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The Leaky Cauldron had changed since the war—polished up, expanded, acquired a proper wine list and a few more real ales on tap—but the scarred bar top remained the same. Hermione traced a finger along a particularly deep gouge, wondering idly which curse had caused it.
"Firewhisky, neat," she told Hannah Abbott, who smiled sympathetically and poured with a generous hand.
"Rough day?"
"Rough month." Hermione didn't elaborate. She didn't need to explain that Ron had finally done it. Had moved his things out of their flat, took his mother's side in yet another argument, and apparated away with that maddeningly passive look on his face. Twenty years of history, gone. She should feel devastated. Instead, she just felt... tired.
The stool beside her scraped against the floor.
"Well, if it isn't Granger. Looking thoroughly miserable, I see."
She didn't need to look up to recognise that drawl. "Malfoy. Lovely. Just what I need."
Draco Malfoy slid onto the stool beside her, his expensive robes making her jeans and jumper look positively shabby. Silver-blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and those grey eyes that had always seen too much. He'd aged unfairly well.
"Hannah, I'll have what she's having. And whatever she's having next."
"I can buy my own drinks," Hermione said flatly.
"Never said you couldn't." He accepted his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "But you look like you need several more, and I'm feeling charitable."
"Since when are you charitable?"
"Since I saw you sitting here looking like someone kicked your Kneazle." He sipped his drink, studying her. "Let me guess. Weasley finally did something idiotic enough that even your enormous capacity for forgiveness ran out?"
She should hex him. She should leave. Instead, she laughed, sharp and bitter. "That obvious?"
"You have a tell. That little crease between your eyebrows when you're trying not to cry." His voice softened, just slightly. "It's been there since fourth year, Granger."
She felt the crescent edges of her nails pushing against her palm. "I'm not going to cry."
"Good. He's not worth it." Draco leaned back, all studied nonchalance. "I never understood what you saw in him anyway."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Enlighten me, then."
She turned to face him properly, firewhisky loosening her tongue. "He was safe. Familiar. He knew me when I had frizzy hair and buckteeth and still thought I was brilliant."
"You still have frizzy hair," Draco said, but his eyes had gone dark. "And you're still brilliant. If Weasley couldn't appreciate that, he's more of an idiot than I thought."
The sincerity in his voice caught her off-guard. "Are you... trying to cheer me up, Malfoy?"
"Is it working?"
"I'm not sure yet."
They fell into an easy rhythm after that, trading barbs like old times, but with an edge that hadn't been there before. Adult edge. Awareness edge. Hermione noticed things she'd deliberately ignored for years: the way his hands moved when he talked, long fingers elegant even wrapped around a glass. The way his gaze lingered on her mouth when she smiled. The way he leaned closer with each drink, until she could smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that made her want to lean closer too.
"I had a crush on you," he said suddenly, somewhere around drink four. "At school."
She blinked. "No, you didn't."
"Did. Still do, actually." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was discussing the weather. "Thought you should know."
"Last orders, loves!" Hannah called cheerfully from behind the bar, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Hermione and Draco both ignored her.
The pub had emptied around them. Hannah stepped away to start casting cleaning charms at tables.
"You called me a Mudblood," Hermione said, but her voice had gone breathy.
"I was a traumatised child raised by Death Eaters." His jaw tightened. "I've spent twenty years trying to be better than the boy I was. Let me be better, Granger."
She should go home. Should sober up, process her breakup, be sensible. Instead, she met his eyes and found naked want there, want that probably mirrored her own.
"Your place or mine?"
His smile widened as he took her hand. "Mine."
They barely made it through his front door.
Draco's flat was all dark wood and moody lighting, expensive and masculine, but Hermione didn't get much chance to look. His mouth was hot on hers, demanding, tasting of firewhisky and teeth nipping against her lower lip. She gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, backing her against the wall with his body.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her throat, tongue teasing her pulse point. "Tell me this is a terrible idea."
"It's a terrible idea," she breathed, then yanked his head back to her mouth in order to kiss him harder.
He groaned low in his throat and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, fingers threading through his hair, messing it up properly. He felt solid against her, lean muscle, desire barely controlled.
"Bedroom?" she managed.
"Too far."
The sofa then, soft leather against her back as he laid her down, covering her body with his. His fingers sliding under her jumper, mapping skin with urgency. His shirt buttons frustrated her when they didn't cooperate fast enough.
"Vanish it," she demanded.
"Impatient, Granger?"
"Yes."
His laugh was dark and delighted. Magic sparked, clothes disappearing, a warming charm snapping into place around them. And then it was just skin on skin, her hands exploring the planes of his chest, his mouth trailing fire down her throat.
"I've imagined this," he confessed against her collarbone. "So many times."
"Show me." She arched into him. "Show me what you imagined."
His eyes went molten silver. "Everything, Granger. I imagined everything."
He started slow, so maddeningly slow, his mouth trailing kisses and licks down her throat, teeth and lips teasing her pulse point until she gasped. His hands mapped her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts with deliberate lightness that made her squirm.
"Patience," he murmured against her skin.
"I don't want patience." She pulled his hair, forcing him up to look at her. "I want you."
With that his mouth crashed into hers, any pretence of control evaporating. He kissed her like he was drowning and she was air—desperate perfection, all-consuming. His hand slid up her thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hitched her leg higher around his waist.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded, lips against her ear. "Use your words, Hermione."
The sound of her name in that voice, a voice rough with need, sent heat pooling low in her belly. "Touch me. Everywhere."
"Where?" He stilled, teasing. "Here?" Hand tracing the curve of her hip. "Or here?" Higher, achingly close but not close enough.
"Draco—" It came out as a plea.
"Ask nicely, Golden Girl."
"Please."
His smile was wicked and dark. "Better."
Then his hand was exactly where she needed it, and coherent thought became impossible. He watched her face intensely, grey eyes tracking every reaction, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her dig her nails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"You're gorgeous like this," he breathed. "Beautiful. I've dreamed about it—about making you fall apart. Making you come on my fingers."
Words became impossible, feeling was all that remained: his hands, his mouth, the solid weight of him against her. The pleasure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last until she was shaking, whimpering his name like an incantation.
"That's it," he coaxed, voice like sin. "Let go. I've got you."
When she shattered, it was with his name on her lips and his eyes locked on hers, watching her with something like reverence on his aristocratic features, like he wanted to etch this into his memory.
She'd barely caught her breath before she was pushing at his shoulders, reversing their positions with a burst of strength that made him laugh, surprised and delighted.
"My turn," she said, straddling him. His hardness pressed against her and he groaned.
"Merlin, yes."
She took her time, mapping the planes of his chest, feeling his pulse race beneath her fingertips, the ridges of his abdomen, following the trail of pale hair that disappeared below his waistband. He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, breathing hard, jaw clenched with the effort of staying still.
"You're thinking too much," she observed, nails scraping lightly over his ribs.
She could feel him hard beneath her, straining, and she rocked her hips experimentally. He hissed through his teeth, hands flying to grip her thighs.
"I'm trying not to embarrass myself," he admitted roughly. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
Leaning down, she brushed her lips against his ear. "Then stop waiting."
He flipped them again with fluid strength, settling between her thighs as they looked at each other, panting breaths between them. Hermione saw the man who'd known her for years, now looking at her like she hung the moon.
"Last chance to change your mind," he said, hands gentle as they framed her face.
She pulled him down into a kiss that was answer enough. "Don't you dare stop now, Malfoy."
He entered her torturously slow, giving her time to adjust, to breathe, to feel every inch. Overwhelming. Perfect. She gasped at the stretch, nails biting into his shoulders. Almost too much. But she wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper still, and he groaned into her neck.
"Fuck, Hermione—"
Then he was moving, finding a rhythm that made her see stars. Each thrust drove deeper, harder, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. Hands tangled in her hair, gripped her hip, slid between them to touch her exactly right.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze and the intensity there nearly undid her.
"You feel incredible," he gasped. "Better than anything I imagined."
Pleasure spiralled tighter with each movement. He adjusted the angle and she cried out, nails raking down his back.
"There? Right there?"
"Yes—don't stop—"
"Never." His rhythm almost punishing, chasing both their releases. "Come for me again. I want to feel it."
His commanding voice, the feeling of him inside her, the friction where their bodies joined—everything crashed over her in a devastating wave. She came apart with a broken sob, clenching around him, and he followed seconds later, her name a holy curse on his lips as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, and she felt the warmth of his release.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, skin slicked with sweat. His weight pinned her to the sofa in the best possible way.
"Bloody hell," he finally managed.
"Yeah," she agreed, voice hoarse.
He lifted his head, pushing sweat damp hair from her face with surprising tenderness. "That was..."
"Worth the twenty-year wait?"
A genuine smile, nothing like the smirk she remembered from school. "Better. Though I'm hoping we don't have to wait another twenty years for round two."
She laughed, breathless. "Give me ten minutes."
"Five."
"Ambitious, Malfoy."
"For you? Always."
He proved it, taking her against the wall on the way to his bedroom, then again in his shower before they finally collapsed in his bed, exhausted and sated.
Hours later, tangled in his sheets, Hermione felt more alive than she had in years. Draco traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, silver light from the window painting them both in shades of grey.
"Stay," he said quietly.
"I should go."
"I know." His arm tightened around her. "Stay anyway."
She thought about her empty flat, her empty bed, the empty space where her relationship used to be. Then she thought about the way Draco had looked at her like she was something precious and powerful and exactly enough.
"Just tonight," she said.
"We'll start with tonight," he agreed, and pulled her closer.
When she woke the next morning to coffee and fresh pastries, his grey eyes warm over the rim of his cup, Hermione suspected 'just tonight' had been a beautiful lie they'd both wanted to believe.