Chapter Text
At nineteen, Hermione was still a virgin. This was not a problem. She had never given much thought to sex. Her goals were perfectly clear: to study hard and earn her place at the Ministry on her own merits.
Her marks were excellent, and there was very little she did not know. A good student, a good daughter, a good friend, a war heroine. It sounded so splendid. Who wouldn't want a curriculum vitae like that?
Her clothes were not a concern, nor were her body or her hair. Hermione was fully aware that physical attributes were not as significant as what truly mattered: her intellect. Although she had begun to be slightly self-conscious in her fourth year, she had been unable to maintain any sort of beauty routine when her focus was entirely on helping Harry hunt Horcruxes in the years that followed.
She never quite understood, however, what triggered her desire for touch herself. When she saw people kissing in the corridors, she felt a spark run up her spine. When she thought of Ron, her mind would immediately drift to the feel of him against her, and a shiver would race across her skin.
This was perfectly normal. Definitely nothing to worry about.
And that is how our story begins:
At the start of the school term, to improve the absence of problems, Harry wrote her a letter. It was enough to plant a little seed of doubt in her mind. He asked when it might be the right time to take her relationship with Ron to the next level.
Something mundane, ordinary, a friend’s concern. And in the end, she sent a letter to Ron asking him to met her in Hogsmeade the following weekend. They spent a night together, and they had their first time. The second, third, and fourth followed soon after, weekend after weekend. She didn't care to count. But Hermione kept wondering: Is this what having an orgasm feels like?
She pondered. Her mind didn't rest for a single minute.
Being penetrated, having a warm body, feeling wet... was that enough? Was that an orgasm? Ron would sweat, leaving her skin slick with it, and his face would contort. Hermione didn't feel that way; on the contrary, she would happily go to any lengths to feel her own body run as hot as Ron’s.
Hermione wondered.
What does it mean to cum?
As she browsed the library shelves, she thought if any of the books about sex magic might help her. But magic for sex? Was it really necessary? She's way better than that. Deep down, Hermione suspected that perhaps it was merely a lack of knowledge about herself and her partner.
If at any point she considered a lack of understanding of the human body to be the dilemma, she immediately dismissed it. She had breasts, she had a butt, and she has a touch. At what point would this result in what she wanted?
Had she ever actually had an orgasm?
And so, she who never used to think about sex began to touch herself quite often.
At first, she tidied her room, kept the lights low. Another day, she switched them off entirely. The next, put on some music. The day after, she thought of Ron. Perhaps with the lights on? Wearing her knickers and bra?
And what if the cold air were drifting in through the window?
She who knew everything, currently felt she knew nothing at all.
She resorted to a few books from little-known bookstores using a common pseudonym, fearful of being recognised by her own name. She thought that reading might, quite possibly, arouse her a little more. And it worked, for a few minutes. Thinking of Ron in mundane situations was pleasant. But it wasn't enough. They already did that when they met. And, naturally, nothing came of it.
She would lie on inn's bed, listening to the sounds Ron made. She would repeat them to him; a little thinner, sometimes deeper. Ron’s sweat would splash onto her face, but with her eyes closed, she longed to feel exactly what he felt. To sweat the way he did, to feel that raw desire at the sound of his voice.
Fake it until you make it.
It was one morning, while she was sitting alone at breakfast in the Great Hall, that things began to shift in her mind. Hermione was finishing her coffee when Ginny appeared at her side.
They greeted each other quickly, but Hermione found herself watching the way Ginny’s body moved with such fluidity as she chatted with the other girls. Was the problem Hermione’s own femininity? Ginny must had likely experienced this feeling many times already, right?
How could a body so firm and athletic move with such delicate subtlety? Had she, perhaps, gone through the same things Hermione was currently experiencing?
Viktor Krum had been attracted to her just as she was back in her fourth year, and Ron, too, had no issues with the way her body was shaped. Yet, the comparison continued to grow in the back of her mind.
Then Hermione asked, starting a conversation:
“Can I ask you a question?”
Ginny was pouring coffee into her cup when she paused to listen to Hermione. If it were a trivial question, Hermione wouldn’t have offered such an introduction.
But Hermione hesitated. The words had come out automatically, yet she hadn't quite figured out what to ask. She quickly thought of asking about her passion for Quidditch, about how she felt when playing or watching the matches. Would Ginny understand what she was really trying to say?
“Is it about my brother?” Ginny suggested, turning to face her.
Hermione shrugged.
“No, never.”
Ginny smiled and let out a soft laugh. She remarked that Hermione’s hesitation was quite funny, as she usually didn't beat about the bush in their conversations.
“Ginny, how did you find out that you liked what you liked?”
Ginny sat down, and Hermione clutched her cup of coffee, leaning against the table. The more she kept herself tucked away, the easier it would be to maintain the discretion of their chat.
“What do you mean? Like, why do I like the colour red?”
Hermione nearly agreed, but she realised that would only lead to an empty answer, so she reformulated. She would be more direct, more objective. Ginny would understand, as she herself had said. They had always been friends, so she would be sincere.
“Ginny, do you know when you’ve had an orgasm?” she concluded.
Hermione placed a hand on her neck, looking at Ginny with a hint of embarrassment. The redhead, on the other hand, widened her eyes in astonishment, setting her coffee down and covering her mouth with her hand. Her expression was one of disbelief, and when she finally spoke, she whispered:
“You’ve never come,” she stated.
Hermione tried to contradict Ginny. She said no, that she actually understood, but she only wanted to ask her friend if it was the same for her. But the Weasley just waved her arms in denial.
“If you had experienced it, Hermione Granger, you would know. In the same way that you can read an entire book in runes because you’ve studied enough for it. Even if there are ways to interpret it, they still converge on something in common.”
If anything had been holding back her embarrassment, it was gone now. Her face turned crimson, and she lowered her head towards the table, scratching her forehead. In truth, Hermione had been playing a bit stupid on purpose, but she felt shy regardless. There weren’t many girls left in her year that she got on with, at least, not like in the past. She had effectively returned on her own. She trusted Ginny implicitly, yet it was still mortifying to discuss these things with her future boyfriend’s sister.
Ginny swallowed her food and continued:
“I’ll tell you one thing: go out with other blokes. Forget Ron a little. Then come back and talk to me.”
“Ginny, no…”
“Get a shag, tell Ron you're confused. need a time, or try to get to know yourself for a whole month. Do yourself a favour.”
“I’ve already tried that…”
Hermione was feeling slightly frustrated by the failed attempts with Ron and with herself, so she began to stand up to head to class.
“You’re a bit embarrassed, but remember: I grew up listening to my brothers getting told off by Charlie and Bill and being called virgins. I’m at home here. I mean, I’m not calling you a virgin, but think about it: how comfortable are you when it comes to sex?”
Hermione leaned in close to Ginny to muffle the conversation.
“We’ve already tried a bit of everything, I just… it’s complicated. Why does sex always have to follow a formula? Do this, do that, feel this way…” she whispered indignantly.
“Your sex seems to have a formula, 'Mione, but that’s not how it works. Whatever you’re thinking, do it differently. Think about it: how do you get pleasure? Change something to make it work for you! Maybe Ron won’t solve this on his own if you don’t solve it yourself, like, if you’ve even talked to him about it.”
Ginny hadn’t been harsh, she had considered everything she said. She joked about the fact that Hermione had chosen the most disorienting moment possible to chat, and said they would talk again at the next girls' night.
Overall, the conversation with Ginny was exactly what she had been thinking from the start. Her own thoughts were one thing, but having someone point out a direction was another. Hermione didn’t much like being contradicted, especially when she felt she knew the subject matter, but when it was something she was searching for, perhaps having a path to follow was best. She first needed to find what made her blood run hot, and then do something about her partner.
So, the following night, which fell on a Saturday, she decided to meet Ron at the flat he had rented in Diagon Alley. She had brought her rune notes and a few books in her bag. It wasn't common to leave Hogwarts freely, but she could slip out through Hogsmeade and return without any trouble.
Ron’s bedroom was simple, much like the entire flat. It had no personality, just enough to sleep and get by. She took advantage of Ron’s absence to use the empty desk in his room to make some notes.
When Ron arrived from the Ministry, he went straight to his room to find her. When he saw her, he stepped close enough to rub her shoulders. She knew they were a bit tense from her posture and the weeks of frustration, but the touch was well received. She rested her head against his hand. Ron watched what she was writing. In his usual slightly insensitive way, he asked if she even understood what she was noting down. His face was already close to hers, close enough to trying to make sense of the written on the parchment.
“If I didn’t understand it, I wouldn’t even be able to write it, would I, Ron?!”
It sounded sharper than she intended, but she felt it worked for their relationship. It was a mix of irony, annoyance, and affection disguised as sincerity. Hermione had never been very good at communicating feelings or sensations, so she prioritised objectivity. Not exactly in her actions, but in the way the words tumbled out of her mouth.
“Are you nearly done? Can we head to bed? Today’s been too exhausting. Shacklebolt wants us to search for places where Macnair might be hiding, and it’s been a nightmare. Do you know what a ice cream parlour is? Why would he work at a place like that...”
Ron had been moaning for days about his work at the Ministry alongside Harry. They were essentially Aurors already, but they were finding it difficult to keep up with the pace. Some Death Eaters were hiding amongst Muggles in London, so they had to conduct meticulous surveillance before taking action.
Studying the environment had never been Ron’s greatest strength. Strategy, yes, but only for attack, particularly when in danger. The slowness of research and the delay in seeing results were exhausting for him.
Hermione paused for a moment. Did she want to sleep with Ron tonight? She had been the one to arrange it, mainly in the heat of the moment and due to the anxiety from her talk with Ginny, but what if she needed more time to herself? Another of those endless nights trying to come... What if tonight was different? Hermione didn’t want to go looking for someone else to sleep with. She felt comfortable with Ron, she was used to his mannerisms and habits.
Hermione thought and thought.
She switched off the desk lamp and told Ron to get into bed, saying she would be with him shortly. She stretched as she stood up. She removed her uniform slowly, thinking of the heat building in her body. She was feeling a little anxious.
In Ron’s room, there was a simple mirror. It had no excess detail. It hung on the wall, near the bedroom door. Despite being a bit clumsy, Ron cared about how he was perceived. Perhaps because of the years spent wearing hand-me-downs, or the embarrassment at the Yule Ball, he had developed the habit of checking his reflection before heading out.
Hermione was taking off her skirt when she caught her reflection in the glass. She saw the curve of her belly and the length of her legs. She removed her blouse calmly, watching the bare skin of her midriff appear as the fabric pulled over her face and left her body.
Her body was different from Ginny’s. Less athletic, less slender. She had slightly fuller breasts than her friend, and needed to wear a bra to keep them from being too prominent under her clothes. Her knickers pulled against her hips, not so tight as to be painful, just enough to accentuate the curve of her body. She had gained a little more weight before returning for the school term.
While she was staring at her reflection, Ron was lying in bed in his pyjamas. Given her delay, he asked if she would like to keep her bra and knickers on.
Hermione looked at him, and calmly climbed onto the bed just as she was, as Ron had suggested, crawling until her knees were on either side of his body. She pressed her cunt right over Ron’s cock through his trousers.
“Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?” she asked, staring at him.
“I can take them off. Don’t you want to do that for me? You’ve enjoyed unbuttoning my shirt since we started seeing each other.”
She brought her face close to Ron’s and asked:
“Why do we always have to do it this way? Have you ever thought about going down on me at the edge of the bed? Wouldn't you like it if I slid two fingers into your arse? Does it turn you on when I press into you, being a bit rough?”
Ron looked startled. His face twisted into a look of near-disbelief. He seemed to be mulling over the questions, but he clearly didn’t know quite how to react.
“Don’t you like how we do it? You always moan when we had sex... I don't really understand. Where did this come from? I know we’re new to all this, but we can take things one step at a time, right?”
Hermione pursed her lips into a smirk and gave a slight shake of her head.
“I like the way we do things, Ron, I just wanted to try different things, you know, for a change...”
Ron let out a breath, as if he were carefully considering every word he was about to say.
“I think we can leave the fingers for another time, but I can kneel. Do you want me to do that tonight?”
A shiver raced down Hermione’s spine. She wanted to try it. When Ron went down on her, it was always in bed, lying down, or he’d just touch her expecting to feel her wetness.
“Could you?”
“Yeah. I’m just a bit tall, so it might be a bit...”
Before Ron could finish, Hermione decided they should try. Hermione felt a chill in her stomach. She had loved asking for it like this. She was still in her bra and knickers, but she moved to the edge of the bed. Ron could take them off for her.
She watched Ron remove his shirt, leaving him in just his trousers. The room was dark, yet she still felt that shiver, that anxiety. And the cold sensation crept right down to her womb. She held back a smile, waiting for Ron to make a move.
Ron knelt, placed her legs over his shoulders, and looked at Hermione’s cunt. He didn't ask. He lifted Hermione’s body slightly and pulled off her knickers. He stuck his tongue out and began.
It was… good. Was it incredible? She thought so. Ron was good. He was a good boy. Did she climax? Hard to say. She felt something, or rather, she imagined she felt something, but… that was it. And he carried on, for a long, long time.
Hermione let out a series of fake moans. That way, Ron would be done with it sooner. He would use a finger and touch her the way she said she liked at the beginning of it all. And everything became more pleasurable, but it still wasn’t what Hermione was looking for. The anxiety from the start was more exciting than the act itself.
For a moment, he placed his hand on her thigh, and Hermione tugged his hair hard. He stopped to catch his breath and let out an exclamation. Hermione apologised.
“Did you come?” he asked.
“Many, many times.” She lied. “Couldn’t you tell how soaked I was?”
Ron gave a smirk and rose to kiss her, but she pulled his face back and lay down on the bed. He enjoyed this cat-and-mouse game.
When Ron took off his trousers, she asked, like a brat.
“Do you know if I even want you to shag me? You’re taking your trousers off with such confidence...”
Ron paused and asked if she didn't want him to. Hermione looked at him and nodded, without blinking. She looked at the bed and stayed impassive. Perhaps she was being too difficult. But she wanted him to act differently, too. How was she going to maintain a relationship if, from the start, she was feeling rather… dissatisfied? She began to remove her bra while listening to Ron say he didn’t really understand the situation, that she had started asking strange questions, that she was being a bit harsh.
Hermione just sighed discreetly and leaned in to kiss Ron tenderly, trying to calm his own desperation. She lay down beneath him, gently pulling him by the waist, and waited anxiously for him to start so she could get it over with and finish another night.
Fake it until you make it.
Fake it until you make it.
The following morning she had woken up feeling rather grumpy. She had barely slept all night. She couldn't stop thinking about her disillusionment, her profound lack of something she hadn't even realised she wanted until she understood it had never truly been hers easily. For a few minutes after waking, she had thought that she and Ron were similar in a way. She, for instance, was tired of waiting. Of trying and trying, and not getting anywhere.
When she eventually rolled out of bed, it was a little later than usual. She gave Ron a goodbye kiss once had finished getting dressed. He asked if she didn't want to stay until lunch, but she replied that needed to return some books to the library. She grabbed her bag and shoved the book she had retrieved back in with the others that had brought along. She forced a smile as she left the room to took the Floo and head back to Hogwarts.
It wasn't entirely a lie. She had indeed brought some books she wanted to return.
She stopped by the Great Hall briefly and gulped down some coffee. Ginny, who was on her way out, asked why she looked so tired, to which she replied that had been studying runes until late. Recalling their conversation from the day before, Ginny let out a little giggle.
At the library, she rummaged through her bag to check if that all the books were there. She walked further away from the entrance, practically towards the Restricted Section, and chose a secluded desk, tucked between two shelves with no exit on one side. The sun’s rays didn't quite reach this part of the library. It was a colder, slightly cosier space, and for the past few days, she had been studying there during the quieter hours. She knew no one would disturb her there.
She took the books out of her bag, and before sitting down, searched for a few more on the nearby shelves. She was feeling slightly restless, unable to relax, but she had managed to gather several books to be near her — and, in a way, to hide her presence.
The idea had come to her when she finally managed to fall asleep. She loved books, she loved being surrounded by them, reading, studying. And what if she could find something different here in the library: the environment as a catalyst?
It didn’t seem like such a strange idea. All in all, it was quite plausible. To be able to feel at ease in an environment that made her feel calm.
She opened a few books on the desk. One of them, which had been accompanying her, was a remnant of the batch she had bought under a pseudonym.
She left it open amidst the pile of other books. It was only for the sake of her imagination, she kept telling herself. It’s not that embarrassing, she said. If these books exist, there must be a greater reason. It’s all feminine energy, in the end.
In the book, she flipped to a page near the middle. From the others she had read, she had an intuiton of what would find. She skimmed the text and grasped the scene. A man held the door open for the main character to enter. The following scene unfolded with him pressing her against the door, lifting her face, and gripping her throat.
Hermione read this with a sense of embarrassment. It was strange to read about sex, strange to have sex. It was even stranger to be reading this in such a place. But something was building again, an urge to touch herself. Perhaps it was the man, or the woman’s attitude, yielding to everything he said. Did it not make sense? How was this different from Ron?
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She imagined Ron, his hard body, pressing her against a wall. It was strange, but it had happened a few months ago. She tried to think about it again, surely something would come of it, she was capable of that. Her body was crying out for it, for any sign, for a real sign of arousal.
She lifted her skirt slightly. She hadn’t worn the shorts she usually had underneath, just her knickers. She slid her fingers over the fabric, pressing against her lips, her clitoris. She began to feel a wetness forming. She shifted her thoughts elsewhere. Today was going to be different.
She relaxed her body, sighing slowly. Her head felt clear, and her body was slightly reclined. Her index and middle fingers pressed, tracing circles over the most sensitive area.
Ron, circling her body, gripping her hips. Her hands pressed against his chest, waiting for him to kiss her.
No, what if she kissed him? What if her body leaned forward and she grabbed him by the throat? What if it were her body pressing against Ron’s?
Hermione slipped a finger inside her knickers. From so much faking it with Ron, she had developed a habit of moaning at the slightest thing. She let out a few sounds as her fingers traced paths over her cunt, and when she shifted the power dynamic in her mind, she even felt better, more secure.
She arched her back in the chair, leaving her legs parted. Her fingers snaked over the region she found most satisfying. She could feel the fabric becoming damp.
Fake it until you make it.
Something seemed to be forming deep in her core.
Fake it until you make it.
She didn't feel dissatisfied. Touching herself, not thinking specifically of Ron, but of the power dynamic of the situation, of desire taking the place of the kiss. She let out low moans as her finger began to slide inside herself. The sensation intensified, but it wasn't quite enough, until an electric shiver raced up her spine and she felt her vision blur. Unlike what she was accustomed to regarding the time and the lighting of the room, it shouldn't have been this dark.
She adjusted her posture in the chair, and as she opened her eyes, she saw Draco Malfoy standing beside her.
She assumed it was her imagination, until saw more of his shadow cast over her.
A few seconds were enough to make her wonder if she were losing her mind. It could be a delusion, a hallucination. She barely even saw Draco Malfoy at school anymore.
The shock was enough to leave her paralysed, not knowing what to do, until Draco leaned against the desk and recited:
“I’ve been wanting you so much... Can’t you feel it by the way my hand grips your thigh?”
Hermione felt her soul leave her body. She realised the situation was so absurd that Draco Malfoy had, without a doubt, been watching her in her most intimate moment.
In an act of desperation, she quickly rose from her chair and covered the book. She was facing him, but she couldn't bring herself to look directly at his face. Her own had gone from pale to pink. If she had been trying to get her body to run hot with her own touch, Draco had managed to achieve that feeling purely with his thunderous presence. Only, it was out of sheer mortification.
“Granger, what exactly is this cheap rubbish? Did the war years cost you a few brain cells?”
“Fuck off,” she snapped, not knowing what to say.
She turned to shove the books into her bag, and with a flick of his fingers, the pile of books she had been using to shield herself vanished.
Draco stepped up beside her before she could rush off.
“What? Are you going to pretend you weren’t touching yourself in the middle of the library? Just going to ignore my existence?”
Hermione shook her head, and Draco’s body formed a barrier around her.
“And I heard a few sounds. Were those the birds singing?” Draco continued. Hermione didn't even try to look at him. All she could see was the darkness behind her closed eyes as she tried to ignore the blonde. “Cat got your tongue? Are you so frightened because you were caught wanking that all your attitude vanished?”
Hermione tried to push past him, but Draco’s frame was broad enough to move quickly and block her path without any effort at all.
“Malfoy, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to leave,” she snapped.
“I’m feeling a bit embarrassed. Should I report this afternoon's events as misconduct? Weasel would love to know his little girlfriend was caught having a wank in the library. What? Is someone not eating pussy well enough that you feel the need to relieve in public?”
Hermione let out a growl and slammed Malfoy’s body against the nearest desk. She pressed her forearm against his neck, forcing his head back against the bookshelf. She was pressed right up against him.
Malfoy braced himself against the desk with difficulty, staring into Granger’s fury-filled eyes. He let out a grunt and a sharp gasp of air.
“Wow, the kitten has claws,” he teased.
Hermione was now looking directly at Draco’s face. He wore a foolish smirk, showing only the slightest annoyance at the pressure she was exerting on his throat, hardly enough to cause him any real discomfort.
“Now I have your full attention,” he whispered.
“The kitten bites, she scratches, and you’d better stay away from me.”
Draco’s body was twisted against the desk. He tried to steady himself with one hand, and as Hermione spoke, his other hand reached up to grip the arm she had pressed against his throat.
“Don’t go sticking your nose into business that doesn't concern you.”
“Actually, your voice called me. You’re so naive, wanting to get off amidst the books, in a place where people pass by all day long. Is this a fetish? Do you enjoy public sex, Granger? Can’t Weasel manage to shag you during Ministry meetings, is that why you’re dying to get—"
Hermione pressed down harder with her forearm and heard a subtle choking sound escape Malfoy’s lips.
“Fuck you” Hermione spat.
“Such a delight,” Draco retorted, struggling for breath. “To think I might have the honour of being eaten by myself.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and pressed even harder against the blonde’s neck. She grabbed the strap of her bag with the same rigidity she used to force Draco against the desk and moved quickly to leave. What doesn't come to her mind it's that he would be fast enough to grab her by the waist and shove her back into the very spot he had been moments before. Hermione let out a short cry of surprise at being tossed aside like that.
“Take your hands off me or I’ll scream,” she threatened.
Draco’s smile never wavered. He shook his head, tsk, tsk, tsk escaping his lips. He looked her up and down. His face was flushed, and his hair, usually so tidy, was a tangled nest of strands sticking out in every direction. Draco pressed his body firmly against hers.
“And what? You would you scream, and then? I have a little secret of yours now, right on the tip of my tongue. The Golden Girl likes to have a wank in the library,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Draco’s brutish expression had softened, but his gaze remained as sharp as a hawk’s. He brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered: “Sweet little Granger is actually looking for just anyone to shag. She has no taste, no standards, it could be some moron passing by, or perhaps even a bloody Death Ea—”
She tried to break free, interrupting his threat, but his fingers tightened around her waist. Draco stopped her face from turning away by holding her chin. He lifted her face, forcing their eyes to meet once more.
Hermione’s eyes were narrowed, her face flushed, just like Draco’s. Her breathing was heavy and rapid. The corners of her eyes were prickling with tears of rage, yet deep down, her gaze betrayed a mixture of arousal and fury. They were cold, angry eyes. And seeing this, Draco’s smile only widened. His eyes themselves seemed to smile, his lips curling at the corners. The hard, brutish mask he always wore gave way to the look of a daring boy.
Before Draco could utter another word, Hermione took advantage of the space left by the hand holding her face and violently brought her hand to the blond boy's sculpted face. The sound was loud enough to shock them both. Hermione’s mouth fell open in surprise, and Draco's expression tightened as the realization hit him.
Their breathing fell into unison. It was thick, heavy, and fast.
When Draco regained his composure, his eyes firstly flickered to her, and then he movement his jaw. He bit his lip just as he turned his face fully to meet her gaze again, looking to her like a hunter. Hermione noticed the mark her hand had left on Draco’s face. The outline of her fingers was imprinted on his pale cheek, and the only reaction he could do was press their bodies closer, deepening the contact.
His grip was firm, and his expression was one of pure pleasure, with a bit of anger at the deep of his eyes. Looking down at her all he could see was a confused woman. He revelled in a situation where Hermione felt panic, unable to reconcile her feelings about everything unfolding. Her body was heating up, and her chest arched into Draco’s touch. She became so acutely aware of the weight of her clothes that she finally understood what the blond was aiming for with the lack of space between them. Their legs were intertwined, and his pelvis was pressed just above her belly. She could feel the hard extension of him pushing against her body.
To Hermione, her own face felt like a mask of panic. She was only aware of her burning hand from the slap, but then Draco spoke:
“For a so stupidly prudish girl, your smile makes me wonder what’s going on inside that head of yours.”
Hermione hadn’t realised it, but her eyebrows had arched slightly, and a shy, involuntary smile was etched onto her parted lips. When Draco pointed it out, her expression hardened once more.
“How many more secrets can I uncover about Hermione Granger?” he whispered, his gaze drifting from her face down to the hem of her skirt.
“Malfoy, please, leave… That’s enough.” She tried to sound resilient.
“I can give what you want. That’s what you craving for, isn’t it?”, he challenged.
Hermione's mind had gone blank. No sharp retorts, no sudden actions, no violent movements. The slap she had given Draco had left her dazed, as if she were the one who had received the pain.
Deep within her exhausted mind, she could hear Ginny’s voice. Maybe you need to sleep with other blokes. But her conscious self insisted it was absurd. Ron was the right person. And Draco Malfoy? Who even was Draco Malfoy after the war?
Hermione placed her hands over her face and tilted her head back, as if pleading for a quick, painless solution. She thought of the right choice, about the desperate urge to escape this situation.
“I don't come easily, Malfoy. It’ll take months to even get my cunt soaked for you”, snapped.
Acidity and sincerity were the only things left of her soul in that moment. She wanted to run away, but if she ran, knocking Draco aside in the process, he would only come after her, and the whole thing would start all over again. If she tried to erase the memory of this moment, the weight of the situation would resonate every time she tried to touch herself, and that would kill any chance she had of reaching an orgasm. To be haunted by a memory that had already ended felt far too gothic to her. She didn't care about whatever threats he had made; they were so futile, idiotic, silly. There was so much he could have said, and he had opted for the most superficial path. He was just as stupid as the situation she had created herself.
She heard Malfoy laugh, as if it were all a big joke. It was an ironic laugh, as though Hermione were playing with her own words before he even said anything.
“Want to make me come? You’ve got one shot”