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After the Battle of Hogwarts, most students had returned back for the opportunity of finishing their education. A lot of them had struggled with grasping the concept of there being a time after the Battle, so it made sense to return back to the place where all beginnings started.
Eighth year students shared a common room as an attempt to promote unity and rid anyone of any lingering prejudices. They were given that space to just exist around one another and learn that despite blood status or which house people belonged to, they were just a group of magical folk trying to survive in the world.
Merging friend groups and learning to forgive—not forget—had been something that had taken some time. Some friendships happened a lot sooner than others, and some remained strained even so many years later.
It wasn't a shocker that most of those strained relationships were due to behaviour on Ronald’s account. It was safe to say that most people had cut ties with that Weasley, that shockingly had included most of the Gryffindors including his sister.
It was safe to say that ‘The Golden Trio’ was something that was only in the media and not an actual depiction of their relationship.
After they had graduated from Hogwarts, life had taken people into so many different avenues. They had gotten so accustomed to seeing each other everyday that starting life in the adult world had been a bit of a culture shock for everyone.
They still tried to get together—of course. It started out with weekly dinners that turned into every other week and eventually it had become only once a month. Something that Hermione had not been a huge fan of.
Which is what led them to their yearly holiday idea.
For one week out of the year, they would go somewhere as a group. It was something that had started out as their joke of continuing to promote unity but in reality, it was something that they had enjoyed as some sort of found family.
Each year they had chosen a different country and stayed in the Muggle world which allowed them to be themselves without any scandal breaking loose in the Daily Prophet—typically courtesy of Rita Skeeter.
It was their fifth year of these annual trips and Hermione found herself increasingly more excited as the days drew nearer.
This year they had decided on Mérida, Mexico. A place filled with history, new experiences, and beautiful sights. After some research online, Hermione had found that the city was known for mansions, markets, and colonial-style architecture.
Hermione’s eyes tracked over the small trip summary she had created with help from Theo.
Guest List
Blaise & Ginerva Zabini
Harry & Theodore Potter
Luna Lovegood
Pansy Parkinson
Draco Malfoy
Hermione Granger
Holiday Details
Mérida, Mexico
Lodging: Royal Villa at Chablé Yucatán
Stay: 01 June through 08 June
She stuffed the piece of parchment into her backpack and slung it over her shoulders. With a final look around her flat, she walked towards the Floo and called out 12 Grimmauld Place.
The residence was already bustling with energy, the excitement of their upcoming holiday palpable in the air. Their portkey—a serving tray—sat in the middle of the room, a little less than an hour before they left.
“‘Mione! You are looking fit,” Ginny said in greeting, crushing her in a tight hug.
Hermione huffed out a laugh, hugging her back before pulling back and appraising her outfit. Denim shorts, a simple blouse, and her hair tied back in a messy knot. She definitely wouldn’t consider it fit.
“Thanks, Gin. You don’t look half bad yourself.” Hermione smiled, eyes flicking around the room before landing on a familiar blonde head. “I’ll be right back, sorry.”
She didn’t wait for a response before making her way towards Draco. His back was facing her, the broad span of his muscles evident through his simple black tee. Hermione shook her head, clearing the effect that it had on her.
Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist, head pressed against his back. “Hi, Malfoy.”
Draco’s stomach rumbled with laughter as he spun around, pulling her into an actual hug. “Hey Granger. Long time no see.”
She kept her arms tight around his waist, tilting her head back to beam up at him.
Draco and Hermione had surprisingly put aside their differences and became friends relatively early into their Eighth Year. She found herself wanting to spend more and more time with him as time progressed, their banter and friendship felt like the most natural thing in the world.
It was a nice change to have a friend who shared her thirst for knowledge and debated her on topics that no one seemed to care about as much as she did. Draco Malfoy—in other words—felt like a breath of fresh air.
Fast forward to now, and he was her best mate.
And if she just happened to harbor other feelings towards him? Well that was no one’s business outside of her own.
Hermione’s arms stayed looped around Draco’s waist a second longer than strictly necessary, her cheek pressed to the warm cotton of his shirt. He smelled like cedar and the faint citrus of the soap he’d nicked from her flat last month—“for research,” he’d claimed, which was bollocks and they both knew it.
“Missed you,” she murmured into his chest.
Draco’s hand slid up her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades like he was mapping constellations. “Two weeks, Granger. You’re dramatic.”
“Three weeks, two days, and—” she checked the grandfather clock “—seventeen hours. Don’t shortchange me, Malfoy.”
Draco’s laugh rumbled against her cheek. “You’re keeping a ledger now?”
“Someone has to.”
Harry cleared his throat from across the room. “If you two are done cataloguing your separation anxiety, the Portkey activates in four minutes.” He was crouched beside the silver serving tray, wand tip glowing as he reinforced the anchoring charm. “And Theo, if you’ve hexed this thing to drop us in the Arctic again—”
“That was one time,” Theo protested, hands raised. “And educational. You learned the word ‘hypothermia.’”
Ginny snorted, adjusting the strap of her canvas tote. “You also learned Blaise can sprint in flip-flops when pursued by polar bears.”
Blaise, leaning against the mantel with the lazy grace of a panther, smirked. “I looked magnificent.”
Luna drifted past, trailing a finger along the tray’s rim. “The runes are humming in B-flat. Very auspicious for romance.” She smiled dreamily at Hermione and Draco. “Or reconciliation. Hard to tell.”
Pansy, filing her nails on the settee, didn’t look up. “With those two? Both. Simultaneously. It’s exhausting.”
Draco’s hand settled over the lower span of Hermione’s back—casual, proprietary. “Ignore them.” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice causing a shiver to rack up her spine.
Hermione stepped back, clasping his hand and tugging him towards the center of the room. His thumb brushed over her knuckles and her cheeks flushed at the innocent, friendly touch.
The Portkey flared cobalt. Eight hands reached out.
The world flipped.
They landed in a sun-drenched courtyard, the air thick with humidity and the distant clink of ice in glass. The Royal Villa at Chablé Yucatán sprawled before them—white walls, turquoise pool shimmering like a slice of sky, hammocks swaying between palms.
A butler in crisp linen greeted them with hibiscus agua fresca and a smile that said welcome to magical paradise, try not to burn it down.
Hermione’s knees buckled on the cobblestones. Draco’s arm snaked around her waist, steadying her with practiced ease.
Bloody portkeys, she hated them.
“Careful, Granger. The altitude’s lower here. You’ll swoon.” Draco mused, his lips curved into a smirk.
“I do not swoon.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes.
“Your pulse says otherwise.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, right over the frantic flutter.
Traitorous pulse.
She stepped away before she did something stupid, like tell him that her pulse was erratic not just from the portkey but because of him.
They had the afternoon free before the welcome dinner. Theo, predictably, declared a “cultural immersion mandate.”
“Translation,” Pansy said, slathering sunscreen on her shoulders, “he wants to flirt with abuelas and drink before noon.”
Theo gasped, clutching his heart. “I am a scholar of local customs and very much in love with my husband, thank you very much.”
Draco snorted. “You already tried to pay for tacos with Galleons.”
“Currency is a social construct.”
Hermione laughed, slipping on her sunglasses. “Museum first. Then plaza. Then—” she glanced at Draco “—you promised me a debate on the ethics of the newest Ministry reform over elotes.”
His eyes glinted behind his own shades. “Only if you admit I was right about the upcoming reconstruction of the Wizengamot.”
“Never.”
They Apparated to the edge of Plaza Grande—wandless, silent, a trick Draco had taught her in eighth year when they’d snuck into the Restricted Section after hours.
The square unfolded like a postcard: honey-colored cathedral, colonial architecture, trees dripping purple blossoms. Street vendors bustled with cheery smiles and a wide array of goods for purchase.
Draco bought two elotes from a cart—grilled corn slathered in mayo, cotija, chile, lime. He handed Hermione hers with a flourish.
“Careful. It’s messy.”
She rolled her eyes, took a bite. Juice ran down her wrist. Before she could wipe it, Draco caught her hand, thumb swiping the drip, then—slow, deliberate—licked it clean.
Her breath hitched. He was always doing things like that. The stuff that made her heart skip a beat, make her confused and then disregard it as a close friendship.
“See? Messy.” His voice was low, amused.
Around them, the group had fanned out.
Harry and Theo were attempting to photograph a flock of birds without startling them.
Ginny and Blaise argued over who got the last churro from a paper bag.
Luna knelt by a fountain, whispering to the koi. Pansy filmed everything on her Muggle phone, narrating like a wildlife documentary.
Hermione and Draco drifted toward the Museo Casa Montejo.
Their shoulders brushed with every step. Draco’s hand found the small of her back, guiding her past a display of ceremonial masks. His thumb traced idle circles through her linen top.
In the textile room, Ginny caught them. She was perched on a bench, taking in one of the rotating art exhibitions. Her eyes flicked to Draco’s hand, then to Hermione’s flushed cheeks.
“Best friends,” Ginny mouthed, exaggerated.
Hermione flipped her off. Draco, the traitor, just smirked.
She tried not to read too much into that.
The next morning, they piled into a rented van for a cenote. The driver, a man named Don, educated them with stories of local history as the van bumped down a dirt road.
The cenote was a sapphire eye in the jungle—limestone walls dripping with vines, water so clear you could see the tiny fish darting like silver needles.
They changed into their swimming costumes one-by-one in a cabana. Hermione emerged in a black two-piece, hair twisted up. Draco’s gaze snagged on the slope of her neck, the freckles across her shoulders.
He wore black trunks, low on his hips. The scar from Sectumsempra curved pale across his ribs. Hermione’s fingers twitched, wanting to trace it.
They jumped together, hands linked. The water was shock-cold, then perfect. Sunlight speared through the opening above, turning the cenote into a dam of light.
Underwater, Draco tugged her close, bubbles streaming from their noses. He pointed to a school of fish, then to her—look. She laughed, the sound muffled. When they surfaced, his arm stayed around her waist.
On the ledge, Theo lounged with a waterproof pouch. Inside: tiny vials labeled in his spidery scrawl.
“Phase one,” he murmured to Pansy. “Amortentia base. Just a whiff. Builds anticipation.”
Pansy raised a brow. “You’re deranged.”
“Genius is frequently misunderstood.” Theo corrected, a smug smile on his face.
That night, back at the villa, Theo “accidentally” spilled a drop of the potion into the welcome punch. Hermione caught a fleeting scent—cedar, citrus, parchment, mahogany.
Draco, beside her, went very still.
Draco’s birthday was June 5th. Theo declared it a festival.
They spent the morning at Mercado Lucas de Gálvez—the main market with over two thousand different vendors. Different styles of clothing, unique art pieces and jewelry littered on tables, and food lined the halls.
Hermione perused a jewelry table filled with different pendants. She settled on a small jade, jaguar pendant—the beauty too captivating to resist.
“Oferta especial para la encantadora pareja,” the vendor teased.
Hermione flushed, her Spanish was subpar at best but she caught the general gist. Draco just smirked, slipping the vendor extra pesos.
Lunch was the usual chaotic affair.
Blaise and Ginny engaging in a lover’s quarrel which was practically foreplay for the two.
Theo trying to serenade Harry in between bites of his food, and Harry smiling fondly in response.
Pansy and Luna whispered to one another, sneaking in kisses when they thought that no one else was looking.
Then there were the two of them.
Draco cut off a piece of his cochinita pibil and hand fed it to her. Her lips wrapped around the fork and she moaned at the taste of the slow-roasted pork. He shifted in his seat, dropping a napkin onto his lap which she found odd.
She held out a bite of her marquesita and he eagerly took a bite. He chewed it slowly, eyes locked in hers before humming. “Good choice, Granger.” His tongue swiped his bottom lip and she forced herself to look away.
Back at the villa, the group napped in hammocks. Hermione found Draco on the pool’s edge, feet in the water, sketching on a napkin—her profile, she realized, caught mid-laugh.
“Creep,” she teased, dropping beside him. Her heart thudded in her chest rapidly, the way he depicted her as something so beautiful made her head spin.
“Artist,” he tutted, flashing her a boyish grin. “There’s a difference.”
“Semantics,” she drawled before nudging him with her shoulder. “What do you want for your birthday?”
His eyes flicked to her mouth then back to her eyes. “Surprise me.”
Theo’s voice floated from the bar, voice lilting: “Oh, I’ve got surprises.”
Hermione slipped the jade jaguar into a tiny silk pouch that night, heart hammering like she was a second year and smuggling Polyjuice ingredients again.
For luck. Or love. Dealer’s choice.
She wrote it on a scrap of parchment in her neatest cursive, folded it twice, and tucked it inside.
She hadn’t planned on putting herself out there during this trip but perhaps it was time.
Hermione wasn’t sure exactly how she would deal with any sort of rejection from Draco. She had been quietly holding a torch for him for what felt like ages, yet neither of them crossed that boundary.
Sure, a lot of their small touches and behaviours could be considered beyond a normal friendship but she always chalked it up to how close the two of them were. She wanted to be closer of course, but she would take him however she could.
The biggest concern she had was ruining their friendship.
What if she had been imagining the way he looked at her a little longer than necessary or held her a little closer than friends did? What if she let their friends teasing get into her head and she was seeing something that wasn’t even there?
Hermione let out a shaky breath in an attempt to calm herself.
At least she would have her answer sooner than later.
The villa was quiet except for cicadas and the low thrum of the pool filter. Everyone had crashed early—too much sun, too many cocktails. She padded barefoot down the corridor, the pendant cool against her palm.
Draco’s door was cracked open. Moonlight striped the room through half-shut shutters. He lay sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the bed, sheet twisted low on his hips. A scar across his back caught the silver light like a lightning bolt frozen mid-strike.
She hesitated, mouth going dry at the sight she has seen far too many times. Bugger.
Best friends don’t sneak into each other’s rooms at 2 a.m. with cryptic gifts.
But she did it anyway.
The floorboards didn’t creak—thank Merlin for silencing charms.
She set the pouch on his pillow, right where his hand would find it when he rolled over. Her fingers brushed the cool strands of his hair, just once.
“Happy birthday, Draco,” she whispered, then fled before she did something colossally stupid, like crawl in beside him.
Draco woke to the faint scent of jasmine and something greener—jade, maybe. His hand closed around the silk pouch before his eyes opened.
He sat up slowly, sheet pooling at his waist. The parchment unfolded like a secret.
For luck. Or love. Dealer’s choice. —H
His thumb traced the looping H. A laugh huffed out of him, soft and disbelieving.
He slipped the pendant over his head. The jaguar settled against his sternum, cool and solid.
Hermione was already in the kitchen when he wandered in, hair in a messy knot, wearing one of his stolen T-shirts (grey, soft, hem skimming mid-thigh). His cock stirred at the sight before he scolded himself for being a creep.
She was his best mate, that was all. (He knew that was a lie but he let the thought form nonetheless).
She was attempting to work the espresso machine and losing terribly.
“Morning, birthday boy.” She didn’t look up, but her voice was too casual.
Draco leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You left something on my pillow.”
“Must’ve been a ghost.” The machine hissed like an angry kneazle.
He stepped behind her, reaching around to flick the correct lever. His chest brushed her back; the jaguar pendant swung forward, cool against her spine.
“Try again, Granger.” He murmured against her ear, relishing in the way she melted into him.
She shivered, voice coming out on a shaky breath. “Fine. Happy birthday. Don’t make it weird.”
Draco hummed, stepping back and leaning against the counter next to her once again. She finally looked at him, her eyes roaming over his bare chest before meeting his gaze. He fought back a smirk.
He tapped the pendant. “Love or luck?”
“Dealer’s choice,” she echoed, cheeks pink.
Theo burst in, apron already tied, wielding a spatula like a conductor’s baton. “RISE AND SHINE, LOVE BIRDS. Pancakes shaped like big cocks—my specialty.”
Harry followed, hair sticking up, holding two mugs. “He means big wands. He’s lying.”
Draco stole Hermione’s espresso, knocking back the shot in one sip. She scoffed, shoving at his chest with all of her tiny might. A grin spread over his face as he held her palms against his chest—her fingers twitching against his skin, breath hitching.
“You’re all banned from my birthday.” Draco drawled, raising one of her hands to his mouth, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a friendly gesture.
“Too bad,” Theo sang, flourishing the spatula. “I’m bartending tonight. Special menu. You’ll thank me.”
Hermione caught the glint in his eye and felt a prickle of unease.
Theo had arranged it: a private cenote, twenty minutes into the jungle, just for Draco and Hermione.
“A gift from all of us,” he’d said.
They Apparated to a dirt path lined with palm trees. A woven picnic basket waited on a checkered blanket—tamales, fresh mango, a bottle of white wine, two glasses.
Theo clapped Draco on the shoulder, waggling his eyebrows. “Two hours. No interruptions. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That’s a short list,” Draco muttered but shot him a hopeful yet wary smile.
Hermione pretended to ignore their conversation—not wanting to read into it and be wrong. She spread the blanket while Draco kicked off his sandals, spreading out their small picnic and smiling at the thoughtfulness of the gesture from their friends.
The cenote was smaller than yesterday’s, intimate—turquoise water ringed by ferns, a single beam of sunlight spearing through the canopy.
Perhaps their friends had seen her terrible pining and decided to take pity on her, giving her this opportunity to be truthful.
They ate in companionable silence at first. Draco peeled a mango with his pocketknife, slicing it into perfect cubes. Juice ran down his fingers.
“Open,” he murmured, holding a piece to her lips.
She took it, tongue brushing his thumb to collect the juice that had begun to trickle.
His eyes darkened, something warm and molten swirling in them.
They swam after. The water was warmer here, silk against sunburned skin. Draco floated on his back, jaguar pendant glinting. Hermione treaded water beside him.
“Remember eighth year?” she asked suddenly. “When you vanished into the Room of Requirement for days?”
He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in amusement. “You stalked me.”
“I was concerned.” she corrected, jutting her chin up.
Draco hummed, closing his eyes as if being brought back in time to that memory. A small smile curved his lips. “You left sandwiches outside the wall.”
“You weren’t eating,” she stated simply, shrugging.
Hermione knew it was silly. The Room would provide anything that people needed, hence the name Room of Requirement. She had just been trying to find any excuse to try to see him. And she genuinely was concerned.
It was the first moment she realized that his absence weighed heavily on her. They had been about halfway through their eighth year and their friendship was more solid than anything else she had left.
Her heart had ached at the lack of his presence. Maybe that was when she first acknowledged her feelings for him.
Silence stretched, soft as the water lapping the rocks.
Draco rolled onto his stomach, swimming closer. “I thought about you. In there. When it was quiet.”
Her heart stuttered at his admission, at his proximity. She swallowed down the hope that had begun to claw up her throat and swam towards him. “What kind of thoughts?”
“The kind that would’ve gotten me hexed.” His hand found hers underwater, fingers threading. “The kind I’m having now.”
“Oh?” She breathed out, blinking slowly as if trying to process what he was saying.
Draco pulled her closer by the waist. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, arms looping around his shoulders. Her chest brushed against his and she felt her nipples pebble beneath the fabric of her swimsuit.
“Yeah,” Draco murmured, eyes flicking from hers down to her lips. “Oh.”
His mouth was a breath from hers when—
SPLASH.
Theo cannonballed in fully clothed, shrieking like a lunatic. “TIME’S UP, LOVERS. DINNER RESERVATIONS.”
Draco’s head dropped to her shoulder, a groan muffled against her skin. “I’m going to murder him.”
Hermione laughed, breathless after what had almost transpired. She tried to play it cool, as if unbothered. “Later. After cake.”
The villa’s outdoor bar was lit with fairy lights and tiki torches. A banner spelled FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS, DRACO in Theo’s terrible calligraphy. The group was already tipsy—Blaise and Ginny slow-dancing to a salsa track, Harry attempting to teach Luna the Macarena, Pansy taking selfies at every angle she could manage.
Theo wore the Kiss the Cook apron and a grin sharp enough to be anything but wicked.
Behind him: a row of cocktails in layered ombre—clear tequila, mango foam, a swirl of something iridescent.
“Birthday boy special,” he announced, sliding two glasses across the bar. “Tequila, mango, lime, and—” he winked “—a Nott family secret.”
Draco eyed it warily. “If this is another one of your ‘experiments’—”
“Trust me.” Theo’s eyes flicked to Hermione. “Both of you. Drink.”
Hermione sniffed hers. The scent hit like a spell—cedar, citrus, parchment, mahogany, and something darker. Draco.
She met his eyes. He’d gone very still, glass halfway to his lips.
“Bottoms up,” Theo toasted. “To truths we’re too scared to say sober.”
They looked each other in the eyes, an unspoken question of should we? Lingered in the air.
They drank.
The tequila burned clean. The mango was sweet. Then the potion hit—warmth blooming under her skin, truth serum loosening her tongue, Amortentia curling around her senses like smoke.
Draco set his glass down carefully. “Hermione.”
Her name sounded like a vow.
“Draco.” she breathed out, wetting her lips. “I want to kiss you.” She blurted before slapping her hand over her mouth, eyes widening.
The world narrowed to the space between them. Theo whooped, herded the others toward the pool. “House is empty, we’ll be in the pool. Have fun lovebirds!”
Draco’s hand shot out like a Seeker snatching the Snitch, fingers locking around her wrist.
“Inside. Now.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Just yanked her through the sliding doors, the cool tile shocking under her bare feet. The second the door hissed shut behind them, his mouth crashed into hers—a clash of teeth, tongue, and desperation.
“Been wanting to kiss you for years,” he growled between nips at her lower lip. “Every fucking debate, every time you bit that lip when you were thinking, every time you wore my jumper and pretended it was an accident—”
Hermione moaned into his mouth, fingers fisting his shirt. “I stole your jumpers on purpose, you idiot. Wanted to smell like you when I—”
He cut her off with another kiss, lifting her clean off the ground. Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, ankles locking at the small of his back. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging on the strands as her tongue flicked against his own.
“Bedroom,” he rasped, already moving. “Need to see you. All of you.”
They stumbled down the hallway, a tangle of limbs and blurted truths.
“Third year,” he panted, kicking his door shut behind them. “When you punched me. Hardest I’ve ever been in my life.”
Hermione tossed her head back in a laugh before looking at him with a knowing look. “I knew you were staring at my arse in fifth year. Thought you were just being a prick.”
“Was. Still wanted to bend you over the library table and—”
She kissed him to shut him up, teeth scraping his tongue.
They stopped in the middle of the room, moonlight spilling into the room before Draco shut the shutters. He set her down slowly, hands sliding to her hips.
“Clothes off,” he said, voice rough.
Hermione’s fingers found the hem of her top. She peeled it up inch by inch, revealing the black lace bra underneath. His eyes tracked every movement like he was starving.
“Your turn.”
He toed off his sandals, then gripped the back of his collar and dragged his shirt over his head in one motion. The scar across his ribs gleamed silver; the jaguar pendant swung between his pecs.
Hermione’s shorts were next. She unbuttoned them slowly, letting them slide down her thighs. Stepped out. Kicked them aside.
Draco’s belt clinked open. The leather hissed through the loops. He popped the button of his jeans, shoved them down with his boxers in one go. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
“Fuck,” she breathed, mouth watering at the sight. “You’ve been hiding that all this time?”
“Every time you bent over to pick up a book,” he said, stepping out of the denim. “Thought about you on your knees. Mouth stretched around me. Those clever little noises you make when you’re concentrating—”
She unhooked her bra, let it fall. Her nipples tightened under his gaze.
He cursed under his breath, eyes tracing over her. “Last bit,” he ordered, voice cracking.
She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her knickers, slid them down slow—bending at the waist, giving him the view he’d apparently been fantasizing about for years.
Draco groaned, fisting himself once, twice. “On the bed. Spread your legs for me.”
Hermione crawled up the mattress, laid back against the pillows. She parted her thighs wide, knees bent. She was slick already, cunt glistening and puffy.
“Look at you. Gods you’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured, climbing up after her. “Soaked for me already. Always were, weren’t you? Every time we argued, every time I touched your back to guide you through a door—”
“Yes,” she whimpered, spreading her legs wider, rolling her hips up in invitation.
He crawled between her legs, hands sliding up her thighs. “Such a filthy girl,” he purred, trailing kisses along her hipbones, nose grazing along her skin. “I already know you’re going to taste like magic.”
The first lick was slow, reverent, flat of his tongue dragging from her entrance to her clit in one long, filthy stripe.
Hermione’s back bowed off the bed. “Draco—”
He hummed, the vibration shooting straight through her. “You taste better than I dreamed. Sweet and sharp—just like you.”
Another lick, slower.
He parted her with his thumbs, exposing every slick fold to the cool air, to his hungry gaze. “Look at this pretty cunt. Swollen for me. Dripping just for me.” He blew a soft breath over her clit; she jolted.
“Yes—yes, just for you,” she moaned, hand threading through his hair. “Always just for you—please.”
He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, feather-light, teasing. “Always for me?”
“I touched myself in the shower last night,” she blurted, Veritaserum and Amortentia stripping her bare. “Two fingers. Pretended they were yours. Came whispering your name—”
Draco groaned, the sound raw. “Show me how you do it.”
She reached down, spread herself open with two fingers. He watched, transfixed, as she circled her clit exactly how she liked—fast, tight, desperate.
“Pictured you doing this—” she gasped.
“Fuck.” He replaced her fingers with his mouth, sucking her clit in soft pulses. Two fingers slid inside her, curling, stroking the spot that made her see stars. “Gods, Hermione—fuck, so tight. Gonna ruin this cunt for anyone else.”
Hermione’s hips rocked against his face, moaning in desperation. “Only—only want you—”
He added a third finger, stretching her, tongue flicking faster. “I’ll do this everyday if you let me—taste so good—”he growled against her cunt, never stopping his ministrations.
“Draco—please don’t stop—”
Draco doubled down, moaning against her and that was all it took. She came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers. He didn’t stop—licked her through it, gentler now, lapping up every drop like he was starving.
When she finally came down from her high, he crawled up her body, chin glistening with her. He kissed her slow, filthy, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She groaned, kissing him back with equal fervor.
Draco pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard.
His cock lay heavy against her thigh, flushed and leaking, but he didn’t move any further. “Still with me?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me I can have you, Hermione. Need to hear the words.”
She cupped his jaw, thumb sweeping the wet shine on his lower lip. “I’m all yours.”
A shudder rolled through him. “Thank Gods.”
He shifted, settling between her thighs again. His hand dipped between them, grabbing his cock and teasing it against her cunt. He rubbed the tip against her clit and she whined, a needy, broken sound.
“Please, Draco,” she begged, trying to lift her hips against him. “I’ve wanted this for too long.”
Draco swallowed and nodded. He notched the tip at her entrance, eyes locked on hers as he slowly pushed in. Her lips parted on a moan, brows furrowed in pleasure. “So big—”
He groaned, thrusting shallowly to let her adjust. “So tight—fuck—you’re going to ruin me.” He pushed fully, burying himself to the hilt before stilling.
Her cunt fluttered around him. “Draco,” she whined, cupping his face. “Look at me, please.”
His cheeks were flushed, pupils swallowed black. He leaned into her touch, rolling his hips slowly. “Yeah?”
“I love you,” she blurted, eyes searching his. “I am in love with you—I have been for a long time.”
Draco groaned, leaning forward and crashing his lips against hers. He braced himself with his forearms, bracketing her face. “I am helplessly—” thrust “madly” thrust “in love with you.”
Hermione moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist, pressing her heels against his arse to hold him deep.
He kissed her again, softer this time, letting the truth settle into every slow slide of his lips against hers. Hermione tasted herself on him—salt and sweetness, the lingering bite of tequila, the warmth that was only Draco.
She clenched around him deliberately, a gentle pulse that drew a ragged groan from deep in his chest. “Please—”
Draco’s forehead pressed to hers, his breath hitching.
“I’ve wanted to tell you for ages” he confessed, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind that made her gasp. “All of the times we stayed—fuck—at eachother’s flats. Every time you smiled at me like I was everything—”
Another deep thrust, measured and unhurried, the headboard giving a soft, rhythmic thud against the wall.
Hermione arched into him, nails tracing the scars along his back. “I’ve loved you for so long,” she admitted, voice catching. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.”
A low growl rumbled in his throat, and his pace quickened—just enough to stoke the fire without breaking the intimacy.
“Never letting you go,” he vowed, his hand slipping between them to circle her clit with the pad of his thumb, slow and perfect. “This heart, this body, you—mine. You’re mine, Hermione.”
“Yours,” she breathed, thighs trembling as the pleasure coiled tighter. “Always yours.”
The words unraveled her.
She came with a soft, shattered cry, her back bowing off the bed as her walls fluttered and clenched around him. Draco followed moments later, burying himself deep with a broken moan, spilling inside her in long, pulsing waves, her name a reverent whisper against her neck.
They stayed locked together, trembling, sweat-slick and breathless. He didn’t pull out; instead, he shifted just enough to keep his weight from crushing her, his cock softening slowly inside the cradle of her body.
Hermione’s fingers traced lazy patterns over the scar on his back, gentle now, grounding.
“Happy Birthday, Draco,” she murmured into the damp curve of his shoulder.
Draco let out a weak laugh and pressed a trembling kiss to her pulse point. “Best birthday ever.” His voice cracked, raw with emotion.”Be mine, Hermione.”
“I’m yours, Draco,” she kissed his shoulder, then the curve of his jaw. “I suppose we should go thank our meddling friends.”
He slid out of her with a hiss, rolling onto his back and pulling her close. “I think they can wait a little longer,” he tilted her face towards his, dipping his head to press his lips against hers. “I’m not done with you quite yet.”