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Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Hermione took her time pouring cold cream into her Earl Grey tea. Her gaze followed the steam as it rose from the crimson mug, curling like crooked fingers under her chin. She lowered her eyelids, breathed in deep, letting the thick, velvet smell of bergamot and cardamom wash over her. She slid her palms around the cup, the hot ceramic radiating like coals on a winter night.
Yes. This was what Hermione needed. A milky tea, hot and sweet, while barefoot in her kitchen before work. A moment’s respite. The quiet moment by the stream before plunging into the field of battle. The field being the Ministry and the battle being a certain, infuriating someone with the most incensing smirk--
No. This was her moment of peace, she would not let him ruin this too.
Hermione’s wand began to vibrate against the counter, indicating her morning alarm. She groaned, setting the mug down. Crookshanks sauntered into the kitchen, bottle-brush tail flicking judgmentally. Despite being ancient, he was still a savvy and sassy thing, and his yellowed, Kneazle-wise eyes were clearly telling her to get a move on.
“I’m well aware of the time, Crooks. I’ll have you know I have not been late once to work,” Hermione sniffed indignantly. Crookshanks lifted his eyes to Hermione’s face, giving a wheezy (but still bossy!) mewl.
“Because I need to take more time for me, I really need…” Hermione trailed off, her head falling into her hand. “I really need a win, Crooks.”
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This was a good first step!
Hermione surveyed herself in the mirror, turning to the side, admiring her silhouette.
She was wearing a sleek, ivory blouse buttoned up in the front. The collar was fashionably large, the neckline modest but still wide enough to give a healthy glimpse of collarbone. She tucked the blouse into a steel-colored pencil skirt. It was professional, but hugged her curves, her waist nipping in, her breasts and hips blossoming into elegant arcs. She looked....
“Sexy,” Hermione murmured to her reflection, the corner of her mouth wry. “Yes, I need this too,” she said.
At thirty-three, she obviously wasn’t qualifying for senior discounts any time soon. By all accounts she was still a youth! And she was grateful for the spryness of her body, the way she could still win during practice duels against younger Auror recruits at work. She was considered one of their highest ranked duelists, in fact.
But then there was the way, after practice sessions, the new Hogwarts graduates talked, how after a full day’s work, they could club all night at Diagon Alley, guzzle firewhiskey and butterbeer until dawn and still seem fresh-faced and blithe in the morning.
Then there was that group of new hires, the ones Hermione was certain were all part Veela.
She actually liked them very much. They were whip-smart and good at their jobs. She knew it wasn’t their fault, the way it made her stomach clench when the men--ugh, boys, really--muscled past Hermione, practically sending her into a wall, just so they could pull a chair out for one of them.
The truth was, Hermione honestly, absolutely wanted no part of any of it.
She loved few things more than her fireplace-warmed armchair and the magically refilling tea cup she kept on the adjacent side table. Swimming in a soft, Molly Weasley-knitted jumper, feet tucked under her, on her 100th read-through of Hogwarts, A History: this was her ideal Saturday night.
Shockingly loud music with basslines that rattled your bones, pressed unwillingly against endless droves of moist, drunken bodies, spending galleons and galleons to drink, essentially, poison so you can lose all sense of intelligence and get uncontrollably ill...please, she’d rather tromp off to Azkaban.
And yet.
Lately, buried beneath that sea of disdain, she felt something, a tiny pearl of...uncertainty? There was something about her club-going cohorts that reminded her that it had been a very long time since she had felt that clench below her belly button. The slow pull of a smile as you lock eyes with a very good looking person and you wonder...maybe they find you just as appealing?
Or, at the very least, it had been a very long time since she had looked in the mirror and thought, Yes...yes, you are a woman who deserves this. You deserve to feel sexy and to be sexed.
Maybe it had just been too long.
It had been a couple of years at least since her last liaison with a man.
Viktor Krum had been in town for a Quidditch press junket, and he’d owled her. After taking her to an entirely too-fancy French restaurant, he’d suggested a night-cap, one that Hermione had more than happily accepted. She’d pressed him against his hotel door, cupping his face in her hands, her hips moving in earnest against his groin.
“Nerida’s tits, Hermione,” Viktor had gasped against her ear. “I vill come in my pants right now if ve don’t slow down.”
Hermione had loved that, loved how hard he was, loved how she could feel the iron ridge of his length against her. There, with this world-famous, beautiful Quidditch star whimpering desperately for her against the door, she had felt like a goddess. Resplendent, powerful, and unapologetic of the neediness thrumming through her. She was hungry, and in that moment, she felt like all men on this Earth would have died to pluck fruit for her lips.
That. That. That was what she was missing. When was the last time she had looked in the mirror and seen anything but a mild distaste?
Enough.
She deserved better than that.
Hermione snapped back to the present. She ran her hands down the sides of her body, loving the way the skirt left a smooth, sensual line from waist to thigh. She left her shiny, brown curls loose today, falling past her shoulders, to the middle of her back. Hermione met her amber eyes in the mirror and smiled.
This outfit was quite a departure from her typical garb. For years, her uniform was always a tight bun and shapeless, black pants suits. There was absolutely nothing wrong with formless pants suits nor the color black, of course. Her sole focus had been her job, her dedication to her work. After all, she didn’t owe beauty to anyone.
But she did owe herself.
Hermione owed herself a reminder that she was a woman with wants, and she was allowed to feel how she felt and want what she wanted.
And some-fucking-times, a girl just wants to fucking feel herself.
And today, Hermione wanted just that, to feel herself, which meant:
“No knickers.” Hermione whispered to herself, grinning at her reflection.
Yes ma’am, she thought. Wizards, hear this lioness roar. No one can say no to me today.
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"No," Kingsley said, after Hermione presented her proposal.
The presentation had been flawless. She’d prepped meticulously for over a month. It was a proposal for the aggressive conservation of twenty seven different species of magical beasts. Sure, the plan required a significant re-allocation of resources and galleons. And, yes, truth be told, there were hundreds of magical beasts that were on the brink of extinction.
But she had done the math! She had pulled her hair at the roots, trying to find a way to fit more species to save in her plan, but already she was pushing her luck for the amount of resources required.
The Ministry had exhausted much of what it had to rebuild the Wizarding world after the war. Even a decade and a half later, the coffers were more bare than Kingsley would have preferred. Hermione knew it would be too much to ask for the hundreds of magical creatures great and small to be saved: so she had settled for thirty-seven.
And yet, it was still too much to ask.
Kingsley was kind with his rejection, the regret in his eyes. Not that it had helped.
And then, to make matters worse, to add salt in the wound, Kingsley had brought up his name.
“You know, Miss Granger,” Kingsley said, after having already declined her proposal. “When I read the abstract you submitted, I wasn’t sure, so I preemptively consulted with a few of my advisors.” He cleared his throat. “I unfortunately had to listen to one of our newest Advisors of Commerce--”
Hermione felt an icy realization trickle down her spine. There had been a new hire in the Ministry Department of Commerce a few months ago.
She had miraculously been able to evade any real conversation with him, but somehow, he was always managing to ruin her day. All she had to do was get a glimpse of his idiotic blonde head, or meet the condescending steel trap of his eyes, and her mood was soured for hours.
But maybe it wasn't him the Minister was talking about--
“Mr. Malfoy made some undeniable points--”
“Bollocks,” Hermione spewed the word before she realized what she’d said.
Kingsley frowned, eyebrows a disapproving line across his forehead. “Hermione...I am still your Minister.”
“Sorry. Bollocks, sir.”
Kingsley rolled his eyes. “Have you even exchanged one word with Mr. Malfoy since he was hired? Hermione, I get it. But it’s been fifteen years. He’s...different. In fact--”
“Minister, I believe I have already taken too much of your time,” Hermione said brusquely. She did an absurd little bow at which Kingsley raised his eyebrow.
“If you say so, Miss Granger," he sighed. "If you happen to re-tool your plan to somehow accommodate the Ministry’s current budget and labor quota, please come back and see me,” Kingsley said, not unkindly.
Hermione nodded and whirled towards the door, fighting the urge to slam it.
Fucking Malfoy.
How? How did he manage to take up so much space in her life when they hadn't spoken to each other since they were seventeen?
She’d seen him, sure. Hard to miss him, he’d gotten so tall.
First time she’d actually seen him, he was in the hallway, just outside the lift. He was chatting with one of The Veelas, a hand in his pocket, his head tilted to the side, smiling as his silver-blonde hair fell artfully over his forehead.
Hermione had frozen, staring at this man, looking for the sneering ferret who had once made her life miserable. She stared and stared, increasingly perturbed as she somehow failed to see anything familiar in that handsome face, as she actively did not think of how well he was filling out his sleek-cut suit.
He must have felt the weight of her eyes because his snapped to her face.
Malfoy’s mouth fell open, the flirty look he’d been sporting, vanished. His gaze was grey and open, his eyebrows creased for half a second. Something indiscernible flitted across his face for a heartbeat, before a cocky smirk wiped away any trace of uncertainty.
There’s the bastard I know, Hermione thought.
Malfoy had then, eyes still locked with Hermione's, leaned close to the beautiful red-head, whispering. She giggled, her gaze flashing quickly at Hermione, then back at Malfoy’s.
Nope. Malfoy could go fuck a troll’s club.
Faster than a Firebolt, Hermione had whipped around, marching to take the stairs.
Ever since that moment, it felt like Malfoy was always just there. Even when he wasn’t. Coworkers talked about him (and didn’t hate him, she was disappointed to discover). Chatting with other Ministry workers in the hallway, sitting several seats down from her at Kingsley's meetings, tapping his chin as he pondered the tea selection in the Ministry cafeteria...He was a constant, blonde, blot in her periphery.
Hermione ignored him, and, to her relief, he seemed to ignore her too.
Maybe ignore was the wrong word, because despite her best efforts, she couldn't seem to shake her...awareness of him.
Hermione would try and catch him staring, but his eyes were never trained on hers when she’d glance over at him. And of course, as soon as she’d take a moment to survey his current outfit, trace the lines of his infuriatingly symmetrical face, his silver gaze would slide to hers.
Hermione would recoil, curse herself for getting caught. She hated that he might get the wrong idea, might think she was, Gods forbid, admiring him or something, the way every other bloody girl seemed to be. Please. She’d snog Buckbeak before even shaking hands with Malfoy.
But the thing she hated the most was, perhaps, how she felt in his presence. How she’d smooth her pants or try to straighten her jacket if she saw him walk in. She’d catch herself doing it, stop, then, say, run a hand through her hair, wishing she’d plaited it instead of throwing it into a bun. Whenever Hermione happened to walk by him in a hallway, she would keep her eyes militantly forward, refusing to glance his way. But then as she would breeze by, she would wonder if he could pick out the jasmine and vanilla of her scent, if he liked it.
This is what she wanted to take back.
She fucking loved smelling like jasmine and vanilla. That’s all that mattered. Didn't matter what anyone else thought. Period.
Godsdamned it, Hermione was taking her power back.
Sure, this thing with Kingsley was a little bit of a setback. But she’d overcome obstacles before. This was nothing to Gryffindor’s Golden Girl, the Brightest Witch of her Age!
These were her bolstering thoughts as she stood in the Ministry bathroom, having splashed cold water on her neck.
“I am a glorious, brilliant, goddess.” Hermione deadpanned at her reflection.
“That’s the spirit, dearie!” Her reflection smiled back at her from the mirror, applauding.
“I have the wisdom of an ancient monkey and the graceful youth of an adolescent swan.” Hermione continued, her arms braced against the sink.
“Maybe let’s dial it back a bit,” Her reflection grimaced.
“I can do hard things, and fuck Draco Malfoy,” Hermione growled, her knuckles white from gripping the porcelain edge.
“Ooh, yes, please!” Her reflection’s eyes lit up as she began to fan herself.
Hermione recoiled in disgust. “Not in a million years,” she said, glaring at her reflection, turning away from the mirror.
“Hmph.” Her reflection sniffed.
Still, Hermione couldn’t help but think, as she caught a look at her smooth backside in the mirror. I at least looked damned good.
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She was not the only one to think so.
This might have been a more pleasant thing if Zacharias Smith had not been the one to intercept her on the way to get a cup of tea from the Ministry Cafeteria.
“Lunch, Hermione?” He’d said with a toothy grin. “I canceled my other lunch date for the chance to get to know you better.”
“That was rude of you, Smith.” Hermione said. "And honestly, you should take any dates when you can manage them."
“Well, truth is," he sailed with a smooth oblivion past the insult, "You’re just looking too good today for me to not take that chance. Whaddya say, ‘Mione? You’re on your way to the cafeteria now, anyway, right?” Zacharias was now leaning over her, his eyebrows raised, grin widening.
“Nope.” Hermione said, popping the “p” adamantly. “I was...going to the library, actually. Yup. And so, no lunch. Not today. And probably--probably not ever, actually, Smith.”
“Okay, that’s fine, it's a rain check,” Zacharias said, the blustering idiot still smiling.
Hermione did an about-face and began to walk in the other direction, towards the Ministry library.
“No, no rain check. Just, no lunch. Ever.” Hermione called over her shoulder as she strode away.
“Okay, okay, yes I hear you!” Zacharias replied, in a tone that clearly said he did not.
Her fists clenched, she pounded down the hallway, ugly, molten frustration bubbling inside her chest.
She knew where she had to go. There was only one place in the Ministry that could give her the reprieve she desperately needed right now. It was her secret spot, and it would be exactly what she needed.
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No. Why. Why?
Why was he here? How was he here?
This was the fifth floor of the Ministry Library! No one ever came up here. Ever. In the whole five years she’d been at the Ministry, this had been her spot.
The books up here smelled the best, the ancient parchment and yellowed scrolls. Then there were the arched windows that overlooked the Thames, the large fireplace that was somehow always lit. Her favorite of all was the giant, Medieval tapestry of Hippogriffs that spanned a huge section of wall under the windows.
Even if Hermione would have been willing to share the space, there was only the one chair.
Her chair at this point, no question. It was large, overstuffed, roomy. She’d taken many a nap in that chair, curled up like a cat. It was devastatingly comfortable, surely imbued by magic of some sort, and she had never known anyone else to sit in it.
Hermione had never known anyone else to ever be up in this section, in fact, until now.
Draco fucking Malfoy was standing at one of the nearby book shelves, enraptured by a copy of Conserving the Chimaera. He was humming while reading, head bent forward, locks of blonde hair hanging above weathered pages.
Did he always have to look like he was going to a fucking gala? He was wearing a crisp, white button-front shirt, freshly elf-ironed, she was sure, with the sleeves pushed back up to the elbows. The top button was undone, and she wondered idly if he had been wearing a tie. The shirt was tucked into impeccably tailored black trousers, slim fit enough that she could see the shape of his thighs.
Get a grip, Hermione, she thought dizzily.
Malfoy then turned, and he began to meander idly towards the direction of her chair.
She made a strangled, angry noise. His head snapped up suddenly, wide eyes meeting hers with surprise. Malfoy closed the book, absentmindedly setting it down on a nearby shelf. (Wrong section! Further blasphemy! Hermione thought.). Then his eyes slid over to the single chair.
Hermione growled. She hadn't meant to, but this man was practically de-evolving her.
Malfoy raised his eyebrows at Hermione, understanding dawning in his slate-colored gaze.
Then, holding Hermione’s glare, he smirked. Then began walking purposefully towards the chair.
No.
Not today. Not fucking today. And certainly, certainly, certainly:
Not. Malfoy.
Hermione knew this was one of the most absurd things any adult had ever done. She knew she had not fought for a chair since primary school, since it had been part of a Muggle game, Musical Chairs.
And still, she ran.
In an impressive piece of wandless magic, she quickly transfigured her tight, form fitting pencil skirt into a more flowy, easier-to-run-in article.
Legs freed to stride as wide as needed, she was able to go faster.
Malfoy had been closer, though, and his legs were so long (Has he always been this bloody tall? Hermione thought angrily), but failure was not an option to Hermione.
She pushed herself, and they arrived at the chair at the same time.
“I win!” Hermione exclaimed while diving into the chair, only to land squarely on Draco Malfoy’s lap.
He had slid gracefully into the chair right as she’d done her final stride, and now, as if they did this every day, she was sitting on Malfoy’s lap with her legs clenched tightly together, her body perpendicular to his.
“You would ride side saddle, Granger.” Malfoy said in a low voice, raising an eyebrow at the position of her legs.
The way he said it, the way his eyes flicked from the seam of her thighs up to pierce her gaze, made something hot and liquid bloom behind her belly button.
Absolutely not. This was not happening. She shook herself then glared at him.
“Malfoy, you absolute, fucking dung heap, this is my chair. I saw it first. Get. Out.” Hermione snarled.
“Granger, as these are, unfortunately, the first words we have spoken to each other in almost fifteen years, I’m going to try to rise above. Yes, in fact, I wanted to offer you congratulations.” Malfoy spoke in soothing tones.
Hermione fought the urge to stomp on his foot.
How was he so calm? It was incensing. In their position, she could see his face out of the periphery of her vision. They were so close, she didn’t dare turn her head. Just a little swivel to the left, and she’d be centimeters from touching noses with him.
And that was just what was going on up top.
Hermione was on his lap. Hermione Granger was in a very flowy, newly-transfigured skirt and nothing else on Draco Malfoy’s lap. She could feel the firm planes of his thighs pressing into the soft globes of her arse. Just a couple of thin pieces of cloth between his legs and her…
She clenched her thighs tighter together.
Hermione should go. This was stupid. It was a chair, not her chair. No good could come with every minute that she remained in Draco fucking Malfoy’s lap. Especially if he got the wrong idea. The last thing she needed was for him to think she liked being in his lap.
That thought tasted like pennies in her mouth.
She leaned forward to get up, but then Malfoy continued.
“Yes, on behalf of five-year-olds in Year One everywhere, congratulations, Granger, on a remarkable race. Pity it was a tie, of course. Technically I won as I am very much seated in the chair, but I don’t mind sharing the gold medal. We’d have the awards ceremonies now, but, well, you see, it’s nap time. So you’ll have to wait for the other five-year-olds to wake up.” Malfoy then gave Hermione his most whole-hearted smirk yet.
No fucking way she was letting him have the chair now.
“You know what your problem is, Malfoy?” Hermione hissed, pressing down on his legs insistently. “You believe everyone thinks you’re so clever and smooth and charming--”
“Sort of sounds like you think so, Granger,” Malfoy practically purred, his smirk widening.
She growled, turning to face him, their noses now centimeters apart.
“But you couldn’t be more wrong,” Hermione said, her voice carrying, breaths coming fast and hot. “Everyone thinks you’re an arrogant, self-centered, pathetic asshole who buys his friends, lovers, and position. You’re a talentless, in-bred rich boy whose only merit is his money!” Her last words echoed in the library, followed by a thick silence, suddenly leaving her feeling hollow.
She expected Malfoy to laugh in her face. Curse her.
Instead, the smirk vanished. There was a flash of pain in his eyes that startled Hermione. Before she could decide if she’d imagined it, his gaze turned icy. Revealing nothing, his silver eyes leveled with hers.
They sat there, the only break in silence their breaths, close enough to each other to share the same air.
“Self-centered, am I?” Malfoy began slowly, voice cold. “Did it ever occur to you, Granger, that I don’t want you on my lap? Hmm? You seem to think I’d be just fine with you just camping out on my thighs.”
Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm. She could deal with Draco Malfoy’s legs. But somehow Draco Malfoy’s thighs made her body feel awkward and unmanageable.
“News flash, Granger,” Malfoy said, lips curling into a snarl, “You’re an insufferable know-it-all, and not everyone wants to lick your boots. And I, in fact, want you off, Granger.” Malfoy was suddenly grasping both her knees, moving to nudge her from his lap.
Heat bloomed out right from where Malfoy was touching her, like a warm, honey river that ran straight from the tops of her kneecaps to the apex of her thighs. Unconsciously, she rubbed her legs together, and to her nightmare, somehow, the start of a low moan caught in her throat.
Oh Gods, no. There's no way he had heard that, right? He hadn't felt the way she'd pressed and moved her thighs against one another on urgent instinct, right?
But she felt Malfoy suddenly stiffen. She was right on top of him how couldn't he have noticed? His eyes snapped to hers, searching and unreadable.
Hermione opened her mouth to find some explanation--any explanation--when two male voices, growing louder and louder, caused her to freeze.
“--believe that we have to inventory every bloody book on this floor,” Zacharias Smith whined. “Hey, maybe Granger’ll be around!” He said, perking up.
Hermione groaned low and long. “Is it the Arsehole Convention up here or something?” She hissed.
“Really, Granger?” Malfoy, snapped out of his trance, raised an eyebrow at her. “That’s the best you could come up with?”
Hermione would have loved to scathingly retort, but the voices were already closer. She was panicking. There was really only one way to avoid the vile Zacharias. And if she could do it while still not conceding any ground to Malfoy, the better for it!
However, it did mean giving away one of her best kept secrets of the fifth floor.
“There’s a secret alcove hidden behind that Hippogriff tapestry,” Hermione sighed quietly, pointing directly behind Malfoy’s head.
Malfoy turned to regard it, then faced Hermione, shrugging.
“And?” He said obnoxiously.
“And I’m telling you so you don’t yell in surprise when I do this,” Hermione said before turning quickly to straddle Malfoy, his mouth falling open, eyes wide in shock. Leaning over him, she pulled her wand out of her sleeve, wordlessly casting two charms in quick succession: a mild Wingardium Leviosa to make the chair light as air, and a propellant spell to shoot them, Malfoy, chair, and all, into the alcove. They burst through the tapestry, the chair and its occupants coming to a halt, safely obscured by the woven material.
Despite Hermione’s warning, Malfoy gave a strangled yelp.
“Quiet, they’ll hear,” Hermione said in a desperate whisper.
Without thinking, she clapped both of her hands over Malfoy’s mouth.
Hermione felt the gasp against her palm, her eyes snapping to Malfoy’s. His silver gaze was molten, hot with anger and something else she was too nervous to place. She both felt and saw his hard swallow, saw the stiffness take up in his limbs like a traveling rictus, starting from the hard set of his shoulders down to the white knuckles of his fists.
Hermione felt her blood grow hot as awareness began to light up her limbs. All too keenly, she felt the way her hands were pressed feverishly against Draco Malfoy’s mouth, her forearms leaning into his torso. Her legs may have been framing his, but she was still on her knees, her shins sinking into the plush cushion. Thighs quivering from nervous effort, she was still hovering above him by at least four inches.
“Did’ya hear something?” Zacharias’s voice came from right outside the tapestry. They had moved just in time.
“I think you’re hearing things, Mate,” came the reply. Terry Boot, Hermione thought, recognizing the voice.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Zacharias said.
Hermione sagged with relief. She felt her body grow heavy, tired after the burst of panic.
Without thinking, she slumped into Malfoy. Her knees giving, she sank onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips.
Hermione felt Malfoy’s groan against her palm, the vibrations in his chest. There was a brief, thrilling hope in her belly, but before she could chastise herself (or question where the fuck it had come from) she lifted her head and was met with Malfoy’s unmistakable glare.
Ah, right. It was a groan of frustration, then.
“So...you were saying about you and Granger?” Terry Boot’s voice broke through Hermione’s thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah, we've got a lunch date set up...sometime in the near future...” Zacharias’s voice could not have been more smarmy.
Hermione grit her teeth, her body becoming rigid with rage.
Malfoy peered at her searchingly. Eyes narrowed, he seemed to be watching her very closely. Did he actually believe she’d ever date that idiotic--as if she’d ever!
Hermione’s fingers flexed against Malfoy’s mouth and she leaned forward, her lips grazing his ear.
“Don't fucking, believe it, Malfoy,” she whispered, hunched against him. She tried not to think about why it mattered so much that he knew the truth. Malfoy shuddered against her as she spoke, her breath puffing hot in his ear.
When she leaned back from him, she saw that the tension around Malfoy’s eyes had relaxed.
“Wait, so you aren’t going out with her?” Terry Boot’s deadpan brought Hermione back to the continuing conversation.
“It's just a matter of time,” Zacharias said loftily.
Circe, she wanted to hex the balls off of him.
“I dunno, mate, seems sort of a lost cause," Terry said flatly. Hermione felt a surge of gratitude for Terry.
“Whatever,” Zacharias scoffed. “You’ll see. The true lost cause is your tiny prick!”
“Very fucking mature, mate,” Terry sounded thoroughly put out. “The actual lost cause is inventorying every fucking book here.” He shook his head. “C’mon, let’s go to the ‘A’s.”
Oh thank Merlin. The A-Section would take them several rows down. They wouldn’t have to listen to any more of that blasted conversation.
It would just be her and Malfoy in her chair.
Good. She had a few questions for him.
As the voice and footsteps faded, Hermione slowly lowered her hands from his face.
There was a tick in Malfoy’s clenched jaw, his chest rising and falling against Hermione with measured, deep breaths. His gaze was like molten iron.
“Granger,” he began, his voice low and husky. Hermione's heart rate sped up considerably. “Get. Off. Now. I’m done.”
“Why were you reading Conserving the Chimaera, Malfoy?” Hermione asked.
Malfoy’s eyes flashed wide for a breath, before he became the picture of indifference.
“Can’t a man, read, Granger? You’re not the only bookworm in England, you know,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing.
“Believe what you want, Granger, I can’t control that,” Malfoy shrugged.
“You sabotaged my proposal to Kingsley, didn't you?” Hermione’s breathing got ragged, “And then--and then you were researching so that you could do your own Magical Beast Conservation Proposal! I will die before a man, even worse, a Malfoy steals my ideas and passes them as their own!”
“Steal them--?” Malfoy sputtered, shaking his head, “I wasn’t trying to--Granger, I was trying to help you.”
“Help me?” Hermione said, bewildered.
“Merlin’s balls, yes, Granger. Your proposal was actually quite good,” Hermione felt dizzy with shock, “Oh, honestly, Granger, is it that hard to believe that--yes, you’re brilliant, okay? But your plan would have practically bankrupted Wizarding England and only to save, what? Not even twenty-seven species?”
“My calculations were perfect, it was the best I could do,” Hermione said uncertainly.
“I know.” Malfoy said, suddenly earnest. “You did the best with what resources you know the Ministry has. What you didn’t know is that the Malfoy Estate is going to be donating a significant amount of funds in the form of a grant. A grant that, if your proposal had been accepted today, your project would not have been eligible for,” Malfoy broke out into a grin. It was a touch smug, but Hermione found herself not caring.
“Granger,” he continued, “Not only that, this is a grant that will have the resources to assist not just twenty-seven, but two hundred and twenty-seven endangered magical species.”
Hermione gaped at Malfoy, her heart pounding. “Really?” She said breathlessly.
“Really,” Malfoy said with a lopsided grin, “I figured I’d start doing some research on the beasts not yet in your proposal.”
“You...figured…?” Hermione said breathlessly, her pulse racing. Gods, it was hot in here. Then again, she was on top of another human being. Draco Malfoy. She was on top of a human being named Draco Malfoy, aka The Most Confusing Man in Existence.
“Why, Malfoy?” Hermione said suddenly. She licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry.
He stiffened, his gaze following the movement of her tongue, tension returning around his mouth and eyes.
“Because the ecosystem, both Muggle and Wizard, is fully reliant on at least one hundred and fifty of those species, with any of their extinctions, there would be a collapse--”
“Bollocks.” Hermione whispered.
The muscle in his jaw twitched, his blonde hair falling across his forehead. In lieu of reply, he stared back at Hermione with opaque eyes.
Before, his silence would have frightened her. But not now. Maybe it was the fact that they were tucked away in their secret alcove, the strange events of the day, the surprise of his confession. Or maybe, it was because she finally fucking knew what she wanted. Whatever it was made her brave, made her not care or wonder why his iron gaze stayed shut, made her lock onto those eyes, lean ever-so-slightly forward, chasing a wild, secret hope.
Hermione dropped her hands to his fists.
He twitched against her but otherwise didn’t move.
She dragged an open palm up his bare forearms, slowly. She felt goosepimples break out over his skin, felt them blossom under the pads of her fingers. Hermione enjoyed a small surge of triumph.
Her hands slowly went up his upper arms, feeling the immaculate, white sleeves, much softer than she would have imagined. Hermione’s hands continued to travel up his neck, causing Malfoy to shiver, past the nape, and into that fucking white-blonde hair.
Circe.
It was so bloody soft.
“Tell me the truth, Malfoy,” She spoke in an attempt to regain control. Instead, her voice came out huskier than she’d like. Malfoy’s gaze grew heavy lidded, shuttering.
His breathing picked up, and Hermione swore she could feel the hammering of his heart mirroring her own.
But he kept his mouth shut.
Hermione softly dragged her fingernails against Malfoy’s scalp.
Malfoy closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
With both hands, Hermione grabbed tufts of Malfoy’s hair near the root, pulling gently.
“Fuck, Granger,” Malfoy groaned, a sound that went directly between Hermione’s legs. His eyes fluttered open to gaze hotly at her. “You wanna kill me?” He said, his voice rough and low, making her squirm in his lap. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to hear you say it, Malfoy,” Hermione’s voice was rough and unrecognizable. She bored her eyes into Malfoy's, biting her lip.
Malfoy’s eyes flared as they snapped to her mouth.
“What do you want me to say, Granger?” Malfoy wrenched out, his whole body stiff.
“That--” Hermione’s heart was thundering. She leaned closer to Malfoy, centimeters from his face. “That--that you want me.”
“Fucking hell, Granger,” Malfoy moaned.
His hands shot up, grabbing Hermione’s hips. He pulled her flush against him, where she felt the unmistakable length of him, searingly hot and harder than a fucking rod. Hermione couldn’t help the moan that escaped her, nor the way she writhed against him.
“Oh Gods,” Malfoy groaned, his head falling to her shoulder.
“This want you wanted, Granger?” he breathed raggedly against her neck. He pressed his lips against her, murmuring into the column of her throat. “Wanted to know how fucking hard you make me? How the first time I saw you in sixteen years, in that hallway, I couldn’t breathe you were so beautiful?”
Hermione gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing against him harder. Malfoy’s hands on her hips tightened as she began to move against him, finding an angle where her clit rubbed perfectly against his erection.
“Fuck,” he grunted into her skin. “I fucking crave you, Granger. I want to trace your collarbones with my tongue, want to suck on that mole above your left knee, fuck, I sometimes catch a hint of your perfume when you walk by--and--Merlin, I have to go wank myself raw in my office.”
He could feel it now, there’s no way he couldn’t. She was so wet, she was seeping into his pants, could probably soak clear through to his cock. Hermione’s body was a thrumming, taut string. It hummed with the anticipation, the desperate need to be plucked.
Draco’s head suddenly sprang back from Hermione’s neck. Chest heaving, he sat, staring at Hermione, his eyes raw and unguarded. This was it, he had put everything on the line. She could probably destroy him now if she wanted.
Instead she leaned close, sliding her hands up his face to cup his cheeks, telling him her own secret.
“Every night,” she whispered, “When I make myself come...I...it's...it's your name...your name on my lips.”
On a groan, Draco surged forward, his mouth hot and finally, finally on Hermione’s. She moaned into his mouth, opening, welcoming, beckoning his tongue with hers.
Arms wrapped around each other, they drank deeply from one another. They found a rhythm, a delicious dance of tongue-teeth-lips-tongue-teeth-lips.
Malfoy stopped kissing her, but didn't pull away.
“Knew it,” he breathed hard against her mouth, “Knew you fucked yourself thinking about me.”
Arrogant git, Hermione thought with a smile, before biting down hard on Draco’s bottom lip, soothing it with a greedy suck. Malfoy cursed, his hips surging up into hers. Sucking Draco Malfoy’s bottom lip, Hermione begrudgingly admitted to herself, was something she had wanted to do for quite some time now.
Draco must have liked it, his hips undulating against her with every suck. With a growl, he moved his mouth against hers purposefully, returning the favor, taking her own bottom lip between his with a desperate pull.
With a gasp, Hermione pulled away. Draco groaned his disappointment but then abruptly silenced as her hands went to the front of her shirt. Pulling hard and impatiently, she popped a few buttons off as she ripped it open.
As Hermione sat there, her chest rising and falling, her breasts already tight with need, pink nipples peeking over the demicup lace bra she wore, she felt all her power.
Draco was looking at her like she wasn’t real, like she was something he had stumbled upon in a dream. Reverentially, his trembling hands came up to cup her breasts. He palmed them, lifting them, feeling their weight.
“Knew it,” Malfoy rasped as Hermione pressed herself into his hands. “Knew your tits would be perfect.”
With his thumbs, he pulled the front of the bra cups down to the underside of her breasts, her pink nipples hard and pebbled.
A curse on his breath, Draco leaned forward, wrapping his mouth around a dusky nub, his hand palming and pinching the other breast. Hermione grated out a moan, hands fisting in his hair as he sucked and licked, his tongue swirling around the peak, traced the blushing line of her areola.
“You taste like candy, Granger.” Draco said, half in a dream, as his mouth went to the other nipple.
Fuck, this alone could make her come, her clit already swollen from her grinding against his clothed length, the way he was sucking her tits.
But she needed to feel him, wanted to feel his silk over steel, wanted to palm the weight of him. She was starting to feel the space between her legs acutely.
Her hands flew to his belt buckle. She began frantically undoing the zip, pulling at it impatiently. It was caught.
“Malfoy, get your pants off, now.” Hermione pleaded. Malfoy chuckled huskily against her breasts, moved his mouth over the tip of the left, latching onto the nub.
“Knew you’d be bossy,” he said before sucking, tongue circling, causing Hermione’s head to drop back on a throaty moan. He placed a quick kiss to the side of her breast before leaning back to help Hermione get his pants off. Hermione lifted herself on her knees, giving him the space needed.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and pulled down, his cock springing up, hot, heavy, angry red, the tip already glistening with the pearly dab of precum.
“Gonna be honest with you, Granger,” Malfoy said, lids heavy with need, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my life,” He fisted his cock, but before he could pump even once, Hermione grabbed his wrist.
This was another thing she had wanted to do for a very long time.
Still on her knees, she stretched her arm down, her hand wrapping around his length. Hermione loved how hot he was, how thick. She traced a pinky down the underside, following a vein gently with her fingertip, causing his cock to jerk, Malfoy choking on a strangled sound.
She pumped him slowly, taking her time, enjoying the ridges and shape of his head.
“Granger…” Draco tried, but as Hermione fisted his cock, gathering the moisture at the tip before moving slowly up and down his shaft, his speech stopped, dissolving into needy little breaths.
Hermione thrilled at the way Draco’s neck seemed to lose bones, how his head sank back in ecstasy. She had never seen Draco Malfoy like this: utterly given over to something, someone else, completely out of control.
Malfoy let his hands wander in aimless bliss, searching out the smooth curve of her legs. He ran his fingers up and down the outside of her thighs, higher and higher, his touch dipping under the fabric of her skirt.
Hermione held her breath as his fingers slid slowly, slowly up, searching for the seam of underwear that wasn’t there.
When Malfoy got to her inner thighs, he froze. His fingers were only a few inches above her knee cap. And yet, he could already feel it.
“Merlin, Granger,” he groaned in a tight voice, “You’re drenched.”
Hermione’s hand stilled, her cunt clenching at the need in Draco’s voice.
“I’m not even near your pussy, and already you’re abso-fucking-lutely drenched.” His hands continued their journey up, faster, more insistent, as he followed the slippery, delicious trail, until his fingers traced the sopping seam of her pussy.
“Fuck, no knickers, Granger?” Malfoy choked. “I knew it. Knew you'd finally be the very death of me...”
Malfoy slipped a finger inside her, grinding a moan out of them both. He began to pump in and out, the filthy, wet sounds of her arousal filling the alcove.
Hermione’s hands left Malfoy's cock for his shoulders, bracing herself as she moved her hips in time with the sinking of his fingers.
“Knew you’d be tight, knew you’d have the perfect pussy--” Malfoy wheezed.
“Malfoy,” Hermione gasped, on the verge of incoherence. “Please.”
Malfoy’s gaze went dark and predatory. He slid another finger into her, causing Hermione to mewl, grinding down onto his hand.
“Please, what, Granger?” Draco leaned forward, pressing a hot, needy kiss to her mouth. Hermione’s tongue darted out to meet his lips, but Malfoy pulled back, teasing. She made an impatient noise, and Draco chuckled.
“Come on, Granger, what do you need?” Malfoy leaned forward, taking a breast in his mouth. “Tell me what I can give you,” he said between sucks on her nipple, still fucking her slowly with his fingers.
She knew what he wanted.
He wanted her to beg, wanted her to break. And gods, she was close to pleading, closer than she should have been to coming already, just from rutting against him. Close from how her bare pussy had ground against his trouser placket, how she was now rising and falling on his fingers.
But no. She wanted him to break first. Wanted to hear him beg. Wanted to hear again just how badly he needed her.
That couldn’t have been far off, with the way he was looking at her now, worshipfully, like she was the answer to every prayer he had ever had. That reverence made her heart stutter, a hope, soft and urgent, like mothwings in her chest.
Draco sat back, stilling his hands, fingers still inside her.
Hermione watched the way his eyes took her in, followed their hungry path. She felt his gaze slowly take in her wild mess of curls tumbling over the smooth ball of her shoulder, felt his eyes on the groove of her collarbone. Her breasts grew heavier from the weight of his gaze, his eyes falling to her chest. His breathing hitched, fingers curling inside her, as he lingered over her rose-colored nipples, still glistening from his tongue.
Draco’s eyes found hers, his gaze open and supplicating.
“Merlin, look at you,” he whispered, his eyes like forge-melted steel. “Tell me what you need, Granger. I'll give it to you.” He was a man before an altar, desperate for a deity's favor.
There, on her knees, looming over him, her lips centimeters from his, she felt like a goddess made to woman.
Like Athena bestowing a blessing, she lowered herself slowly back onto his lap.
Hermione took his cock into her hand (he was somehow even harder than before), and slid her hips forward, her hot, soaking heat now flush with the ridged underside of his length.
Draco choked on a groan, his throat flexing on a hard swallow.
She began to move against him, began to feel the electric pulse building as she rubbed her swollen clit up and down his shaft.
“Fuck,” Malfoy cursed, his hands grasping her bare hips, nails digging into her soft flesh.
Pressing his cock harder against her clit, she moved faster, the iron rod of him delicious as he slipped against her searing, silky trench.
Fuck, this was getting her too close, her blood singing, the way Malfoy was losing control, rutting against her cunt with an increasingly frantic rhythm.
“Malfoy,” she gasped. “Tell me what you need.”
His eyes were melted silver as they met hers.
“You,” he rasped, his forehead touched hers, bowing forward like a tree in a tempest. “I want you. Now. Forever. Please.” The last word was a prayer.
“Circe,” Hermione swore, lifting herself up, lining his cock with her entrance.
And then, finally, fucking finally, she slowly sank down on him, moaning at the stretch, the feeling of absolute fullness.
Draco looked positively undone, his beautiful face almost agonized.
“You’re perfect, Granger. So fucking tight and hot. Salazar, I can already feel you fluttering around my cock,” he ground out. He moved a hand to her clit, circling the already swollen nub. “Wanna feel you come right now,” he grunted.
Merlin, already? She managed to have the thought before beginning her climb, began to feel her brain melt as pleasure overtook all sense. Hermione rocked her hips back and forth, causing a gasp from Malfoy, her body carrying itself on instinct. She could already feel the telltale pull behind her navel, the rigidity of her muscles as she got closer and closer.
Malfoy was panting hard now, his thumb moving faster and faster against her clit. He leaned forward to crush his lips against Hermione’s, swallowing her moans.
“Come for me, Hermione,” he whispered against her mouth.
Her name on his lips was her undoing.
“Fuck--Draco--” Hermione stuttered on a loud groan as the biggest orgasm of her life ripped through her. She fell against Malfoy, her body convulsing with wave after wave of pleasure.
Malfoy sat still, buried inside of her, as she continued to contract and clench around him. He wrapped his arms around her, breath hot against her ear.
“The feel of you, Granger, the feel you milking my cock," Desperately, he took her earlobe into his mouth and sucked. "I want--I need to feel it again…” Draco sounded unhinged, like a man on the brink of madness.
Hermione knew how he felt, the way she lay in his arms, overwhelmed by her orgasm, and still, somehow needing more. Somehow still craving him.
She lifted her arms around his neck and pulled herself up, beginning to ride him in earnest.
“Fuck yes, Granger,” Draco growled, leaning forward and biting her shoulder. Hermione moaned as his teeth grazed her skin, the rise and fall of her hips speeding up.
“D’you know--” Malfoy said, placing open mouthed kisses against her throat, words punctuated by each upward slam of his hips, “--How long--I’ve wanted--you like this--?”
“Maybe,” Hermione panted hard, “As long--as I have?” She slammed down on him, over and over, the head of Malfoy’s cock hitting that delicious spot deep inside her again and again. Already, she was careening rapidly towards another crest.
This time, she was taking Malfoy with her.
“Want you to come inside me, Malfoy,” Hermione gasped. “Want--want to feel you dripping down my thighs--”
A strangled noise burst out of Draco as the rhythm of his thrusts stuttered, grew more erratic. Circe, the way he was looking at her, so needy and pleading.
“Granger--I’m--close--but want to feel--you--” His words fell off into incoherent moans.
Malfoy needn’t have worried. She could feel her walls fluttering, could feel herself winding tighter and tighter, like a bowstring about to snap. Hermione ground down hard on him, the head of his cock buried tight right where she needed him.
“Come for me, Draco,” she ground out, feeling herself tip over the edge.
With a desperate cry, Malfoy buried himself in her, his contracting cock strangled by the clenches of her orgasm. Somehow, Hermione came even harder this time.
Hermione crashed her mouth against his, as they bit, sucked, and swallowed the tortured moans of the other. Draco’s hips surged up with each wave of his orgasm, giving Hermione a current to ride out her own pleasure.
As the waves broke, Hermione began returning to her body in pieces. As Draco placed gentle kisses on the corner of her mouth, her neck, the tip of her breasts, she had the strange sensation that he had pulled her apart, then reforged her.
She let herself have this golden moment where she felt utterly, thoroughly, and perfectly sexed. She let herself bask in a world where Draco Malfoy sat sweaty in her arms, gazing at her like she was the cure for Mother Earth.
But then, the quiet stretched.
Cold washed over her.
This was the part she wasn’t good at. The quiet after passion, the ragged sound of cloth as pants were quickly pulled on, shaky fingers stumbling on the re-buttoning of shirts, the un-meeting of eyes. The unsureness of the morning after. These were the most painful moments. The after-climax clarity.
And Hermione didn't think she could take it from Draco Malfoy. She had to protect herself. She would not feel that pain.
She cleared her throat.
Malfoy pulled back to look at her face.
“Thanks, Malfoy, that was great--” Hermione winced, pain ripping through her chest anyway.
“Great? I'm sorry, great? You’re thanking me? Like I’m a bloody waiter? After that?” Malfoy choked, unmistakable hurt and confusion clouding his eyes.
Hermione faltered, frowning.
“I know you, Malfoy. You say a lot of pretty things when all the blood’s left your brain.” She could do this, she could be strong. “But I’m sure you say the same thing to each one of your Veela flavors-of-the-week. I’m not dumb. Don’t worry, I didn’t get the wrong idea.”
Hermione realized the absurdity of making such a declaration with Malfoy’s cock, growing softer by the second, still inside of her.
She expected him to stand up, brisk and cheerful. Expected a Thanks for understanding, Granger, expected to have to Scourgify the mess between her thighs quickly in a corner by herself.
Draco didn’t do any of those things. He simply sat there, eyes boring into hers. After a breath, they softened. Finally, he spoke.
“Maybe,” he said softly. “It is me who has gotten the wrong idea.”
“What?” Hermione said, disbelieving.
“I know...I know we've had a bit of an...antagonistic relationship. But it was just--I can be a prat, I know. I know I can be a huge...arsehole." He faltered for a heartbeat, then shook his head, and setting his jaw, continued, "The only words I didn't mean tonight were when I said I didn't want you on my lap. All the good stuff...yeah, I meant all that, Granger, blood drained to cock or not. I had hoped.. well, I had hoped you may have meant yours as well.” He gave a sad smile, then hung his head. “If you want this to be just a one time thing, Granger, I can...I can live with that if that’s what you want.”
“What I want?--I thought--” Hermione licked her lips in bewilderment. “Isn't that what you want?”
Draco growled, pulling her chest to his, foreheads pressed together.
“Stubborn witch. I already told you what I want,” he said in an urgent voice. “What I need. You. Now. Forever. Making you tea at 3 AM as we work on that blasted proposal together. Fucking you in the shower before breakfast every morning. Casting an unforgivable at that bloody tosser Zacharias Smith--”
“Ah, finally remembered us, did you?”
Both Hermione and Draco froze, mortified.
The voice of Zacharias Smith came from just the other side of the tapestry. It continued.
“Yeah...yeah, I think you both forgot to cast a Muffliato. Um. No need to Crucio me, mate. I...I can see that Granger is already...spoken for. Thoroughly.”
“Too bad for you, Smith. Quite enjoyed that performance. I myself wouldn’t mind an encore,” Terry Boot piped up.
Hermione’s hands clapped over her mouth. Draco’s wand hand flexed.
“What in all of Merlin’s sagging sacks is wrong with you, Boot?” Zacharias cried.
“Hang on, I wasn't done: I was talking about an encore from solely Malfoy," Terry said simply.
Hermione choked on a surprised laugh as Draco raised his brows, flattered.
“Alright, that does it. I need a good, strong Firewhiskey right about now. Boot, you’re buying.”
Already, Zacharias’s voice was growing quieter, the conversation between him and Terry diminishing as they walked away.
The tension left Hermione’s body and she met Draco’s eyes.
Simultaneously, they burst into laughter.
“That--that was--oh Gods they heard everything...Oh, Gods everything--” Hermione hiccuped between laughs.
“Wow, I’ve never had a fan--Boot liked my performance, did he?” Draco managed to look very smug between cackles.
“Of course that’s your takeaway, you arrogant tosser,” Hermione said, laughter diminishing the scold.
“It’s not arrogance, Granger, if it’s true.” Draco leaned back, eyes sparkling with mirth. “I simply have a realistic self-perception.” He cocked his head to the side, eyes never leaving hers. He grabbed an errant curl framing her face, rubbed it between his fingers. The crooked grin he wore now filled her up, gave voice to the hopeful question in her throat.
“Tea at three AM? You meant it?” Hermione whispered.
Draco’s eyes softened.
“Brightest Witch of her Age, indeed.” He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. “In how many ways must I confess how all-encompassingly enamored I am with you, Granger?” The set of Draco’s mouth was cocky, but his eyes were wide and liquid, his breathing quickened. He seemed...nervous.
She cleared her throat.
“You knew this, Malfoy. Knew I’d be stubborn, knew you’d have to earn my trust. ” His dawning smile met hers. “I think you’ll need at least four more types of confessions before I’m satisfied.”
Draco’s eyes darkened, his lids shuttering. He wrapped his hands in her hair, open mouthed kiss closing on a nipple.
“That,” he said before sucking, “Sounds like a challenge.”
“You up for it?” Hermione gasped, feeling a sudden hot tug behind her navel.
“It would appear so.” Draco murmured.
Hermione looked down, clenched involuntarily as she saw his cock, once limp and sticky against her thigh, now, again, impossibly hard. She couldn’t help the tortured groan that escaped her.
Draco tilted his head up, brought his mouth to hers. They swallowed each other’s moans, a tangle of tongues and tugs of teeth.
Hermione pulled back.
“Bed. Your bed. Let’s go. Now.” Hermione’s need was a thrumming, insistent pulse that made her short and insistent.
“Skivving off work, Granger? Never thought I’d see the day,” Draco smirked.
“Sod off, Malfoy. We’re collaborating on our new project and are retreating to a more quiet--place--to--to--” Hermione growled and took Draco’s bottom lip between her teeth. “Just shut up and take me to bed, Malfoy,” She ground out before biting down. Hard.
Draco’s hips surged up on a gasped moan, torn between pain and pleasure. Either way, he got the point.
“Thought you’d never ask, Granger.” He said, his eyes full of dark promise.
They both stood, feverishly putting their clothes back on, nothing happening fast enough. Hermione couldn’t believe they’d have to make it all the way to the Ministry lobby to floo to Draco’s place. Were there any other alcoves maybe on the way? Just something to tide her until...
“By the way, I did know.” Malfoy said, adjusting his cufflinks with a smirk. “Knew you’d be impatient--”
“Strong words coming from a man as hard as a fucking pole,” Hermione growled.
“Granger,” Draco said with a sigh, “I only know because it’s all I think about. Trust me. I mean, I lose language abilities when I see your shoulder for fuck’s sakes.” He shook his head. “I try to sound like I have the upper hand all the time, but I am, and always have been, completely at your mercy, Granger.”
Hermione took two deep breaths, letting the paper-thin wings of hope burst into joy in her chest.
Yes. She could have this, could get used to this. She deserved this. Deserved a gorgeous Draco Malfoy serving her 3 am teas. Deserved hand holding in a theater, deserved the crinkle of a paper bag as he carried his groceries in for her. Deserved his mouth and his cock and all the delicious ways she would ride both.
It was overwhelming. She could only stare at Malfoy with watery eyes, dizzy with happiness.
“Merlin, the Great Hermione Granger for once...unable to speak?” Draco’s eyes were soft and affectionate. Then they filled with mischief.
“Knew it,” he smirked. “Knew I’d be the one to finally stump--”
Hermione grabbed his face, silencing him with a kiss. Slow and needy, she sucked on his tongue, making him fist his hands in her shirt.
She broke off with a gasp.
“Malfoy,” Hermione said. “If you promise. To shut up. I’m yours.”
The unadulterated joy that blossomed on Draco’s face was worth all the galleons in Gringotts.
“Yes, well...obviously I’m getting the better end of that deal,” Draco grinned.
“No one would say otherwise.” Hermione smiled.
“Of course. Yes, well, I kn--”
Hermione cut him off with another kiss, wrapping her arms around him, pressing herself to him, tip to toe. He moaned in her mouth, his hands cupping her face, thumbs tracing the arc of her cheekbones. In between each kiss he whispered reverent words. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect.
Yes, Hermione thought, her body singing.
Yes, this. This is what she wanted.