stroked behind the ears.”
That earned him a dry chuckle. “Careful, Malfoy. I might start to think you’ve been trying to figure me out.”
“I have,” he said simply, and her smile faltered.
She stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding. His face was half-shadowed, silver light tracing the angles of his cheekbones and the stubborn set of his mouth. There was no teasing in his expression now—just a quiet, deliberate honesty that unsettled her more than his flirtations ever had.
“You shouldn’t,” she said, trying for levity. “People who try to figure me out usually end up confused, disappointed, or mildly traumatised.”
“And yet,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I’m still here.”
Hermione swallowed hard. Her first instinct was to say something clever, something that would put a little more space between them—space she could breathe in. But all the quips dried on her tongue when he looked at her like that, like she was something he wanted to unwrap slowly, piece by careful piece.
“I don’t do well with people knowing things about me,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “Not really.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I’m not asking for all of you, Hermione. Just... let me stay close enough to see what you’re willing to show.”
Something inside her cracked open at that—just a hairline fracture—but it was enough. She nodded, once, and resumed walking. This time, when their shoulders brushed, she leaned in.
The Leaky Cauldron was louder than usual. Someone had put on a record that sounded suspiciously like Celestina Warbeck doing a jazz set, and the clatter of glasses, laughter, and a screeching chair leg created a raucous, almost comforting backdrop. Hermione slid into her usual spot between Harry and Ron in the corner booth, cheeks still tingling from the cold—and perhaps from the walk with Draco.
She didn’t look at him as he settled into the seat at the end of the table. She didn’t have to. She could feel him there like a live current—could practically map the angle of his arm slung along the back of Theo’s chair, the way he always cocked his head to the side when listening.
“Late, Granger,” Ron said, passing her a pint. “You’re not allowed to be late. You’re the organised one. It upsets the balance of the universe.”
“Ron,” she deadpanned, “you once thought Albania was a type of fish.”
Ron pointed at her with his chip. “And yet here we are—still friends. Balance maintained.”
“Barely,” said Ginny, raising her glass. “You only just graduated from calling sushi ‘cold fish toast’ last year.”
“I’m a man of culture now,” Ron said, preening. “Lavender made me eat seaweed. I didn’t even cry.”
Across the table, Theo was trying not to laugh into his drink. Harry leaned in, nudging Hermione. “He asked the waitress if it came with ketchup.”
Hermione snorted, finally relaxing back into the seat. “Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t bring his own bottle.”
“That’s what the hip flask’s really for,” Theo added. “It’s secretly full of Heinz.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the group. Even Pansy cracked a smile, though she did it behind a wineglass the size of a small cauldron. Luna, resplendent in a cloak with tiny glowing moons, looked serene as ever, resting her head against Ginny’s shoulder.
“I like this,” Neville said, eyes soft as he looked around the table. “Us. Still managing to meet up every Thursday. Who’d have thought?”
“Oh, it’s not about the company,” Pansy said breezily. “I just came for the opportunity to humiliate Draco in public.”
“I live for your friendship,” Draco drawled, raising his glass in mock salute.
Hermione didn’t look at him.
She took a long sip of her drink instead, keeping her focus firmly on Luna’s moon cloak. It shimmered every time she moved, and Hermione found herself counting the constellations stitched along the hem just to keep her gaze from straying.
Across the table, Ginny arched a brow. “Everything all right, Hermione?”
“Fine,” she replied too quickly. “Just... long week.”
Theo nudged Draco. “You’ve been awfully quiet, mate. Still emotionally recovering from your Countess Disaster?”
Draco made a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “Let’s just say I’ve been thoroughly cured of my lingering affection for heiresses with fake titles and real entitlement issues.”
“She ghosted him,” Pansy stage-whispered to Neville, who choked on his beer.
“She did not ghost me,” Draco snapped. “She got distracted by her Beauxbatons friends and never came back.”
“So... ghosted,” Ginny concluded.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. She shouldn’t find this funny. She shouldn’t. But the idea of Draco Malfoy sitting alone in an overpriced restaurant, brooding while his date vanished in a cloud of glitter and entitlement, was almost enough to make her look at him.
She didn’t.
Instead, she took another sip of her drink and leaned into the warmth of Harry’s side, ignoring the weight of Draco’s presence at the edge of her vision.
“Honestly,” she said, aiming for her usual crispness, “I don’t know why you keep bothering with dates. It always ends in you complaining about some poor woman’s laugh, or handbag, or eyebrow shape.”
“She had bedazzled eyebrows, Hermione,” Draco called down the table. “There was glitter. I almost went blind.”
“And we would’ve all mourned you terribly,” she shot back, still not looking at him.
The table erupted again. Ron nearly spit his drink, Theo let out an honest-to-Merlin cackle, and Luna clapped her hands once like it was the punchline to a riddle.
Banter carried them through the next round of drinks. Ginny dared Harry to sing Celestina’s new hit. Pansy asked if anyone else had received a particularly aggressive owl from Molly Weasley demanding attendance at Sunday dinner. Hermione even found herself genuinely laughing as Ron described a misfired prank that had left Percy pink and glittery for a week.
But even through the laughter, she could feel it—the slight, inexplicable awareness of the man at the end of the table. The way he kept not speaking over her, not interrupting, not mocking—just watching. She felt it when he leaned forward to listen, when he went still as she laughed too hard at something Theo said, when she caught the faint curl of a smile he was trying to hide.
She didn’t look at him.
Couldn’t.
Not yet.
It was only an hour later when she piped up across the hazy din of relaxed conversation.
“I think I’m going to head off,” she said, slipping her coat on. Immediately, there was a chorus of protest.
“What? It’s barely ten!” Ginny leaned forward, dramatically clutching her chest. “Hermione Granger leaving early? Alert the Prophet!”
“Has the world ended?” Ron asked, eyes wide. “Should we all be evacuating?”
“Did someone schedule a last-minute protest?” Theo added, voice mock-serious.
“She probably just wants to get home to alphabetise something,” Pansy drawled, sipping her wine. “Or catalogue her sock drawer.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, looping her scarf around her neck. “Some of us have actual work in the morning.”
“You always have work in the morning,” Harry pointed out.
“I’m tired,” she said simply, and tried to make it sound light, not like her skin was crawling with things she couldn’t name.
“I’ll walk her,” came Draco’s voice—low, quiet, firm.
The table stilled for a half-second longer than it should have. Then Theo raised an eyebrow, Ginny smirked into her drink, and Pansy tilted her head as if she’d just spotted something interesting in a shop window.
Hermione didn’t argue. She just nodded, and a moment later, they were slipping out into the chill of the night.
Outside, the cold air hit her cheeks and cleared her head slightly. She walked in silence for a few paces, the thrum of music and laughter from the pub fading behind them. Draco said nothing at first, simply matching her stride. The streetlamps cast pale pools of light on the cobblestones, stretching their shadows out ahead of them like reaching hands.
“I think I broke a bit,” she said suddenly, surprising even herself. “After everything. I thought I’d glued myself back together, but... there are cracks. And now I just fake being whole.”
Draco slowed. She felt, rather than saw, the way he turned to her.
“You’re not broken,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, but sharp as truth. “You’re healing. It’s messy, and slow, and unfairly cruel—but it’s not failure.”
Hermione stopped walking. Her breath fogged in front of her. She turned to look at him, finally—really looked.
He was standing still, watching her like she might unravel right in front of him. There was no pity in his expression. Just... understanding. Steady, quiet understanding.
It was too much. Too kind. Too honest.
She reached for his collar before she could think twice, tugged him toward her, and kissed him.
It wasn’t graceful. Their noses bumped, and her hand was trembling, and her heart was somewhere up in her throat. But Draco didn’t pull away. He leaned into her. Let her control the kiss. Let her explore.
His lips were warm, soft, and still—patient. Like he’d been waiting for this and had all the time in the world to get it right.
She pulled back after a moment, catching her breath. Her fingers slid from his coat like she’d just remembered what they were doing.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t,” he said quickly, brushing a curl from her cheek, fingers warm against her skin. “Don’t apologise for that.”
She stared at him, heart hammering.
“I didn’t plan it,” she admitted.
“I’d have been concerned if you had.” A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t look smug. Just... hopeful. “Dinner?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Come to dinner. Tomorrow night. My flat. Just us.” He stepped slightly closer, voice low. “No expectations. Just food. And maybe... more of that, if you want it.”
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “Are you seducing me with the promise of food?”
“I’m a Slytherin, Hermione. I know my strengths.”
She laughed—soft, surprised—and nodded. “Okay. Yes.”
“Seven?”
“Seven.”
He reached for her hand before she could turn to apparate. Just a brush of his fingers against hers. Just enough to ground her.
“Goodnight, Unspeakable Granger.”
“Goodnight, Unspeakable Malfoy.”
And then she was gone.
He stood there a moment longer, the ghost of her kiss still burning on his mouth.
Draco’s flat was too perfect.
Not in a sterile, uninviting way—but in a deliberately curated sort of way. Every surface gleamed softly. The table was already set with sleek dishes and charmed candles hovering above, flickering gently. Soft jazz played in the background, and the scent of roasting garlic filled the air.
Hermione stood just inside the doorway for a moment, taking it in with the wary look of someone who had walked into a trap—not a deadly one, but a social one. She suddenly felt underdressed in her black jumper dress and heeled boots, her curls threatening to frizz from the walk.
“This is... a lot,” she said finally, turning to look at him as he closed the door behind her.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “Too much?”
She tilted her head. “Well, there’s enough atmosphere in here to drown a French film director, so... maybe just a bit.”
He let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Noted. Next time I’ll light everything on fire and put on some polka.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Something about the setup—about trying—made her want to bolt. The weight of the moment pressed too heavy. Too expectant.
“I brought wine,” she said quickly, pulling the bottle from her bag like it was a shield.
Draco took it with a grateful look. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.”
He laughed again, more genuine this time, and gestured toward the table. “Dinner’s ready. Hopefully edible.”
They sat, and the food was good—rich and buttery with a hint of spice—but Hermione found herself pushing it around her plate more than eating. The conversation was stiff, polite. Too many pauses. Every compliment felt forced, every smile slightly strained.
She caught herself glancing at the clock over his fireplace. And she knew he noticed.
“You’re thinking of leaving,” he said, not accusing, just... knowing.
Hermione looked up sharply. “What? No. I—well. Maybe. A little.”
Draco dropped his fork with a clatter and leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Brilliant.”
She winced. “I’m sorry. I just—it all feels so... performative.”
“Because it is,” he said quickly. “That’s the problem. I tried too hard. I’m shit at dating, Hermione. Truly. Disastrous. But I wanted tonight to go right. I wanted to do something that showed I—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing. “I’ve waited a long time to have you in my flat. With me. Like this.”
Hermione blinked. Something shifted in her chest.
Draco stood suddenly, muttering something about pudding. “I’ll go grab dessert. It might be the only thing I didn’t ruin.”
She stayed seated, watching him vanish through a swinging door into the kitchen. A moment passed. Then: “Shit.”
She heard the thump of something hitting a counter, followed by a deep, aggravated sigh.
Curious now, she got up and padded toward the kitchen, heels clicking across the hardwood. When she stepped inside, she found Draco frowning into a small pot of scorched brown goo.
“Please tell me that’s not treacle tart,” she said, biting back a grin.
“It was. Until I forgot about it.”
“It’s smoking, Draco.”
“I know. It’s a metaphor for the night.”
She let out a small laugh and stepped forward, eyeing the fridge. “I think I can salvage this. But we’ll need to pivot. Ever made banana custard?”
He looked at her, slightly bemused. “Isn’t that a Muggle thing you force on children?”
“Yes,” she said brightly, already opening the cold box. “And it happens to be my favourite. Bananas, custard, crushed biscuits. Nostalgia and sugar in a bowl.”
She kicked off her heels and shoved up her sleeves. Draco watched her for a second too long before rolling his own sleeves back, revealing forearms Hermione refused to comment on. Out loud, at least.
They worked easily together. Draco crushed the biscuits with far too much enthusiasm—“Therapeutic,” he explained—while Hermione sliced the bananas and whipped the custard from a cold jug with a flick of her wand and some practiced charm work.
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, brushing arms every so often, laughing as she flicked custard onto his nose with her wand.
“Granger—” he warned, reaching for her wrist.
“What? You’re the one who burned pudding. This is punishment.”
“I thought this was a date.”
“Ah,” she said with a teasing smirk. “So you admit it’s a date.”
He leaned in, and suddenly his face was closer than she expected. “If this is what your childhood desserts do to you, I might have to stock up.”
She laughed—but it hitched in her throat as he stepped closer.
Hermione slid up onto the counter, tucking her bare feet beneath her and watching as he filled a bowl with their messy, improvised dessert. He handed her a spoon, then took one for himself. They ate in comfortable silence—two spoons, one bowl, warm custard melting over sweet bananas and crumbs.
She caught him looking at her again.
“What?” she asked, soft and wary.
“You’ve got some—” he reached forward and brushed a smudge of custard from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, his fingers grazing her skin.
And then he kissed her.
It was slow and certain. No hesitation this time. Just the warmth of his mouth on hers, the soft press of his hand against her hip as he leaned in.
She kissed him back—mouth opening under his, fingers curling into his shirt—and the tension that had been simmering between them for weeks, months, years ignited like a lit match.
Draco stepped closer, slotting between her knees, arms bracketing her on the counter. His tongue teased at her bottom lip, coaxing. Her hands moved instinctively—up over his chest, his shoulders, those arms—and she made a sound, half-growl, half-whimper.
He pulled back, breathless, eyes dark.
“You all right?”
And that was the moment.
The question was so gentle. So earnest. So unlike anything she’d ever been asked in moments like this.
Hermione stared at him, chest heaving, heart loud in her ears. She could lie. She could just keep going. Let the heat swallow her whole.
But she was tired of pretending.
“I haven’t—” She stopped, took a breath. “I haven’t been able to... finish. For a while. Years, actually. I don’t know why. It’s not the people, or even the acts, really. It’s me. I get in my head, and it all just... stops. It’s like my body doesn’t listen anymore.”
She expected the air to change. For his hands to drop. For the kiss to suddenly mean less.
Instead, he stepped even closer.
“Okay,” he said softly.
She blinked. “That’s it?”
He nodded. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
She exhaled, shakily, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders.
“I don’t need fixing,” she said, almost reflexively.
“I know,” he said, brushing a hand over her thigh.
She stared at him for a long moment, the words pressing at her lips before she could stop them.
“Anne says that—”
Draco raised a brow, cutting her off with a smirk. “I thought we weren’t allowed to speak about Anne.”
Hermione huffed. “Yes, well. She says that I get trapped in this cycle—performance, anxiety, disappointment. And that I’ve convinced myself it has to go a certain way, or it won’t work at all.”
He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Do you think it won’t be fun?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Do you think I believe my manhood is so fragile that I’ll shatter if you don’t?”
She gave him a flat look. “It’s not about your manhood.”
“Good,” he said simply. “Because it’s not.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already speaking again, his voice softer now, more serious. “Do you think I won’t touch you again if you don’t come?”
Silence.
Hermione’s throat tightened. Her mouth opened, closed again. Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, heart thudding in her chest.
“I can’t ruin our friendship with this if it’s not something that might last,” she said finally, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
Draco reached out and cradled her jaw, thumb stroking along the edge of her cheek.
“Hermione,” he said, and she swore she could feel the way he breathed her name. “The first time I realised I fancied you—really saw you—I was seventeen and you hexed a Slytherin prefect into the hospital wing for saying something crude about Ginny. You were terrifying. Brilliant. Entirely out of reach. And still—something inside me clicked.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I waited,” he continued, his eyes burning into hers. “Years. For you to forgive me. For you to let me near. For you to even see me. And now you’re sitting barefoot on my kitchen counter, and you taste like bananas and regret, and I swear to Merlin—if I get to touch you, just once, I will consider myself lucky for the rest of my life. Even if it goes no further than that.”
The breath left her lungs in a whoosh. She didn’t even realise she was crying until he brushed a tear from her cheek.
“You’re not going to embarrass me,” he whispered. “You’re going to wreck me.”
And then he kissed her.
This time, there was no hesitation. Just heat—raw and molten and real. His mouth moved against hers with something dangerously close to reverence. His hands slid to her hips, tugging her forward until her thighs bracketed his waist, her dress bunched up around her legs.
Hermione gasped as he kissed down the line of her throat, his stubble dragging in a way that made her toes curl. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair, tugging, anchoring.
Draco pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes. “Tell me what you like.”
She swallowed hard. “Being asked that.”
He grinned, slow and wicked, and dropped to his knees.
Her breath hitched as his hands skimmed up her calves, over her knees, pushing her dress higher. He looked up at her from between her thighs, eyes smouldering, and said, “Then let me ask you everything.”
And then his mouth was on her.
And for the first time in years, she didn’t think about how it should go, or whether she’d get there. She just felt. Every flick of his tongue, every low moan, every stuttering breath that escaped her lips as he held her open and worshipped.
Her thighs were trembling against his shoulders, breath coming in shallow gasps as Draco licked a broad stripe up her centre, then paused, looking up at her.
“Do you like that?” he asked, voice low, husky.
Hermione’s head lolled back against the cabinet. “Y-yes,” she managed.
“Too much pressure?” he asked, fingers spreading her wider. “Not enough?”
She whimpered, hips twitching. “It’s good. Gods, Draco, it’s good.”
He smiled against her. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
She gave a half-laugh, half-moan. “It’s—more. A little more.”
“Good girl.”
The words punched through her, sharp and delicious. He dragged his tongue against her clit again, this time with firmer pressure, and her back arched off the counter. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, and he moved with slow, practiced control. No rushing. Just tasting.
She reached down and threaded her fingers through his hair, grounding herself as her body sparked to life in ways she hadn’t felt in years. There was no expectation, no pressure. Just the steady build of sensation, and the sound of his breath between her legs, and his voice—constant, gentle, present.
“Tell me what’s working. Tell me what you want.”
“Draco…” she whimpered.
“Say it.”
“Your mouth. Right there. Don’t stop.”
His groan sent a ripple of pleasure through her. He circled her clit with the flat of his tongue, slow and maddening, then sucked gently until she cried out, clutching at him.
Her orgasm didn’t come.
But it didn’t matter.
Because it felt so good. And because when she pulled him up and kissed him—tasting herself on his tongue—he didn’t seem disappointed. He looked like a man on the edge of ruin, barely held together.
“Bedroom,” she said, breathless.
Draco nodded, took her hand, and led her down the hall to a dark, elegant bedroom lit only by the moonlight pouring in through the tall windows. She shimmied her dress off and stood in nothing but knickers, flushed and wild-haired and barefoot. He looked at her like she was an answer he’d been waiting for his entire life.
She reached for his belt. “Let me.”
His breath hitched as she undid it, slowly, and pushed his trousers down, her hands cool against his hot skin. When she saw him—hard and thick and heavy between them—she hesitated, just a moment.
Draco leaned in, kissed her shoulder. “What do you want?”
“I want to take control,” she whispered.
“Then take it.”
He let her push him back onto the bed, watching her every move like she was a goddess descending. She climbed over him, knees straddling his hips, hands pressed against his chest. Her heart thundered. Her thighs were still slick from his mouth.
She gripped him at the base and positioned herself slowly, sinking down inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, his head falling back. “You feel—Hermione—”
She gasped as she took him fully, her body adjusting around the stretch, the heat, the fullness of him. She paused, bracing her hands on his chest. He let her.
“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.
She nodded. “So full. So good.”
“Take your time.”
She started to move—rocking her hips gently, back and forth, finding the rhythm that worked. The pressure inside her built slowly, waves of sensation spreading outward. Draco didn’t try to thrust. He lay back and let her ride him, his hands gripping the sheets, his mouth open.
“You look incredible,” he rasped. “You’re fucking glowing, Hermione.”
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the muscles of his shoulders. She rolled her hips faster, chasing that spark, breathing hard.
“Am I doing okay?” she whispered, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them.
Draco sat up, cupped her face in both hands, and kissed her fiercely.
“You’re doing more than okay. You’re driving me insane.”
Her rhythm faltered as emotion surged again—panic, joy, fear—but Draco held her steady, murmuring to her even as she trembled in his lap.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, lips trailing over her jaw. “You’re safe. You’re so goddamn beautiful, and I’m not going anywhere.”
And then, with one smooth motion, he flipped them.
Hermione gasped as her back hit the sheets, his body covering hers, hot and heavy and real. He didn’t move yet—just pressed a kiss to her temple, her throat, her collarbone.
Then he slid a hand between them, fingers finding her clit.
She jolted.
“Too much?”
“No—don’t stop.”
He thrust into her slowly, deeply, as his fingers circled her clit with maddening care. The combination had her shaking almost instantly.
“Yes, there—oh god—”
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “Feel what your body wants. Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”
His other hand laced with hers, grounding her, anchoring her.
“You’re perfect. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Come for me, Hermione.”
And she did.
It wasn’t clean or quiet or controlled. It was raw. A sob ripped from her throat as her body clenched around him, her back arching, her breath catching on a moan that sounded like it had been buried for years.
He held her through it, fucking her through the aftershocks, his own rhythm faltering as he came with a deep, broken groan, collapsing against her, their bodies slick and trembling and tangled.
For a long moment, they lay in silence.
Then his arms came around her. He pulled her close, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “You did it.”
Tears slipped from her eyes.
He didn’t say anything more.
He just held her.
And for the first time in years, Hermione Granger didn’t feel broken at all.
The office was the same as always. Soft golden light through sheer curtains, the faint smell of lavender and parchment, and Anne’s ever-present quill hovering dutifully over a floating notebook.
Hermione sat curled up in her usual chair, one leg tucked under her, fingers curled around a mug of tea. She didn’t speak for the first few moments. She just... breathed.
Anne didn’t push. She never did.
Eventually, Hermione looked up.
“I did it,” she said, quietly.
Anne blinked, then smiled gently. “You did?”
Hermione nodded. “I mean—I didn’t do anything, really. Not consciously. I didn’t try. That’s the point, I think. I just... let it happen.”
Anne set down her own tea. “Would you like to tell me what changed?”
Hermione looked away for a moment, a smile tugging at her lips. “Draco.”
“Ah.”
There was a knowing silence, then the faint scratch of the quill as it took that in.
“He made it feel like there wasn’t anything to prove,” Hermione continued. “Like it wasn’t a test. Or a performance. He kept asking me what I liked. Let me take control. And when I didn’t get there... he didn’t make it mean anything. Just kept touching me. Kept... holding space for me.”
Anne’s smile widened. “And then?”
Hermione blushed, but didn’t look away. “And then I did. Not because I was trying. But because I finally stopped trying.”
Anne nodded, folding her hands together. “You know, Hermione... healing doesn’t always look like progress charts and neat emotional resolutions. Sometimes it looks like joy. Like giving yourself permission to feel good again.”
“I cried afterward,” Hermione admitted, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I think I scared him.”
“I doubt that.”
“I didn’t realise how much I’d been holding in my body,” she said, quieter now. “Grief. Shame. Pressure. I thought it was a me problem. A broken thing. And it turns out... it was just pain. Waiting to be understood.”
Anne didn’t respond right away. She just let the silence settle around them like a blanket. Then: “Would you say you feel safe with him?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes. Completely.”
“Then I’d say your body knew before your mind did. Trust isn’t logical. It’s felt.”
The clock chimed softly, signaling the end of the session. Hermione exhaled, standing and wrapping her coat around herself with a thoughtful expression.
“Same time next week?” Anne asked, rising to her feet.
“Absolutely,” Hermione replied with a tired but genuine smile. “I think I’ve got more to say than ever now.”
Outside, the London street was still quiet, the kind of post-rush hour calm where even the pigeons seemed to be loitering.
Hermione stepped onto the pavement, pulling her scarf up against the chill, her mind still half in the office.
She spotted him immediately.
Across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost, Draco Malfoy stood in his long coat, scarf artfully knotted around his neck, a takeaway coffee cup in each hand.
He caught her eye.
Smirked.
And winked.
Hermione blinked, startled, then grinned. He held up the cup in his right hand and mouthed, “Flat white, no sugar.”
She crossed the road toward him, trying not to look too delighted.
“You’re early,” she said as she reached him.
He handed her the coffee. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not,” she said, sipping and trying not to smile too hard.
“You are,” he said. “And I’d like to take full credit, if you don’t mind.”
She rolled her eyes but leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet, somehow, still irresistible.”
They began walking, shoulders bumping gently, the cold air curling around them but not quite getting in. Hermione looked down at her coffee, then up at him.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He looked sideways at her. “For what?”
“For not trying to fix me.”
Draco’s hand slid into hers.
“You were never broken, Granger,” he said. “Just a little out of focus.”
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.