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There’s a lull in the conversation.
Hermione can feel herself drifting, having lost the thread of whatever the Head of Improper Use of Magic Office was saying ages ago. Luckily, she’s not alone. She’s not the focus of the conversation, so whatever he says next is unimportant in the grand scheme of things. There’s a small circle of Ministry witches and wizards ready to simper and laugh at the proper times, ready to give this man the stroke to his ego that will allow for future favours to be called in. Hermione doesn’t care.
Her attention is pulled—as it has been for the last hour since she got here—across the Ministry gala’s dance floor. It snags on the white-blond crown of hair and its owner as he dips his head to whisper something in the ear of the witch he brought with him tonight. The witch laughs because whatever he says is charming. Hermione knows this. She knows the things he says and how they affect women. How they affect her.
She knows the timbre of his voice, how it commands a room when he speaks. She knows the lilt that creeps in when he’s amused, the way the corner of his mouth pulls up when he knows something you don’t. She knows the way her stomach swoops when it’s directed at her.
She knows other things, too. Like how his hair slides between her fingers, or how his mouth feels against her skin. She knows how his fingers feel buried in her cunt, and the heady high of his kisses as she comes down from an orgasm.
She knows how his hands roam, how they linger. How the pads of his fingers press into her skin like brands. She knows how he grips her hips when she rides him, finding a rhythm with her while she loses herself in the feel of him.
She knows how his voice rasps when he’s close to coming, how it drops into a groan against her neck while his thrusts pick up speed. How he whispers filthy things into her skin, litanies of devotion and unholy promises.
She knows...
She knows...
She knows the way she feels when he looks at her, like he’s doing right now. That flutter that beats against her rib cage, bracing like a buttress, the only line of defence between her and the crushing weight of what she feels for him.
It’s too much.
It’s this that shakes her, has her blinking and turning away from his solemn silver stare across the room and back into the conversation of Ministry officials around her. She laughs politely with them, unsure what she’s laughing at, and then makes an excuse to step away.
Draco Malfoy is here with Astoria Greengrass, she reminds herself as she leaves the ballroom, intent on finding a loo to possibly have a mental breakdown in. He is here with Astoria Greengrass and not Hermione Granger, because Hermione had been the one to end things between them two weeks ago. She was the one to tell him to accompany the society witch to tonight’s gala, which really was the funny thing about this whole situation. Her misery was her own doing.
Astoria Greengrass was a childhood friend, someone Draco’s parents encouraged him to court officially. He told her this one night over cold Chinese food, glasses of wine, and hours of intimate conversation. Astoria was someone appropriate, he sneered, for a Malfoy wife. He had no interest in her beyond friendship, but that didn’t stop Narcissa from inviting her to tea every Sunday and then conveniently leaving them alone in the Malfoy gardens. Astoria is tall and slim and elegant in an almost preternatural way, ethereal in the way she holds herself. She is poise and grace and everything Hermione is not, and Narcissa Malfoy was not inviting Hermione over for tea.
The queue to the loo is long when she finds it. She steps behind the last witch in line, clutching her elbows tightly to her body as if trying to hold herself in place. There are hours yet to go before the gala wraps up. Hermione has a mental list of ministry officials to schmooze with, goals to meet that can affect her legislation. There are a hundred different things she needs to worry about and she cannot afford for Draco Malfoy to be one of them.
Fifteen minutes pass and the queue barely moves. A waltz is playing, notes slipping through the doors to the ballroom when it opens and shuts for other guests, hauntingly discordant. Hermione’s imagination shows her Draco dancing with Astoria in stunning high-definition slow-motion, just in case the twisting pain in her chest forgot to exist, or something.
Not for the first time, regret pits heavily in her stomach. It cloys at her, demanding with attrition until doubt clouds her every thought. She had ended things. She had ended things because three months of happiness with Draco was... what? Difficult?
No. It had been freeing in the best way. It had been laughter and passion and comfort.
So what? What did three months of loving Draco Malfoy get her?
Sighing, she leaves the queue and heads for the Floo parlour. She’s not going to accomplish anything tonight, who is she kidding? None of her friends are here to distract her. Harry and Ginny are out celebrating their anniversary, and Ron has been in Romania for the last month visiting Charlie. Neville couldn’t attend the gala because he was helping proctor O.W.Ls at Hogwarts.
No, better to just phone it in and spend the night with some greasy take-out and a romcom.
She makes it through the Floo and is in her bedroom closet, halfway through taking off her dress when she hears her Floo activate again. She debates with herself for a second before slipping the dress strap back over her shoulder and reaches for her wand. The footsteps making their way through her flat make her freeze, because she knows them, knows it’s him.
She has ten seconds to figure out what to do and she spends all of them focusing on the thudding of her heart.
And then, suddenly, he’s there, standing in the doorway in his black bespoke suit, one eyebrow raised as he takes her in.
“You know,” he drawls. “When I helped you practice those conversation starters for the ministry officials you wanted to impress tonight, it wasn’t so I could watch you leave the gala before eight.”
Hermione presses her lips together and straightens. “I didn’t leave so you could follow.”
His expression flickers briefly, just the smallest flash of annoyance as he glances away from her. “Are you still on this?”
“Yes, I’m still on this,” she snaps, her eyes narrowing. “Malfoy, tell me you didn’t leave your date at the gala. That’s exceptionally rude, even for you.”
His jaw tightens.
“I needed to speak with you.”
“You do not.”
“Fine.” He exhales sharply. She can tell she’s testing his patience. “I want to speak with you.”
“Semantics—”
“Both are true, actually.” He steps into her room, his glare sharp. She can feel the anger radiating off of him and she turns away, busying herself instead with removing the jewellery she’d borrowed from Ginny for the evening. Draco leans against her bedpost, watching.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” she says, dropping the earrings and bracelets into a jewellery dish.
“Did you manage to speak to—”
“No.”
“Then you should return to the gala, Granger. You worked hard for this.”
She had. They had. Long evenings spent sprawled on her couch while he quizzed her on political reform, on the families of high-ranking Ministry officials. He talked her through common topics to avoid, laughed as they acted through a few scenarios so she would know what to expect. He had offered advice and knowledge and support.
She shudders and shakes her head, letting her shoulders drop as she reaches for the clasp of her necklace.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” she lies, hoping he’ll be put off and leave. “I’ve been battling with nausea all day. Really, I just want to lie down.”
Her fingers fumble with the clasp, her nerves making the task impossible. She begins to sweat, agitated over her clumsiness in the face of his perfection. She’s so caught up in her own swirl of feelings that she doesn’t hear him move until the heat of him is right behind her.
“Let me.”
She lowers her hands, letting them tangle in the fabric of her dress instead while his long fingers deftly unhook the clasp. The weight of the necklace slides down and off her skin. She turns, allowing Draco to manoeuvre up and over her head to get the necklace off fully. He places it in the plate next to her earrings.
He’s too close. She’s staring at the broad expanse of his chest, still covered in the fine fabric of his suit. Underneath the black jacket is a deep, rich green button-down shirt that she’s sure costs more than her monthly rent. She has an urge to lean into him, to slip her hands underneath the jacket and loosen a few of those expensive-looking buttons.
She doesn’t, of course. She turns away, heading for her closet so she can undress in private. His hand stops her, brushing against her hip with the slightest of grips. He might as well set her on fire.
“Malfoy—”
“Draco,” he corrects her, his voice pleading. “You call me Draco.”
She bites her lip, still refusing to look at him. He’s making this harder for her and part of her hates him for it, for making her go through this again when she has already let him go.
“I let you have the space you wanted,” he says, his voice choked. “I took Astoria to the gala like you asked.”
She scoffs. “Hardly, considering you left her there to chase after me.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something?” He pulls her, spins her so she’s facing him, his hands no longer gentle. Insisting. “Hermione. Please.”
She meets his gaze, sees the plea in the smoky depths, and trembles. She doesn’t understand. She can’t find the logic in what he’s doing. This isn’t love because he’s never said it. Lust, surely. Infatuation, maybe. Whatever he feels for her has to die sooner or later, and she’s desperate for it to be sooner.
“You should go,” she whispers, even as his face dips closer. “We can’t— you should—”
His lips brush hers, silencing her on a small intake of air. He presses a soft kiss against them, something light and teasing before trailing more kisses along her jaw and down to her neck. Shivers run down her spine as one hand lifts to cradle the back of her head, threading through her hair until he has a solid grip to angle her where he wants.
“D-Draco,” she stutters, already feeling herself giving in. What was her plan? What is his plan? She needs him to leave and he— his hand is— oh. Oh.
Her hands, which were hanging listlessly at her sides, are now gripping the lapels of his jacket. She needs the support because his free hand is roaming, sliding along her curves until he has a solid handful of her arse. A small whimper escapes her and she can feel him grin against her skin in victory.
“I don’t know where you got the idea,” he murmurs between kisses. “That I don’t want this. You. But get it out of your head.”
“It’s— fuck. It’s not about wanting. Draco, stop.” She pushes against him feebly. She might as well be a newborn kitten for all the effort she put into it. Feminists everywhere are disappointed in her, ripping up her membership card. How easily she folds in front of a pretty face.
His grip tightens as his teeth close over her neck. His denial is firm in the face of her weak protest. She doesn’t help matters by clinging closer, pressing herself flush against him while shivers wrack down her spine.
“As-tor... Astoria,” she tries again. He huffs against her skin.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say someone else’s name while I’m trying my best to get you into bed.”
Her fingers twine up into his hair, tugging until his mouth lifts to hers. They stand there, clinging to each other, hot air exchanged between them. Her eyes are half-lidded and heavy as she struggles to find her reason.
“I’m not your date,” she tries as his lips brush against hers.
“We’re not at the gala,” he says between kisses.
Hermione whimpers as he slips one of her dress straps down over one shoulder. She can feel her resolve slipping resolutely away. Each press of his lips against her skin dissolving the last of her restraint. When has she ever been able to resist him?
A rustle of fabric, a hiss of a zipper. Her satin dress pools at her feet and Draco tugs her against him, pulling her to the bed until he has her in his lap. He’s still fully clothed in his immaculate suit, but he arranges her so she sits astride him, one hand gripped her securely around her waist while the other rests on her thigh.
“Say you want this,” he says against her skin. “Hermione. I know you want this. Say it.”
“I do, but—”
He vanishes her knickers wandlessly and they both groan as her core presses against the length of his erection through his trousers. She threads a hand through his hair, pressing his mouth hot against her neck. She’s already writhing against him, desperate for some kind of friction. She drops her hands to those expensive buttons, her fingers flip a few open before he hums and pulls away from her.
She frowns, her confusion evident because didn’t he want this?
“Slow down, witch.”
“But I want—”
His nose grazes against her cheek, pressing tiny kisses against her jawline. “I know what you want. I’m going to give it to you.”
She exhales, the way he’s speaking, the way he’s looking at her has her wary. His eyes gleam, and before she can guess what he has planned he lifts her off him, forcing her to stand. He pats his lap again.
“Turn around.”
She turns, gasping softly as he drags her back into his lap so that her arse is nestled against his length. He steadies her with one hand while the other drifts across her rib cage until he has a breast in hand. He palms it, rolls it, tweaks the nipple until it stands at full attention, eager for more.
“You ended things with me.”
Her eyes fly open, catching sight of them in the mirror on the other side of her room. She looks wanton, spread over him like this, naked and writhing over his expensive suit.
“Didn’t you?”
He pulls at her nipple again, and she hisses, arching back against him.
“Yes. I— I did.”
He hums, and his other hand drifts from her waist, sliding against her skin until it finds its home at the apex of her thighs. She spreads her legs wider in invitation and they both sigh when his fingers slide through her folds, gathering the wetness there. She’d denied herself this since she ended things. Denied herself this kind of pleasure because every time it only made her think of him. Only made her question if what she was doing was the right thing.
“How long has it been, Hermione? Since you told me you didn’t want me anymore?”
“I didn’t say that. I said—” She’s cut off when he slides one finger inside her.
“How long?”
Her hips undulate against him, hoping for more. “Two weeks,” she gasps out. “Two weeks, three days.”
“Good.”
His thumb brushes over her clit and she whimpers at the jolt. His hands have always been so good, so adept at finding her pleasure for her.
“Took what you wanted from me, was that it?” he asked, adding another finger and stretching her more. She shakes her head.
“No. No, that’s not what it was.”
“You took what you wanted,” he insists, thrusting his fingers into her on each word. “You took, Hermione. And then you left.” His hand leaves her breasts and drops to his trousers. She hears the clink of his belt, feels him shift her so he has room to free himself. She moans once she feels his cock pressed against her arse.
“You said wanting wasn’t the issue. What, then?” He pumps his fingers harder, his hips rolling beneath hers and she whines, wanting to be filled so badly.
Then, suddenly, he pulls his hand away and she almost cries out at the loss of him. She sags against him, even as she listens to him suck off her juices from each finger in a debauched display.
“Draco,” she rasps. “Draco, please.”
“Please what, love?”
“I want you inside me,” she says and turns, desperate to see him, to kiss him. She moves to get off him, intent on crawling on top of him if she has to, but a strong arm bands about her waist and keeps her still.
“What was the issue?” he repeats against her ear. She closes her eyes, not wanting to talk about this when he’s about to fuck her. She searches for the excuse she gave him two weeks ago, and finds it severely lacking.
“Hermione.” He lifts her, shifts them both until the head of his cock presses at her entrance. She bites her lip, her body shaking, primed and ready for him. He rocks her gently against him, just enough to have her frustration rising.
“Draco. Draco, please, Draco,” she chants his name, hoping for relief.
“Wanting me isn’t the issue,” he says again, his voice almost a growl now. “You took what I gave, the help you wanted for tonight, and the multiple fucking orgasms along the way, isn’t that right?”
Her pants grow heavy. “You took, too.”
“I did. I took because I wanted you. I want you now.”
“Then take me.”
He does, groaning against the back of her neck as he lowers her onto him, letting his cock sink into her until she’s fully seated. Her legs are already shaking and she knows he won’t have to do much to help her reach that peak. His hands settle on her hips and she begins to move, grinding down against him, swivelling so the angle hits just right.
Draco lasts only a few seconds before he surges back on her bed, dragging her with him, until he’s settled against her pillows. She falls forward, her knees finding purchase on her mattress so she splays wide for him. The added support allows her to ride him properly, and her fingers grasp at the fine fabric of his trousers without thinking.
“Take it,” Draco hisses, the pads of his fingers dragging up and down her sides, reverent in their worship. She shifts slightly and begins to bounce, knowing the visual is one of his favourites. He groans, muttering filthy things under his breath, sending pleased shivers down her spine. He praises her and she whimpers. He spanks her and she keens. He gives her promises of endless pleasure and she throws her head back, loving the way he fills her.
When she reaches that edge, her pace stutters, grows more shallow, and Draco sits up a little straighter.
“You’re close?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good girl.”
But just before she crests over that ridge he lifts her off him and she wails, her orgasm torn from her without completion. She barely has time to vocalize her outrage before Draco has an arm around her waist, before he spins her so she’s facing him, before he has her pliant and begging and squirming against his cock once more.
“Why?” she pants.
“You know why.” His voice is heady with lust. “If I’m going to fill up your pretty cunt one last time, Hermione, I want answers. Proper answers.”
Her breath heaves, steadies, and the gravity of what he’s asking settles over her.
She looks down, her gaze lingering on his still hard cock, lying against his clothes, glistening with her. Her core clenches around nothing and she licks her lips. “That’s all you want?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. There’s a heavy silence as his hand lifts to brush stray curls out of her face, tucking them behind her ears. His grey eyes meet hers and he gives one of his half smiles. “No. I’m a selfish man, Granger. But if you’re not going to tell me why you dumped me, then I’ll take what I can get.”
“What does it matter why?”
“It matters,” he says, and his hand slowly falls. “I thought— I’d found something with you, Granger. But, if you left me so easily, then clearly I missed something. I need to know what. I can’t—” He shakes his head, glancing down at his cock laying between them. “Is this all I have to offer?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Her heart squeezes painfully because god, she was wrong. She’d been wrong.
Draco lifts her without speaking, one hand gripping the base of his shaft, and guides him back into her. She whimpers as she settles but she doesn’t move. It doesn’t feel right to move, to take. Draco’s breaths are measured, soft. His gaze trails over her, like he’s looking at a memory.
“Your mother invites Astoria for tea.” Her voice is quiet.
He blinks.
“What?”
“She doesn’t invite me for tea.”
Draco absorbs this. She’s quite sure he thinks she’s gone mad, but her logic isn’t a huge leap. She watches him work it out quickly, how his brows knit together until he’s looking at her in bewilderment while his cock stirs inside her.
“Did you dump me because my mother hasn’t invited you to spend the afternoon in the manor you were tortured in?”
“I—”
“She never— Merlin, Hermione. If she knew you’d accept an invitation from her, she’d have invited you ages ago.”
She feels shame, hot liquid shame, curdle in her belly. Her reasoning doesn’t make sense to her anymore. It’s not good enough. Not good enough to end a relationship only in its infancy. She tries to remember, tries to reason it out again in her head, rearranging the words until Narcissa’s part in all of this is laid out plainly.
“She— you said she was still trying to get you and Astoria together. That Astoria was— was appropriate for a wife.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I did say that.”
“Was it a lie?”
“No.”
She lifts her hands in a helpless gesture, as if to say well there you have it. She was right to end things. Draco had lost too much in the war, and she wasn’t going to be the one to drive a wedge between him and his mother. Not when she was doing her best at shoving Draco and Astoria together like a Barbie and Ken doll.
“You’re not the one without anything to offer here, Malfoy.”
He flinches at the return to his last name.
“She is—” he swallows. “She is appropriate. That doesn’t mean you aren’t.”
“I’m Mugg—”
“My mother hasn’t held those beliefs once,” he says, his voice sharp. “Not once, not even during the war. That was my father only.”
She frowns.
“I swear it, Granger.”
Her frown deepens. “You introduced me to her months ago. You never—”
“We weren’t sleeping together at the time. We’d barely started spending time together and that was a luncheon for donors for the hospital. I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up my crush on a colleague. Granger, are you—?”
He looks utterly lost, like he can’t believe how they got here. She shifts uneasily, suddenly very aware that they’re having this conversation while he’s still buried to the hilt inside her.
She tries a different angle.
“When we started this, where did you see it going?”
She had asked this two weeks ago, and his answer then was a confused smile and a cheeky ‘to my bedroom if I’m lucky.’
She hadn’t been impressed.
This time, he looks sufficiently devastated.
“I just wanted to be with you. For however long you’d have me.”
She stares down at her hands. “Does your mother know about us at all?”
“No. Gra— Hermione. I was working on that. There are timelines for this kind of thing. Customs—”
Her head snaps up. “Customs?”
He flushes. “Yes.”
“Explain.”
He huffs out a breath and looks up at her ceiling. “Courting customs.”
She stares and stares and stares at him, unsure that she’s heard correctly. That Draco Malfoy had considered courting Hermione Granger was news to her. They enjoyed each other’s company, yes. They fucked on the regular, yes. She may not be a Pureblood, but she’s almost certain courting leads up to the fucking part, not begin with it.
“You’ve never taken me on a date,” she points out. He winces.
“No,” he agrees. “I haven’t.”
“Your mother doesn’t know about us.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“In fact,” she goes on. “Every night we’ve spent together, you’ve insisted on being at your flat or mine.”
His brow furrows, but she keeps going before he can talk.
“Have you even told your friends about me?”
He finally meets her gaze, fully aware now of what she’s getting at. “You think I’m ashamed of you.”
She swallows, but nods tightly. She doesn’t trust her voice not to break and has to blink several times to keep the tears at bay. But the idea that she was his dirty secret has been forefront in her mind for several weeks. While her friends knew she’d been sleeping with him (not that they were happy about it), his friends were, as far as she knew, completely oblivious.
He lifts his hands to her face, cradling her cheeks gently between his large palms.
“Let’s start with that last one. My friends know everything that’s been happening between us. They were happy for me. Theo is quite put out that I wouldn’t bring you around.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Selfishly, I wanted you to myself. I know Theo. He’s charming.”
She blinks.
“I haven’t taken you on a date because I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be seen in public with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
He smiles sadly, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones in soothing motions. “I’m not an idiot, Granger. I know full well I don’t deserve any part of you after the things I’ve done.”
“We talked about this.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“Never.”
She smiles.
“And I will tell my mother about you. It goes against custom—” he holds up a hand at her hurt expression. “I mean the order of things. It’s meant to be a delicate dance between wizard and witch. A series of events that lead to one outcome. I was meant to do all of this before getting you into bed.”
“One outcome.”
He quirks a brow. “I know you read historical romance novels, Granger. Tell me what courting is for.”
She swallows. “To find a husband.”
“Ten points to Gryffindor.” He murmurs, and pulls her flush against him, his mouth hot on hers. She squeaks, then gasps, and Draco is nothing if not an opportunist, and so his tongue slips in to meet hers. Her walls clench around him, and he groans into her as she starts to move.
“You’re going to come on my cock now, Hermione.”
“But we—”
“No more talking.” He punctuates his words with a slap on her arse. She gasps and grips the lapels of his jacket, hips moving furiously to take her pleasure. She feels it build quickly, already primed from him edging her earlier. He whispers encouraging things to her, his thumb finding a home against her clit to spur her onward, words of praise and ardour filling the silence between her pants and his groans.
She rides him, a singular focus on the snap of her hips, her forehead pressed to his. Sweat glistens on her skin and she rides higher, higher, until finally she bursts through with a sharp cry and everything becomes bright. Her body jolts, wrapping herself around him, trying to mould her body to his as she writhes and writhes against him. Her undulations become his undoing. He spills into her with a grunt and a murmured litany of praise against her mouth.
After, once her body has finished shaking, she sits tall in his lap and stares down at him. He smirks up at her with a fucked-out, pleased expression, his hair in disarray and his fucking suit still on. His thumbs make comforting circles along her thighs.
“You want to court me?”
He nods hazily.
“I believe that is what I said, yes.”
“You’ll take me on dates?”
“As many as you want.”
“You’ll tell your mother about me?”
“Only if you tell yours about me.”
She swallows. The idea of Slytherin Prince Draco Malfoy wanting to meet her Muggle mother has her heart soaring.
“And our friends?”
He sighs. “Yes, I suppose that is a gathering that’s going to have to happen, isn’t it?”
She hums in agreement, and then one last thought occurs to her. Draco lifts a brow, waiting.
“Astoria.”
He grins, as if the mention of the woman was a great joke.
“Darling,” he says, kissing her. “Who do you think sent me after you tonight?”