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“Charming wedding,” Lady Parkinson commented, something snide and patronising colouring her tone.
“Mm, yes,” an older voice sniffed. “A little gauche.”
“New money only goes so far,” Lady Parkinson remarked, her voice getting further away before the noise of the party erupted engulfed it completely, both women returning to the reception.
Hermione pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle the laugh that was bubbling up inside her. She had snuck into the loos a few minutes ago to escape the constant handshaking and well wishes from diplomats and gentlemen of influence. One man, whom she thought she recognised from the Ministry Christmas party, had handed her a large velvet bag of Galleons with his best wishes .
Didn’t they all have enough money without just handing it to one another in bags?
Unlocking the cubicle, she walked out to the sinks. They were marble with gold finishes, and made her nervous to wash her hands in case she broke something. But she supposed hey were hers to break anyway now. Letting the cool water run over her wrists, she took a deep breath before looking in the mirror in front of her.
Smiling at her reflection, the fizz of joy in the bottom of her spine she’d felt when she’d seen herself for the first time that morning jolted through her again. She looked amazing. Somewhere in the chaotic cacophony of the wedding plans, someone had said that she needed to choose a different dress for the reception from the ceremony. But once Hermione had found her dress, she knew she’d never want to take it off.
Slashing from collarbone to collarbone, the high neck draped over her shoulders, stretching into slim, elbow-length sleeves. Fitted at the waist, the skirt flowed out over her hips and draped to the floor. During the ceremony, she had worn traditional white ropes over the top, but now she could see how the eggshell silk sat perfectly over every inch of her figure. Pansy had tried to convince her to have Madam Malkin add lace or appliques, but the simplicity is what truly spoke to Hermione more than anything else.
“Granger?”
Talk of the devil and she shall appear.
Pansy Parkinson looked spectacular. Immaculate. She always did. Black velvet nipped in at her waist before exploding in a puff ball skirt that finished just below her knee. Sheer black stockings made her already dainty ankles look like she shouldn’t be able to hold herself up. Sky high black heels seemed to simply float across the surface of the loos as Pansy came to join her at the sinks.
“My name is Malfoy now,” Hermione deadpanned, turning off the taps and letting the charmed basin dry her hands.
Pansy sniffed, not unlike her mother who had left just moments before. “You’ll always be Granger to me.”
“I’m touched.”
“I never said it was a good thing.”
Both of them snorted lightly before Pansy rifled through her clutch to find a single white-tipped Muggle cigarette, lighting it with the end of her wand. Rolling her eyes, Hermione cast a freshening charm over the room and leaned against the cool white marble of the wall. Their friendship had been Pansy’s doing, at first. She’d simply walked up to Hermione at a Ministry Apprentice mixer and introduced herself like they had never met before. Like they hadn’t hated one another for nearly eight years.
After that, she would simply show up in the Minister's staff office, where Hermione had been apprenticing under a legislator, bringing coffee or a saffron bun. Hermione had known, because the Slytherin wasn’t exactly renowned for her tact, that their friendship was only really to repair Pansy’s reputation to begin with. But it had slowly morphed into something easy and fun.
“Your mother thinks that my wedding is charming. ” Hermione smirked, watching Pansy reapply her scarlet lipstick just-so.
“My mother is a bitch,” Pansy snorted, putting the lipstick bullet back in its tube before turning to face her with perfect posture.
The door to the toilets flew open. “‘Mione,” Ginny beamed, pushing the door wide and striding into the room. “There you are!”
Whereas Pansy floated, Ginny was grounded. Even wearing sky blue chiffon and soft, fiery waves, you could see the lean muscle in her forearms and shoulders. She was every bit as beautiful as Pansy, but with force and a body that looked lethal.
“Weasley,” Pansy greeted. The venom she’d always used to coat the use of that particular surname was barely detectable.
“Parkinson,” said Ginny in a mock posh voice, before hopping up to sit on the counter top between the two sinks. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“It’s a lovely party, Narcissa!” a voice called with false joviality over the noise of the party outside the door. There was a clacking of high heels growing closer.
Without saying a word, or even really looking at one another, Hermione, Pansy and Ginny scrambled into the glossy wooden toilet cubicles. Pansy waved her wand to put out her cigarette, threw it back in her clutch, and hauled herself behind one of the doors. Just in time, Hermione tapped her wand against the door and heard it lock into place as she heard the door swing open.
“Lucius would be rolling in his grave,” said a high-pitched woman’s voice. A pair of heels clicked towards the mirror.
“Did you hear?” another voice asked conspiratorially, “that she’s going to keep working ?”
“How modern,” the high-pitched voice chuckled derisively.
“There goes the last great Wizarding dynasty,” said the other. The two women shared a laugh.
A few shuffling minutes went by. As soon as the three women in the cubicles heard the door slam, Pansy growled abruptly, “What cunts .”
Hermione guffawed as she opened the cubicle, and walked back out towards the sinks. Smiling again as she saw herself in the mirror, she smoothed her hands from her waist and over the skirt of her dress.
“Agreed,” Ginny murmured, looking sideways to carefully glance at Hermione.
Snorting with laughter, Hermione gave her friend a reassuring grin. When Draco and Hermione had first been photographed together coming out of a cinema in Stoke Newington six years ago, she had received a swarm of maliciously intended invitations to tea from ladies of high society. When Narcissa had introduced Hermione to her book club, a soft smile hardly concealing the dare to question her, the Ladies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight had simply nodded politely with venom in their eyes.
The door opened again.
“Why are you three in here?” Daphne asked, pausing as she walked into the loos. There was a loose, tipsy smile on her lips, and a man’s hand following her in.
“Ladies,” Blaise greeted, a lopsided grin lighting up his face.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her mouth quirked. She wasn’t surprised. She wondered if there was anyone more beautiful than Blaise Zabini in the whole world, let alone at her wedding.
“Out, Zabini,” Pansy ordered, taking Daphne’s hand from his and pulling the blonde further into the room.
“You’re really no fun, Pansy.” Blaise scowled as she shut the door in his face.
“Binky,” Pansy called casually as she dragged Daphne to lean against the counter, where Ginny had sat herself back between the sinks.
A small house-elf with absolutely perfect posture snapped into the room. A disapproving look crossed his face when he realised where he’d landed.
“Mistress,” he sneered, leaving no question that this was a Parkinson elf.
“Champagne for five, if you will,” she replied.
Clicking again and winking out of existence, the elf left.
“Five?” Hermione asked, looking around at the four of them.
Batting her words out of the air, Pansy waved her off before she turned to start styling Daphne’s long thick golden hair.
Crack.
“Mistress.” Binky said, holding a silver tray of five champagne flutes over his head.
“Marvelous.” Passing a flute to each of the women and putting the fifth glass next to the sinks, she turned back to Binky and said, “You can go home now. I expect mother and father will be returning soon.”
With a deep bow and a look of relief, the elf disappeared for a final time.
Sighing and leaning her head against Ginny’s shoulder, Daphne closed her eyes with her drink still in her hand. Her blonde locks swept in front of her face and gathered in the exposed cleavage on show above her scarlet gown. She took a deep breath before smiling brilliantly, and saying, “It’s a lovely party Granger.” A booming laugh that sounded a lot like Charlie Weasley’s came from outside the door, and she added, “Perhaps a little loud.”
“ Sobrii estote,” Hermione muttered, tapping her wand against Daphne’s glass. She winked at Ginny, who was looking down with visible concern at the drunk Slytherin girl whom she hardly knew.
“Right, ladies,” Pansy announced, her posture straightening and a smile spreading across her features. “A toast!”
“What are we toasting to, Pans?” Hermione asked.
“To the new Lady Malfoy!” Ginny grinned mischievously.
“Eugh,” Hermione replied, “absolutely not.”
“To Blaise’s fingers,” Daphne garbled, swaying into Ginny’s shoulder.
“Don’t be vulgar, Daph,” Pansy admonished.
“To Pansy,” Hermione called, “the best Maid of Honour anyone could ask for.”
“Granger, this is my toast.” Pansy sniffed with mock irritation. “To the last great Wizarding dynasty!”
“To the last great Wizarding dynasty!” Ginny and Daphne cheered and drained their glasses.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione took a sip from her glass and watched as the loo doors swung open yet another time. Her husband leaned against the door frame.
He really was spectacularly handsome.
Draco Malfoy had worn black wizarding robes for his wedding ceremony. For the reception, however, he had worn a dark grey Muggle suit that had been tailored to within an inch of its life. It snugly held his broad shoulders, and sat exactly a third of an inch from the cuff of his crisp white shirt underneath. When she had watched him don the jacket just before they walked into the reception, she had watched the muscles in his arse flex under his trousers, which cupped that divine part of his body like delicate fruit.
“Granger,” said Pansy, clicking her fingers in front of her face. “Hello?”
Hermione ignored her, instead watching Draco’s eyes light up as she beamed at him from ear to ear. When she had stepped into the centre of the circle of guests at the ceremony, his eyes had glittered in a way that made warmth bloom behind her sternum. Now, as he came up behind Pansy, tossing an arm around her shoulder and snorting when she startled and jostled him from her person with a huff, he turned to stare at her as if she had hung the stars in the sky.
“This is the Ladies’, Malfoy,” Ginny smirked.
“The toilets are genderless,” Draco and Hermione said together. They caught each other’s eyes.
“Ugh,” Pansy sighed, correcting the thin straps of her dress and retrieving her cigarette from her bag. “You’re both so worthy now. I expect it from her—” she gestured towards Hermione with the white stick before turning to Draco and poking him in the shoulder—“ but you —I thought better of you.”
“Weasley,” said Draco, ignoring the irritation rolling across Pansy’s features, “could you bring Daph to Blaise? He’ll help her home.”
Ginny looked like she was going to come back with a retort, but at that precise moment Daphne started to slide down her bicep, leaving a path of drool behind. Ginny’s nose wrinkled, and she closed her mouth.
Lighting her cigarette, Pansy took a long drag before helping Ginny prop Daphne upright. Then the redhead all but carried her from the room.
“Off you fuck, Pans,” said Draco, approaching Hermione with a predatory glint in his eye. Taking her hand in his, he kissed her palm and then her wrist, never breaking eye contact.
“For that I’m going to stay and make disparaging comments about your manhood while you fuck Granger,” Pansy replied, blowing her cigarette smoke out the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t be vulgar, Pansy,” said Hermione, her mouth quirked at the corner. .
“Lupin was looking for you,” Draco goaded her, now nuzzling his nose across Hermione’s fingers as she made breathy little laughs that made her feel silly but wonderful.
Neither of them paid attention as Pansy glided out of the toilets, muttering words that sounded like sod off, Draco and fucking werewolf. Taking Draco’s hand from where it gripped her wrist, Hermione pulled him close to him so that his legs disappeared into the volume of her skirt.
“Thank you for coming to find me,” she whispered, kissing the tips of his fingers as they trailed softly over her lips.
“Thank you for hiding,” he said earnestly, cupping her jaw under her chin with a grip too tight to be purely romantic. “I’d been waiting for a chance to get away for ages.”
Kissing Draco had always been wonderful.
He had first kissed her after they’d returned to school after war. They’d seen each other at Teddy Lupin’s first birthday party in the spring, and had several run-ins over that summer. But it wasn’t until she’d woken on the sofa of the eighth years’ common room and found him sitting on the floor, watching her, that he’d slowly crawled towards her, taking advantage of her sleepy silence to softly brush his lips against her own.
There was nothing sleepy about this kiss. His teeth grazed the swell of her bottom lips several times, and when she tried to retaliate, he pulled at the roots of her hair at the base of her skull where he had thrust his hand reflexively.
“Do you think we could go home?” Hermione gasped as he pulled away from her mouth to leave bruising kisses against her jawline.
“Portkeys,” he rasped, pulling his open mouth down to breathe hot against her throat, “don’t leave for another hour.”
Whining in frustration, Hermione stomped her foot on the marble floor, and the clack of her heel rang around the room. Draco laughed against the fabric covering her shoulders and leant up to sweetly kiss her cheek.
“On your knees, Malfoy,” Hermione ordered, turning her head so they were nose to nose.
“With pleasure, Malfoy, ” he grinned, before abruptly crouching to the floor and tossing her skirt over his head.
Letting out a squeal of delight, she felt his hands make his way through the petticoats, allowing the heavy material of the skirt to flow out until his bare palms rested above her knees. Draco had awfully nice hands. They smoothed over the outside of her thighs before grasping her hips with such ferocity she knew there would be bruises when she finally took the dress off at the end of the night.
Bracing herself against the tile with her hands, she leaned back so that she could feel the cold marble against the back of her neck. Draco’s searing hot lips dragged against the soft skin where her thighs touched one another, and she got the hint when he sunk his teeth into the flesh there. Spreading her legs a little wider, his hot breath ghosted over her vulva, and a shiver ran from the base of her spine to her scalp, spreading with delightful tingles.
Garbled nonsense came from under her skirt, but she appreciated his reverential tone before the wet, warm spear of the tip of his tongue divided her and lapped delicately over her clit. He was teasing her. Growling at the bump of the back of his head that was poking out below the waistband of her dress, she pushed his head down. She heard his muffled chuckle.
Hooking her left leg over his shoulder, he used his weight to press her back further into the wall behind her. It occurred to her that she should be able to feel the cool tile at her back, but all she could feel was a delicious rolling warmth from head to toe. With her hips facing outwards, he was able to flatten his tongue as he dragged it down towards her entrance. Her vision blacked out for a second as his wet, strong tongue invaded her.
Draco’s tongue swept from side to side, relentlessly stimulating the most sensitive parts of her clit. She found her hands kneading the silk of her skirt beneath her in the same rhythmic contractions her cunt made.
“Yes,” she breathed, an answer without a question.
A single word of permission granted. Yes, to their life together. Yes, to making her feel this way. Yes, to his promise to give her everything. Make her come. Make her wish she could stop coming.
Hermione hadn’t noticed that his fingers had been moving across her abdomen until two were positioned right on the outside of her. He was teasing her again, and she gripped the material of her skirt hard and whimpered. A dark chuckle vibrated through the fabric before his fingers filled her in one thrust. Wasting not time, Draco curled his fingers to hit the most sensitive part of her.
Her thigh clamped tight on his shoulder and her pelvis lifted up. Her orgasm started in her toes, creeping up like vines binding her muscles in delicious tension. Her fingertips tingled. She saw stars. She was almost all the way there when she heard him say something like, “and another,” and then a third finger entered her, the burn of the stretch adding to the mindless spiral of pleasure her body was racing towards. She cried out and rode Draco’s face, while he muffled a groan into her flesh.
Never content with simply making her come, Draco liked to torment her after, continuing to suck and nibble and lick while she desperately tried to escape. He didn’t make their wedding reception an exception.
“Please, please,” she panted, trying to push his head away through her dress. But her strength was sapped from the intensity of the sensation that went on and on.
Something muffled came from under her skirt that sounded a lot like, “Are you going to come again, Granger?”
She didn’t have to speak her answer. It came out as a long, shuddering vocalisation as a second, smaller climax swept her away.
With the most grace anyone could with female ejaculate on their chin, Draco swept from the floor and into her vision, scooping her around the waist as she faltered a little. Beaming from ear to ear, he left a wet kiss on her cheek and rested his forehead against her temple.
For several long, gorgeous moments, they just stood there. Hermione relished the little puffs of his breath dancing across her cheeks, letting the bone-deep satisfaction sink in that this was her husband. He would get on his knees for her in every public loo in the country if she wanted, and she got to keep him forever.
She smoothed her hands down the line of his suit, which was somehow completely unaffected by his time on his knees under her dress. When she reached the waistband of his trousers, the smooth grey wool heated by the hard length beneath them, he gripped her wrist tight.
“Granger,” he groaned, “you don’t-”
“It is my wedding day, Malfoy,” she interrupted, raising her voice a little in indignation. “I will do whatever the fuck I like.”
Slowly letting go of her arm, he snorted before kissing a path from her temple to just under her ear and whispering, “As you wish, wife.”
Clawing at the flies of his trousers, she was delighted to find that they were buttons. She ripped at the fabric until his underwear came into view-- a dark grey that matched his suit, and silk. She smoothed her hand through the slot in the fabric and gripped the velvet heat of his cock.
“Unh,” he murmured, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.
Smirking, she tugged upwards before twisting around the head and pumping back down. Repeating this action, she could feel the startings of him losing himself. As she continued her movements, exhilaration at how she affected him sang through her veins and lifted the little hairs on her back.
Mouthing at her neck, he mumbled praises and nonsense into her skin.
“Fuck,” he hissed, as she felt the skin at the base of his cock start to tremor. “Fuck, Granger.”
“It’s Malfoy now,” she whispered back.
That seemed to do it, as a second later he was pumping into her fist, his come hitting his trousers, her hand and her dress.
Gasping for breath and leaning one hand against the wall behind her, he swore under his breath before whispering a quick Tergeo and wandlessly removing the evidence from her dress. He pointed his wand at her hand next, and she grasped his wrist with her clean hand, halting his movements. Lifting it to her mouth, she waited for his lethargic eyes to make contact with her own before she started to lick it clean.
“Fuuuuuuuck me,” he groaned, tightening his arm around her waist as he planted small, sweet kisses on her cheeks.
“As soon as I can, Draco,” she said cheekily. “I promise.”
Laughing in the way he only did with her, he pulled back from her to do up his flies. She double checked her dress, but as usual, his magic was flawless. Looking back up at him, she caught him staring and he smiled at her, warmth radiating from his every pore. It was baffling that a man like him could exist, and at the same time it felt inevitable that they would be here, in this moment. She felt the lace of her knickers slip back into place between her thighs.
Holding his hand out to her, she felt the pull towards him like there was a rope around her waist tugging her wherever he went. Slipping her hand into his, he placed it in the crook of his elbow. They walked out together into their reception, where they would pretend to be interested in the well wishes of witches and wizards that they’d never met before, and ignore the knowing laughter of their friends until they could go home together, for the rest of their lives.