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“Congratulations are in order to Auror Granger for closing the case of the Nocturne Alley Vandal,” Robards announced to the Aurors gathered for the morning meeting.
Hermione performed an, at first, abashed wave for her colleagues until the applause swelled and whoops were shouted. It was a significant arrest, months in the making. Grinning, she flipped her hair over her shoulder in a show of faux humility. “It was nothing, truly.”
As the ruckus died and the meeting continued, she felt a tickle near her shoulder. The warmth of a body leaned in from the seat behind her, gently twisting one of her curls. Naturally, she knew it was him.
“Nice work, Ace,” he whispered for only her ears.
A delicate hum escaped her lips as she peered over her shoulder with fluttering lashes at Draco, who still held a curl between two fingers.
“I never should have told you about the Muggle grading system,” she whispered back, feigning dislike of the moniker.
“Ah, but Outstanding as a soubriquet doesn’t have the same resonance.” His index and middle finger coiled their way lazily around the lock of her hair, and he watched, passively fascinated.
“Actually, I like it very much,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning back to silently send the message that she enjoyed her hair being played with. Yes, never stop. “Please do refer to me as Outstanding from here on out. Your Majesty will also do.”
He breathed a laugh and met her eye briefly before flicking them back to Robards at the front of the room, giving the appearance of listening to their boss’s daily reminders. “That’s quite the promotion you’ve given yourself.”
Hermione gestured vaguely with her chin to the magically adjusting statistics board in the corner of the room where her name sat on top, and had for months. “Well, I am the ruler of the Board.”
“I thought I was meant to be the one with the over-inflated ego?”
The meeting was white noise, her only focus was the gradual current of electricity that seemed to pass from his fingers, into her scalp and through her spine. Had she the physiologic ability, she would be purring. Instead, she managed to reply, “I believe your defense when I accuse you of such a thing is confidence. So I will exact the same.”
In the background, a few aurors chuckled at something Harry said from the front row. Hermione and Draco both smiled and pretended to have heard it.
“Who am I in this Court of yours?” Draco asked a moment later.
“Hm, you do occasionally make me laugh, if not provide passably satisfying entertainment…”
Unamused, Draco let go of her hair, which was utterly devastating, and put his hand over his heart.
“So I’m to be the jester?” He asked, affronted.
We both know you can’t be King, lovely as that could be. She shrugged. “I think they are more affectionately known as fools.”
His arms folded across—and Merlin did it do wonderful things for—his chest. “I’m starting an uprising. I would be a fool to allow you to stay Queen.”
“But a lucky fool.”
“Oh? And what fortune would my Outstanding Queen allow such a lowly member of her court?”
Hermione’s voice dropped a pitch as she muttered, “You’ll have to use your imagination.”
His eyes crinkled and brightened as he grinned, but his pupils unmistakably broadened.
“I shall.”
Chairs scooted and chatter rose as the meeting wrapped.
“Good luck with your uprising,” Hermione said as they both stood, making their way side-by-side to the refreshment table. “Though I think my position is secure, as you’ve yet to best me.”
His fingers brushed faintly against her wrist when he reached for a chocolate croissant. “Intentional. I like you better on top.” He waited a charged beat before adding, “You know, less pressure. Less responsibility.”
Hermione chortled. “So you do like me as your Queen, you sloth.”
“No.” He met her eyes, and smirked, “My Ace.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek as heat drummed between them. Hungry colleagues had amassed behind them during their moment, and, until Draco’s hand at her hip urged her forward, she’d been completely unaware. Quickly, she grabbed her own croissant and they made for the bullpen.
She tore the almond delicacy down the middle and silently offered one half to Draco, who did the same with his. It was their Friday morning tradition to share their two favorites.
If Hermione were to be honest, she really only craved the chocolate. The ritual continued out of necessity—an experiment to prove to herself she was above the indulgence. The almond croissants were perfectly acceptable. They satiated her hunger and weren’t overwhelmingly sweet. But the chocolate was something special. Something of her dreams. Something that would be dangerous if she were to engorge.
She could survive on half. She had to.
Plus, for reasons needfully kept surreptitious, Hermione savoured her little rituals with Draco.
Their daily back and forth was oxygen for her insatiable cerebral cortex. But so too, were their walks to the lift eighteen minutes past five and reluctant evening goodbyes from adjacent floos in the Atrium. Neither would ever turn down an opportunity to collaborate with the other on any work matter, because each added to their endless compendium of inside jokes. By sheer coincidence, they shared the same Tuesdays on call. Hermione executed daily visits to his desk across the floor on the guise of a bathroom break, just to see him, and Draco was typically ostentatious in his worry over the state of her small bladder.
Microdoses of Draco kept her…happier.
After he finished eating, Draco lurked near her desk, playing with her zen garden.
“You’re avoiding paperwork,” she accused in sing song, playfully staring up at him from her chair. That she’d purchased the desk toy for the sole purpose of Draco’s lurking—even if he often left phallic-shaped scribbles—was irrelevant to her pestering.
He doodled an over-generously priapic stick figure into the sand. “I don’t mind the paperwork. You know that.”
“Then why is it that you are corrupting my zen garden with your pornography?”
“Someone needs to keep you company while I’m secluded in interrogation today.” As a widely-known and skilled legilimens, Draco was often summoned for inquisitions, though his presence alone was usually enough to make them talk without needing to demonstrate his ability.
“So bounteous.”
“I am nothing, if not a giver, Ace,” he murmured.
“I was referring to your drawing’s cock.”
Draco barked a laugh. Few sounds existed that were as pleasing to Hermione’s ears. A proud, happy warmth spread outward from her chest, and she smiled helplessly.
“That’s nothing,” he teased.
“It’s easy to talk a big game when you’ll never have to supply evidence,” she volleyed, still smiling.
“You’ll have to use your imagination.” A wink.
She licked her lips and his eyes tracked the movement. I shall. I do.
Harry shouted for Draco to hustle his pasty arse over to inquisitions, and with the usual hesitation and a hasty final scribble, Draco bid his farewell. When Hermione peered over the zen garden a minute later, the stick figure was gone and only a loopy swirl remained. A curl.
_________________________
At lunchtime, Hermione sat with Ginny in the Ministry cafeteria while they waited for Harry. Ginny vented about a new Harpies teammate, their inconsistencies as a chaser and how unbearable it made practice. A sympathetic and dutiful response was on the tip of Hermione’s tongue, until a familiar brush of greeting across her back stole her undivided attention.
“You smell nice,” Draco said almost dreamily as he plunked into the seat next to her, visibly exhausted.
“Oh no,” Hermione mocked. “Someone inhaled Veritaserum again.” His thigh rested against her own in a way that was pleasing and spine-tingely.
Glowering sidelong at her, Draco chastised, “You promised to forget about that.”
Hermione blushed, remembering the incident from months ago, and hid her smile behind her knuckles. An unintended intake of the truth serum while they interrogated one of her suspects led to inexorable compliments slipping from his lips until an antidote was sorrowfully administered.
“It was even a pinkie promise,” he reminded her.
Granger has such adorable freckles. And I love her golden eyes, perfect tits, delectable arse. And of course, her admirable work ethic, fascinating mind and—
“How could I forget the praise you gave of my ‘Inevitably perfect cu—’”
He leaned over to shush her mouth with his index finger. “Culinary acumen! I was going to say culinary acumen, obviously.”
“So you’ve said,” she mumbled against his skin.
Taking a few seconds longer than what was probably appropriate, Draco eventually removed his hand but maintained the same teasingly betrayed glare.
“So, I smell nice?” She goaded, fluttering her lashes.
Draco rolled his eyes but nodded. “The goon we’re questioning smells completely rancid.”
“Air freshening charm?”
“I have. This is too strong for magic.” Reliving his morning, Draco wrinkled his nose and shuddered. “A skeevy, evil sort of reek.”
Gently, Hermione placed her hand over his, her fingers nestling effortlessly into the grooves between his knuckles. “I’m sorry, Draco. Have you had to…”
“No, not yet, but he’s been stubborn and resistant to the potions. I probably will when we get back.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Draco had confessed to her—without Veritaserum—that he hated having to use his Legilimency training. The great care he took to prevent his talent from becoming immoral endeared him to her even more. He never crossed the line.
A throat from across the table dissolved their quiet moment and innocent excuse to touch.
Ginny.
Draco startled a bit by the registered company, and Hermione tried her best to pretend she hadn’t entirely forgotten her friend was there, observing every second.
“Ginerva,” he said cordially, with a bowed head.
Ginny huffed a laugh. “Hi, Malfoy.”
“I’ll let you get back to your lunch.” Turning to Hermione, Draco said, “Thank you for the short reprieve,” and gave her hand a tender, lingering squeeze.
Hermione watched him yearnfully as he walked away.
“Oh! Draco!” she called after him. He turned with something like hope in his eyes. “Try Novus Caelum. And perhaps add a Maximus. For the rancid goon.” His smile of gratitude was bright as he disappeared into the lunch crowd.
When she turned back, Ginny eyed her like she’d grown seven heads.
“So, what were we—”
“What the bloody fuck was that?”
“Huh?” Hermione asked, half her mind still on Draco’s retreating bum. “What was what?”
The red-head gestured to where Draco was seated, and turned an accusing finger on her. “That. You and Malfoy. Malfoy and you. The eye stuff. And the hand-holding? He touched your lips, Hermione! What is going on between you two?”
“Oh that? He’s just my work flirt.” Hermione shrugged dismissively, though she knew her face was heating.
“Your…work flirt?”
“Well, sure.”
Ginny snorted a laugh. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is so a thing.”
Ginny’s incredulity, evident by her gaping mouth, was unflinching.
“Don’t you have one?” Hermione asked conversationally, taking a sip from her water.
“Mi.” Interlocking her fingers atop the table, Ginny leaned forward seriously. “ I consider myself current on slang and an expert on all things scandalous and irreverent. No, I do not have a work flirt, because it is not a thing that exists. ”
“Oh, it is not scandalous, for Merlin’s sake.”
Ginny leaned back and shook her head, but grinned. “Alright, Hermione. Tell me what having a work flirt means. It’s no skin off my back whether or not you engage in an office romance with your former bully, but last I checked, you had a boyfriend. One you could anytime flirt with.”
“Draco’s not actually interested in me. He’s engaged to Astoria Greengrass.” It stung a bit to say it out loud, even though it was the inescapable reality. Ginny knew it. Everyone knew it. “It’s just a bit of fun. Makes the work hours go by a little faster. It’s stimulating—intellectually and physically.”
“Physically, eh?” Ginny lifted a cautiously interested brow.
“Well, just in the sense that it makes my heart race a little.” She picked at a fleck of dirt beneath her thumbnail, embarrassed and exposed by Ginny’s persistent line of questioning. “You know, a little…thrilling.”
“Flirting with Draco Malfoy is… thrilling?”
“Yes, Gin.” Hermione rolled her eyes and sighed. “It’s harmless flirting. We both know where we stand. We don’t ever cross the line.”
Ginny’s brows wrinkled together almost comically. “What line?”
“The line of what’s appropriate. He doesn’t want me, Gin.” Even if he did, he wouldn’t act on it.
“What if he did, Hermione?”
“What do you mean?”
“Want you. What if he did cross whatever imaginary line you think you two have drawn? What if all this work flirting actually leads to infidelity?”
“Ginny, neither of us would ever—”
Leaning in once again to emphasize her sincerity, Ginny pointed to the chair formerly occupied by Draco. “That man wants to fuck you.”
Oh, if only.
Hermione glanced to the section of the cafe where she knew Draco would be ordering the surprisingly adequate white lasagna. Sensing the attention, he shifted his gaze, immediately locked in on Hermione and winked.
See? Thrilling. Hermione bit her lip to stanch the threatening grin and turned back to Ginny.
“This is just fun, Gin. I don’t want to ruin it. Obviously, there’s a bit of attraction—I would assume on both ends—but that’s all it is.”
Her friend scrutinized her for several moments. Finally, she sighed and asked, “Look, I have on a handful of occasions used flirtatious tactics to get little things I wanted. I have some of the best sponsorships in the league because of it. But this feels different. And what about Viktor?”
“I—He’s, um, I love Viktor,” Hermione struggled. “You know I do. I always will, but it’s always been hard with him. Perhaps if he hadn’t always been so far away traveling, we could have made it work… but, if I’m honest, I didn’t really miss him when he was gone.”
Ginny looked like she might have been confounded. “Wait, why are you talking about him in the past tense?”
“Oh, well, we’re sort of breaking up this weekend. He’s gathering the last of his things before he returns for—”
“You’re breaking up with your boyfriend of the last four years,” Ginny said plainly.
“Yes.”
“And you’re not devastated.”
“Of course I’m sad, Gin. But we’re both ready to find something better.”
“Like Malfoy.”
Hermione sighed. “No, Gin, not like Malfoy. Because as I’ve said, he is happily engaged.”
“And this breakup has nothing to do with your little work flirtation with Draco Malfoy?”
Next to nothing.
Hardly anything.
Only a very little.
Hermione looked down at her untouched chicken salad. What she had with Draco, whether she admitted it or not, did make the absence of a true spark with Viktor more evident, despite her valiant efforts not to compare. “Please don’t make me answer that.”
“So, you’re breaking up with your boyfriend to what? Feel less guilty about the feelings you have about a man you can’t be with?”
“No, of course not. Because I’ve never felt guilty about my friendship with Draco. I—”
“What if you were both available?”
Hermione was saved from the unanswerable question when Harry slid into the seat next to Ginny and gave a quick kiss to her temple. “What’s with that face?” He asked his wife, noticing her still present look of skepticism directed at Hermione.
“Have you seen how Hermione interacts with a certain colleague?”
“You mean her and Malfoy?”
Ginny’s eyes widened in emphasis on Hermione as if to say, See? It’s fucking weird.
“They’re just playful.” Harry shrugged his shoulders.
Ginny gaped at her husband. “Everyone just ignores the two of them eye fucking each other in the office all day?”
“It’s better than the alternative.” Ravenous, Harry bit into the sandwich Ginny ordered for him and mumbled through his first bite, “Them actually fucking each other in the office all day.”
Her pulse quickened at the thought, even as she endeavored to box it away—back into the pile of fantasies she didn’t allow herself to indulge in. Because it was wrong. Because he wasn’t available. Because it would be too good with Draco. And if it wasn’t? Fuck, if it wasn’t…
“You never answered me, Hermione.” Shit. “What if Draco was available?”
Deflating, Hermione answered honestly. “I’m…not certain our chemistry would translate to an actual relationship.” Her stomach churned as it often did when she imagined losing what she had with Draco. The salad in front of her became increasingly less appealing. “If we crossed that line—if we kissed, or if we did more, and it wasn’t as good as I’ve imagined it could be in my head, or if he wasn’t interested in me afterward…I don’t know how I would come back from that.” I only have a piece of him to covet. What would I do if I lost it forever? “This thing between us can only exist because it doesn’t go any further.”
The limitations caused by their respective relationships with Astoria and Viktor strangely gave them more freedom to explore one another at work, where it would always only be fun and safe.
“They have the top close rates in the Department. Higher than mine,” Harry cut in, still munching on his sandwich. “I’m not going to tell them to pull back when it obviously is doing nothing to hinder their productivity. In fact, I think it probably helps it.”
There was Hermione’s out. “Speaking of productivity: I need to turn in a request. Enjoy lunch, you two. I’ll see you this weekend.”
Speedily, she slipped from the table with a wave, abandoning her salad and ignoring Ginny’s insistence they continue discussing this later.
“You don’t have a work flirt, do you?” Ginny asked her husband.
Harry laughed bodily and wrapped an arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “Well, Agatha has been sending me some very conspicuous winks as of late.” Agatha, Harry’s secretary, was eighty-nine years old.
_________________________
At twenty minutes past five, Draco still hadn’t made it back to his desk. Crestfallen, Hermione walked to the lifts alone. Seeing him would have provided a small mood boost before what would likely be a melancholy evening. According to his owl, Viktor would arrive to her flat just before dinner time.
Did she really try enough? Why did it feel more relieving than heartbreaking?
Draco is there when the lift opens, a little breathless, but no more than she is at the welcome sight of him.
“Oh, you’re here! I was—”
“—was just going to grab my coat from my desk.”
“Oh, sure. Do you want me to—”
“—wait for me?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, perhaps too abruptly. Clearing her throat, she said in a much more placid manner, “Yes, I’ll wait for you.” His grin weakened her knees and set her skin ablaze. If anyone else had ever made her feel like this, she had no memory of it.
They stood much closer to each other than necessary in the otherwise empty lift. Typically, there would be no shortage of conversation during their time alone, but today they stayed silent. There would have been comfort in it—in just being near him—but Hermione was itching with the compulsion to tell him what was going on with Viktor. Bringing him up, even if to share the news of their separation, was against one of the unspoken rules. He’d discover the news eventually, and she desperately hoped he’d ignore it and they could continue their…whatever they were. Nothing needed to change. She needed nothing to change.
Draco must have been exhausted, because he also seemed resigned to the quiet. His hand guided her lower back out of the lift when it opened. For such a respectful, gentlemanly act, it had no business making Hermione feel so indecent.
The Atrium was sparse, but even if it were flooded with people, Hermione wouldn’t have noticed.
After walking her to her usual floo, he left a parting graze to her hip that she knew she’d feel the heat of for much longer than the trip home. “Goodnight, Ace.”
“Night, Draco.”
As it was his chivalrous tendency, Draco tarried behind for Hermione to leave first. The comfortable, safe, unspoken line between them obscured as Hermione glanced over at him, overtaken with the urge to stall. He watched her curiously, but his expression remained open and inviting.
Would it matter? If you knew? Is it just me? Are you as terrified to lose this? Do you want me too?
Her lips parted to speak, but, thankfully, a foot moved her forward into the fireplace before it got stuck in her mouth.
_________________________
The corner of her living room that harbored Viktor’s things until yesterday evening was blindingly empty. Insulting, really. A constant reminder of her failure and insensitivity when it came to him. Of what a great loss it was, even if it was right to lose. She wanted to do something with the space to liven it again. A plant. A bookshelf. A scratching post for Crookshanks.
Instead, she went out for a drink.
_________________________
“Ogden’s. Neat, please.”
Avoiding observing the fellow patrons in the upscale bar, Hermione fixed her gaze on the bar top as her drink was prepared, her singular focus: getting lost in the crowd. So, of course, she didn’t anticipate her voice would garner the attention of the gentleman she’d sidled next to.
“I like your style, Granger.” Tall, Dark and Handsome himself dimpled a charming smile in her direction, clinking his own glass of firewhisky against hers. He had to be talking about her drink order, because the little black dress from the recesses of her closet—while it fulfilled the bar’s dress code in a pinch—was not considered the height of fashion.
“Zabini,” she gave a small smile of greeting. “How are our youth doing?”
Blaise tilted his head and considered his Hogwarts students, managing to look only a little haunted. “The social minefield of pubescence is difficult to navigate as someone with a fully developed cerebral cortex. Half of my job seems to be changing emotional nappies.”
Hermione laughed through a small sip from her glass. “No hope for us yet?”
“It depends on what manner you’re measuring the scale of hope. One of my advanced fourth years effectively brewed a perfect Amortentia this week.” He paused to allow time to process how truly accelerated this accomplishment was. “Unfortunately, we only discovered he’d done it when several fights broke out in the Great Hall. Somehow, he doused the cake with a vat of it.”
A hand went to her mouth in her gasp of surprise. “No!”
“Yes. We suspect he will have a future under the tutelage of George Weasley.”
The thought made her grin. “Well, it was kind of Minerva to grant you a rare Saturday evening reprieve from babysitting the delinquents.”
“Aye, it was.” He glanced over her shoulder and his eyes brightened with mischief at whatever he saw there. “I insisted I couldn’t miss the celebration.”
“Celebration?”
Blaise lifted his chin, encouraging her to peer at whatever was behind her. When she did, her heart skipped at least three beats, or time froze for the same duration.
“Hey, Ace.”
There was nothing particularly special about Draco’s attire—his characteristic black suit and deliciously rumpled hair—but Hermione’s mouth went dry regardless. A stunned and breathy, “Draco,” was all she could summon past her throat.
“Our Draco is finally free of his shackles,” Blaise was saying behind her, but she was only half aware, caught in the vortex of Draco’s concentrated gaze.
“Sh-shackles?” she questioned dazedly. “What shackles?”
Draco rolled his eyes but grinned, and sat in the stool Blaise was not-so-discreetly—there were several winks and crude gestures involved—vacating. “Astoria and I finally escaped our betrothal contract,” he admitted. “We were informed yesterday but received the final paperwork this morning. Adrian found a loophole. The loophole.”
“Escaped? Wha—I thought that you and Astoria were—contract?” The world tilted on its axis and it had nothing to do with her half glass of firewhisky. If Draco wasn’t with Astoria, and she wasn’t with Viktor…Oh. Fuck.
Dismissively, he shrugged. Of course, he did. He could have no comprehension as to why this crucial piece of information changed everything. “Our parents set it up years ago,” he explained, signaling the bartender for a glass. “An old, twisted ritual signed in blood. We didn’t have a choice and have been trying to end it since its beginning.”
“I—Gods, I’m sorry, Draco. I had no idea. I thought you two were happy together.”
He shook his head firmly. “We were only an item publicly so our parents wouldn’t suspect we were actively fighting it. Astoria has been in love with Theo since she was fifteen.”
Hermione’s head swiveled to the corner booth Draco came from, where Astoria was snogging the life out of Theodore Nott, who was clearly enthusiastic about meeting his end in such a way. When she turned back, Draco had angled his knees so they bracketed her own.
They were both single. The endless possibilities of what could happen with this monumental change caved in on her. She needed the limits, the control. The uncertainty was stifling. The way he used to look at her, the way they spoke, their silly rituals—it was all about to shift.
Panic ridden, Hermione took a shaky gulp of her drink, ignoring the heat of his knees against hers. She envied his oblivion. He was free to enjoy their boundaries, because for all he knew, they still existed. Clearing her throat, she stammered another apology. “Still, that—that’s a lot. I’m sorry.”
With irritating nonchalance, he brushed an errant curl back behind her ear, said, “I’m not,” then returned his hand to his drink. He’d done this before. It wasn’t a big deal. Except now it was. Now she couldn’t write it off as a friendly gesture. Now, it could lead to…anything.
“Enough about me. How is your weekend going, Your Majesty.”
It sounded so ridiculously sarcastic rolling off his lips, Hermione was temporarily cured of her terror, and she managed a barking laugh. His twinkling eyes told her he enjoyed the sound of it tremendously.
She could have lied. She should have lied. For that night, nothing would have had to change. But she didn’t.
“Lamentable, if I’m honest.” His furrowed brow urged her to expound. “Viktor gathered the last of his things from my flat yesterday evening. We’ve—well, we’ve been in the process of ending things for a few weeks now. It’s…finally official.”
There it was, out in the open. No more rules protecting their flirtationship, giving them the freedom to explore each other without risk. Floating in deep, uncharted waters, she prayed he had a life raft—that he’d throw it out for her.
Though loath to admit it she found any amount of pleasure in his suffering, Hermione was soothed as he battled every emotion she’d been silently bombarded with for the last several minutes. I’m not alone in this. His spine tensed. A minimal movement, she might not have noticed if she weren’t so familiar with his mannerisms after years of quiet study. He’s afraid too.
“You and Krum broke up? You—you’re—” He gulped.
Hermione could only nod, answering his incomplete question. I’m single.
The tense chord between them was stretched to absolute capacity. His fingers twitched, then curled into a fist on the bar top. He grabbed his fire whisky. Scrubbed a hand down his jaw. Cursed under his breath. Panted, heavy and laboured.
She was in control before because she had to be. Now the possibilities were paralytic. Everything could go wrong, and even if it didn’t, Hermione was unprepared for what could go right—for it to be exactly as her dreams, better than.
They were the only two people on earth. They were surrounded by people. Hermione didn’t care. She cared far too much. She needed to be alone with him. She was terrified to leave this bar, and the safeguards of the people within it.
They had to talk about it now, right? Even though they never planned to?
Am I crazy? Do you want this too? Could this unspoken thing between us be even better?
Her bones itched. She couldn’t stand here, staring and waiting, any longer.
“I should—should I just?” Go?
His hand flew to her wrist, halting any headlong exit. “Please,” he whispered.
He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes, but he stroked her palm with his thumb until it faced up, bared to them both. His fingertips reverently perused the lines of it as though he could read them, at once becoming an expert in the shape, texture and weight of this small piece of her. Then, he was delicately etching letters or runes over her calluses with his index finger, and Hermione did not have the wherewithal to keep track of what they were. Still, she felt the warmth of magic trickle down her median nerve, and it calmed her fractionally.
Draco leaned in, and she mirrored him, somehow knowing it wasn’t to kiss, but just for the chance to breathe each other in. Simultaneously gathering both her hands into his, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Gra—Hermione?” His voice was hushed and cracked—he was nervous.
“Mm?” She hummed. Gods, he smelled nice.
“Can I? Can I?”
Can I cross the line? Can I burn it away forever? Can I touch you? Hold you? Kiss you? Fuck you?
Yes. A nod of her head against his.
“I need—I need to hear it, Hermione. Please. I need to make sure this isn’t a dream.”
She pinched the inside of his wrist. “You can have me.” Straightening to look him in the eye, she added a stipulation she hoped would convey how terrified she was to lose what they had, to lose them. “If you intend to keep me.”
In a blur that demonstrated their shared urgency and his agreement to the stipulation, Draco tugged her from the stool, through the crowd, and into an empty hallway. Setting her against the wall, he parted from her only long enough to throw up a privacy and repelling charm.
When he returned, her hands lifted instinctively to his chest, but his hovered uncertainly, like he couldn’t figure out where to start—what was most enticing now that it was no longer off limits. He settled for her hair, tangling his fingers in the spot by the base of her neck. When he leaned his body against hers and closed what little space remained, his entire body relaxed, finding refuge and fulfillment in the perfect fit he knew they would be. Hermione could feel each heavy intake of his breath against her chest.
His hands were everywhere then—tracing the column of her throat, rubbing circles into her hip, teasing the hem of her upwards. His knee slotted between her legs, rucking her dress up further and bringing the gusset of her knickers in line with his thigh. When she felt the hard ridge of him, she shuddered a nervous exhale.
“I can, Ace?” he panted. “Truly?”
It was endearing that he needed further confirmation he wasn’t breaking the rules—he wasn’t crossing a line she didn’t want crossed. She wanted to scream Yes, obviously I am a willing participant, but surmised her exploration of his body seemed significantly less eager with her hands still frozen on his chest. Rectifying that, by lifting her arms above his shoulders, carding her hands into his fine hair and rocking her hips, she told him, “I really think you’d better.”
An uncontrolled shiver racked through Draco’s chest at the contact and, with a throaty rumble, he surged forward to capture her lips. The force of it, though not unwelcome, was too much at first, but he corrected the pressure quickly. Efficiently. They both processed. This is happening. We’re kissing. Hermione positively melted, feeling radiant as the kiss warmed her from the inside out. Their lips slid in perfect synchronicity, like they’d been doing it all this time. Perhaps in a way, they had—their endlessly thorough wants, wishes and what ifs compiling to an immediate familiarity. Fantasy fulfilled. This was their first kiss and it was more than she could have ever hoped for.
Draco’s lips soften further, becoming worshipful. His tongue teased open the seam of her lips, but only after a comprehensive study of every angle and position of just their lips slanted together. When Hermione’s tongue tangled with his and she wiggled her hips in tandem, he trembled again. “Fuck. Holy fuck, Hermione.”
Pulling back just enough to catch her breath, Hermione huffed a laugh that faded into a grin mirrored by Draco. A quiet moment passed. His eyes sparkled as they pored over her face, like he was getting an idea. The pad of his thumb lifted and grazed the apple of her cheek. “Adorable freckles.” The same thumb traced below the arch of her brow. “Golden eyes.”
An index finger traced downward from her sternum to the top of her chest, dipping into her cleavage and pulling the fabric of her dress down with it. The minimal access was obviously not enough for him, because he yanked the fabric down beneath her breast on one side, revealing her plain bralette, then curled his hand into the flimsy fabric to palm it. In tandem, they exhaled.
“Oh,” she sighed.
Nodding his head in confirmation, he breathed, “Fucking perfect tits.”
Heat coiled low in Hermione’s belly, as he teased her nipple between two fingers. She keened into him, arching her back. His other hand slid down to her bum, took a few blissful moments of groping to familiarize itself with the exact curvature, and then disappeared, only to come back with a light smack.
Hermione released a surprised gasp and laughed against his hovering lips.
“Salazar. This arse, Granger.” A needy little groan that might outrank his heartfelt laugh on her list of favorite sounds, burst from his chest.
She hummed. “Delectable, would you say?”
Draco raised a brow and teased, “I’ll have to substantiate the evidence further when the location is better suited.”
Hermione wriggled against his thigh, chasing the budding need for friction and pulled his smiling mouth back down to hers. She took only a moment to savor the sweet simplicity of the kiss before indecently sneaking her tongue past his parted lips and running it along the juncture of his bottom lip and his teeth. Draco pulled her closer, higher up his leg as he gasped.
His hand on her arse coaxed her into a steady rhythm, grinding against whatever ridiculous muscle in his leg was rubbing against her clit just right. Higher and tighter, the pleasure wound through her with each buck of her hips.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “Fuck, Ace. Are you going to come just from riding my thigh?”
She hadn’t realized her eyes were shut tight. His filthy words encouraged her to open them and appreciate the view. Infinitesimally, picking up the pace and catching his awed expression sent Hermione careening over the edge, vision blurring.
Draco guided her hips as she floated back to earth, an deservedly arrogant smirk lifting his lips.
“Do you want to,” Hermione said as she caught her breath, “find out if you’re right about your unfinished confession?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Sure. I’ll make you breakfast, and through your assessment of it, I’ll be able to ascertain whether your culinary acumen is up to speed.”
“Breakfast?” Hermione asked, rolling her eyes and smiling stupidly.
Draco wove their fingers together and pulled her further down the hallway to an exit. “Well, dessert first. Because, as you well know, I have an expansive lexicon, and I’m not sure perfect is a respectable enough word to describe your inevitably transcendent cu—.”
With a crack, he apparated them side-along to his flat.
_________________________
“How are you faring, Ace?” Draco inquired in a whisper, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder.
Hermione scowled and narrowed her eyes, but didn’t shrug him off. A week of near endless, no-longer-discreet touching and, despite her warranted irritation, Draco was relieved she hadn’t tired of him yet. Deciding to test his luck, his fingers encroached on the top of her breast, teasingly so, simply because he now could, and didn’t dare dream of doing so a week ago. Also because—even if she was cranky—he knew she liked it.
“Do not start with me today, Draco Malfoy.” He loved all her moods, but was especially fond of her current petulant state, mostly because his distinguished accomplishment inspired it.
“…and with Auror Malfoy’s quadruple arrest of the Quidditch Pitch Bandits, that brings his yearly solve rate to forty-seven. Which means…” Head Auror Robards snapped his fingers and the stat board adjusted, displaying his name in the first ranking position. “He is now: Lord of the Board.” A flourish of his wand, and confetti rained down over him.
The standing ovation, with the exception of a pouting Granger, was befitting. As was the commencement of Potter’s rhythmic clapping and chants for a speech. Draco obliged his loyal subjects without further coaxing.
He stood and bowed his head, addressing the room. “There are two expressions of gratitude that need to be given. First, thank you to the squad of half-wits that left a trace and allowed me to pad my numbers. But also…” He gestured a hand to his seething girlfriend--lover, bed-buddy, whatever she wanted him to be. “Miss Hermione Granger, thank you for being so thoroughly distracted this week, that you surrendered control of the top. I look forward to the grind in the months and years ahead, and ceaseless position swaps with you.”
Though she fought valiantly, Hermione could not bite back her smile, even as she shook her head. You’re an idiot, she seemed to say. And he was and idiot—an absolute fool for her.
“Long may he reign!” Potter shouted in jest, and the congregation chuckled when Granger flipped him off.
Sitting back down, he returned his arm to its home around Granger’s shoulder. “Savage, Granger,” he muttered in her ear. “Aren’t you at least slightly excited about the consolation sex?”
Playfully, she punched him in the rib. “The only consolation sex we will be having is yours. Next week.”
“Promises, promises. We already know how hopeless you are at keeping to them.”
As they walked to the Friday breakfast table at meeting’s end, hands interlocked, Hermione sighed, a trace of nerves in her shoulders. “I have another confession to make.”
“Darling, that’s just a game we play in the bedroom.”
She snorted a laugh, which was unlady-like and positively adorable. “Oh, shut it! I’m serious.”
“Fine, fine, what is it, dearest?”
Blushing, either at the endearment or the impending admission, she mumbled, “I don’t really care for the almond croissants.”
Draco stopped in his tracks and beamed, ear to ear. “Granger, I hate almonds.” He’d suffered through half of an almond croissant every Friday for the last two years solely because it came from Granger’s hands, and it kept him in her orbit for an extra minute or two.
Hermione’s bright smile spoke for her. Gods, we were ninnies. Aren’t you so glad we don’t have to be ninnies anymore?
He plucked two chocolate croissants onto a napkin, split both of them down the middle, and gave her half of each one.
I’ll always be a ninnie for you.