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Hermione never thought of Secret Santa as a particularly competitive affair. 

That is, until she participated in Secret Santa with a group of wealthy, creative, and downright diabolical Slytherins. 

The first year Hermione led a Secret Santa exchange, Pansy pulled Blaise’s name from the hat and proceeded to buy him a two-week, all-expenses-paid trip to Iceland, because he’d always wanted to visit the Blue Lagoon. 

Theo, not to be outdone, bought Pansy a villa in Tuscany the following year. 

Harry got Ron a pair of socks.

The third year, Hermione instituted a fifty-galleon spending limit. 

In exchange, Pansy suggested they add prizes. By this point, Hermione’s newly-turned-best-friend Draco (truly, what was her life?) was co-organising the event with her, so they put their heads together and crafted awards for the most creative gifts. And so the game turned from a heartwarming Christmas gift exchange into a cutthroat, no-holds-barred, everyone-for-themselves frenzy. 

The most annoying part of it all is that Hermione can no longer gift people books. Because Pansy outlawed them altogether. Even if they’re well-written books and perfectly tailored to the recipient’s interests. 

Fucking Pansy. 

But Hermione is ready to crush it this year. 

She gathers her bag and coat and then apparates to Draco’s place for their monthly dinner party, a bottle of wine in hand. Five years ago, she would’ve laughed at the idea of Draco’s flat being her favourite place, next to her own. But over the years, friend groups merged, and Hermione couldn’t long resist the charms of her least aggravating and most competent coworker.

She meets Draco in his kitchen and can’t help but stare. Under the task lighting, his hair glows, radiant and incandescent. His outfit is simple—black, short-sleeved t-shirt and trousers—but it fits him so well he looks like royalty. His usual glasses—horn-rimmed tortoiseshell—sit low on the bridge of his nose. 

He’s an objectively beautiful specimen, but Hermione doesn’t think of him that way. He’s Draco, who braves the indie movie theatre with her when she’s dying to see a new release. Draco, who brings her a sandwich and coffee from the Ministry canteen every Thursday and chats about his latest read with her over lunch. 

They click in a way she never did with Harry or Ron. Adding romance into the mix would be a recipe for disaster.

Why would she want to disrupt such a beautiful thing? 

“Hey, you.” Draco pulls her in and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. He raises a brow at the bottle in her hand. “This swill again?” 

“This swill is a twenty pound Chianti, thank you very much.” 

“Exactly my point. Good Chianti never costs less than fifty.” 

“Your general prattishness confirms the world’s still turning, so thank you. I think I’d have an existential crisis if you started being nice.” 

Draco shudders and finishes arranging the elaborate charcuterie board. “I get far too much joy out of being a prick. Especially with you.” 

“Pfft. You’re a big softie at heart. Especially with me.” 

He hums and charms a few knives to start chopping leeks and squash. “Can’t get anything past you, Granger.” He says it in a singsong voice, with a sarcastic lilt. 

She turns her attention to the spread across his worktop. “What did you decide on?” This is what she loves about Draco. He insists on managing the entire affair from start to finish, from shopping to prep to cleanup. In exchange, Hermione joins him during prep, drinks a large glass of wine, and helps set the table. It hardly seems like a fair trade. 

“Autumn salad with rocket, butternut squash, feta, and a cranberry vinaigrette, followed by baked cod with orzo and sauteed leeks, and a tomato coulis for the fish. And for dessert, I kept it simple. Cardamom cake drizzled with blood orange icing and toasted pistachios.” 

Hermione’s mouth waters. “Draco, you’ve outdone yourself. This might even top the New Year’s feast of 2008.” 

“High praise, considering you wouldn’t stop moaning all throughout dessert and licking your fingers. Terribly distracting.” 

“It’s not my fault you make Chantilly cream that’s lighter than clouds. Delectable. Ooh, could you whip some up, do you think? It’s been years.” 

“I don’t trust you not to moan in ecstasy at the dinner table, so no, I won’t be making it.” 

“Hey!” She elbows him in the ribs and steals an olive oil cracker from his pristine charcuterie board in retribution. 

“So,” he says, changing the subject, “who are you hoping to get for Secret Santa?” 

Hermione hums, considering. “Not Harry or Ron,” she says, now chewing on a cube of cheese. 

(One cannot eat crackers without cheese—such a crime is not to be tolerated.) 

“I’ve bought them too many presents over the years to think of anything original. Pansy’s inordinately hard to please, but the challenge might be fun. Love Ginny, but our ideas of fun are very different, so she’s always a bit tricky to shop for. Blaise would be too kind to admit he doesn’t like my gift, so I won’t trust anything he says. Probably Theo. He’ll love anything, even if it’s silly. Especially if it’s silly. And I’ve never pulled his name before.” 

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” 

“Well I can’t very well pick myself, can I?” 

“Hermione.” Draco brushes a crumb off her shoulder, and his hand lingers. “I meant, you could pick me.” 

Dinner is a rambunctious affair. Everyone swoons over Draco’s food (as they should). 

Halfway through the entrée, Draco leans over. “Do you want a refill, ba—” He cuts off abruptly. 

“Sorry?” Hermione twists around and frowns at Draco’s flushed cheeks and nervous lip twitch. 

“Erm. Do you want a refill?” 

She nods, and two minutes later, Draco slides a fresh glass of wine in front of her. 

She sniffs it. “Not the Chianti, I take it?” Her body turns into his, cocooning them in their own little bubble. 

He smiles. “Of course not. We’ll develop those taste buds yet, Granger.” 

Hermione warms from the inside out at his use of her nickname—something he reserves for teasing or, far less frequently, anger. 

Ginny regales them all with tales from the Harpies’ latest games. Harry tries to compete with stories from the Auror world, but his anecdotes lean more car park security guard than saviour of the wizarding world. 

Ron laments the latest lackadaisical crowd at the joke shop—“The new generation has no appreciation for true humour”—and Pansy casually shushes him with a pat on the arm. 

“You sound out of touch,” she tells him.

“I nearly had a conniption this week at work,” Draco says. 

“Really?” Hermione turns to him and rests her chin on her fist. “You didn’t tell me about this.” 

“Yes, well, I find it gauche to speak ill of coworkers, especially those I like.” 

Hermione snorts. “You don’t like any of your coworkers.” 

“Anyway,” Draco continues, ignoring her, “one of my colleagues severely fucked up a piece of correspondence to the French Ministry.” 

Hermione nearly gasps. That arsehole! He wouldn’t—

“In one memo, she both told the French Minister he was overly sensitive and said she loved the breakfast spread at the hotel he recommended in Paris because they had the best fresh bread and—I kid you not—condoms.” 

“It’s not my fault French is a stupid language. Sensible should mean sensible. That’s just—”

“Sensible?” Draco drawls.

“Precisely. And presérvatifs meaning condoms? In what world? Besides, that wouldn’t have happened if the Lead Translator had been paying attention when I first submitted the correspondence for review—” 

“Perhaps the Lead Translator would have caught the error earlier if the Head of International Magical Cooperation hadn’t talked right through his afternoon focus hour for three days in a row.” 

“Well, perhaps the Head of International Magical Cooperation wouldn’t have talked the Lead Translator’s ear off if he hadn’t gotten her hooked on a frustratingly addictive book series when he knows she can’t resist well-written magical realism.” 

“Gods,” Theo says. “You’re worse than an old married couple.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly, having heard this quip countless times over the years. “Yes, yes, we bicker, but it’s all in good fun. I mean, could you imagine the two of us married?” 

After dinner, they relocate to the living room. Everyone sprawls out on their unassigned, but assigned spots—Theo and Harry on the loveseat near the fireplace, Pansy on the armchair in the corner and Ron on the floor in front of her, and Blaise and Ginny on half of the sprawling Chesterfield sofa, leaving the other half free for Hermione and Draco to curl up on.

“All right,” Draco exclaims. He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Here’s how this will work. You’ll each pull a name from this charmed hat. Don’t bother trying to trick the magic to get who you want, I’ve charmed the papers to be tamper-resistant. No swapping, you miscreants. Any and all complaints should be directed to the ombudsman, Hermione Granger.”

Hermione smiles despite herself. He’s so bloody competent. 

His thigh presses against her, warm and comforting, as he passes the enchanted hat around the circle, and Hermione watches everyone’s expressions closely to see if they give anything away. The only person who can’t mask his emotions is Theo, who grimaces slightly and tucks his slip of paper neatly inside his jacket. 

Probably got Ron.

Hermione reaches into the hat. There are only two names left. Her fingers curl around a piece of paper immediately—no fishing around to search for scraps. She pulls out the slip and passes the hat to Draco, who’s the last to draw. 

Hermione sneaks a peek at her giftee and has to hold back a laugh. She’s reminded of their earlier conversation in the kitchen. 

Because her slip of paper says Draco Malfoy. 

Once the evening wraps up and their friends start heading home, Hermione makes her move. 

“Draco,” she calls, peering around the door to the kitchen, “do you mind if I use the floo in your study? I’m a bit too tipsy to apparate. And I need to pop upstairs and grab the jacket I left here last week.” 

“Of course,” he says, waving a flippant hand. “You don’t need to ask.” 

“Great, and thanks again for hosting. Night, Draco. Night, Pansy.” 

She sneaks upstairs to his study. She needs to get him something amazing for Secret Santa. But the problem is that the prat can buy anything he wants himself—and does. Gifting him a film she recommended is expected. Dull. Trite. She needs to blow his fucking socks off, and for that, she needs to give him something he’ll never expect. 

His desk floats in the middle of the study, artfully arranged and clutter-free. 

Hermione starts there. 

As guilty as she feels rummaging through his personal items, she knows Draco wouldn’t mind. That said, it does feel a tad presumptuous, and she speeds up her perusal to try and get out of there quickly. 

What would Draco want? She closes her eyes and thinks back to things he’s told her recently. He’s obsessed with the fountain pen she gifted him two years ago, but he’s since gone out and stocked up on luxury gold-plated and intricately carved pens that she couldn’t afford on her Ministry salary. He owns nearly every colour and effect of ink imaginable if the contents of his desk drawers are any indication. 

He did, at one point, mention losing one of his favourite scarves. But was it the blue one or the charcoal? 

Hermione creeps into his bedroom and inches the door shut behind her. His room is exactly the same as it was the last time she saw it. Airy, grand, but comforting. Rich textures and sumptuous silks and linens abound. Crisp, cool bedding. A deep, calming shade of taupe on the walls. 

She darts over to his spacious, walk-in wardrobe and rifles through the hanging racks of clothes and neat shelves of knit jumpers and scarves. 

An unexpected noise catches her attention. 

Footsteps echo down the hall, moving closer. Hermione freezes. 

Fuck. She must have been longer than she thought. She weighs her options and decides she doesn’t want Draco to know she was in here. Because he’ll ask her why and then, because she’s a terrible liar, she’ll be forced to reveal the truth, which will ruin the fun. 

So Hermione does what any brave Gryffindor would do in her shoes—she hides in Draco’s closet. She leaves the door slightly cracked. And then she dives behind the rows of hanging suits and crouches low in the shadows.

Whispers of his scent surround her, commingled with wool and silk and linen.

Draco enters his bedroom and flits around for a bit. She can’t see him, but little noises accompany his journey around the room. Taking his jacket off, perhaps? Laying something on his desk? 

Overcome with curiosity, Hermione shifts positions so she has a clear line of sight through the crack in the wardrobe door. Her knees sink into the plush carpet. From this angle, she can see Draco standing by his bed, stripping off his shirt. 

Oh gods. Her hands fly up to cover her eyes. She’s seen Draco shirtless, of course, but always by choice—at the beach, around the house—when he’s fully cognizant of it. 

He stalks over to the wardrobe, and Hermione shrinks back, hidden from view. Her heart pounds, waiting for him to notice her and flip out. But he merely grabs a set of loungewear from a shelf and leaves her alone again, leaving the door further ajar. Now she has a wide, unobstructed view of his room. But he needs to leave, damn it. 

Unfortunately, Draco wanders into his ensuite and turns the shower on. And leaves the door wide open—why? Hermione nearly groans before remembering herself. His bathroom is directly across from the bedroom door, so if she sneaks out now, he’ll notice. 

Content to wait out her punishment, she leans back against the wall and hugs her knees to her chest. 

Minutes pass. The water shuts off. Draco steps out of the bathroom. 

Oh. 

He’s clad in nothing but a towel around his waist. Hermione studies him, not used to seeing her friend in such an intimate way. He’s just as fit as she remembered, with lean biceps, sculpted obliques, and diagonal lines that lead from his abdomen straight towards his hips. 

And he’s wet. Hair damp and mussed, slightly darker than normal. His fair skin glows a warm pink, and a few stray beads of water trail down his chest. 

This is so weird. Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, feeling like a creep. She didn’t want to spy on him, so that makes it okay, right? 

When she dares reopen her eyes, she nearly faints. Because Draco dropped the towel. And he’s naked. And hard. 

Hermione squeaks. The tiny, imperceptible sound rings in her ears like gunshots. 

But the rustling of the fabric as Draco climbs onto his bed disguises it. 

He stretches out, long and lean, and lets out a long-winded sigh as his neck relaxes into the pillow. 

Hermione prays for him to fall asleep, and quickly. But today isn’t her lucky day. Because Draco’s left hand slides down his body and settles firmly around his cock. 

He squeezes it. Groans. Casts a lubrication charm under his breath. 

Help, help, help, this can’t be happening.

This is so wrong. She shouldn’t be here, watching her best friend get off in his bed. She imagines the invasion of privacy if the tables were flipped and shudders. How will she ever explain this? She’ll never tell Draco—she’ll take the secret to her grave.

But Hermione can’t look away. She can’t unhear the soft, slick sounds of his fist. Can’t unsee the way his abs tense, highlighting a sculpted line along his obliques. He looks soft and hard at the same time, like if she touched him, he’d be made of the finest marble, warm to the touch after having sat in the sun for hours.

But she shouldn’t think about touching Draco. Her best friend. 

Hermione debates the merits of disapparating. The sound would give her away, but Draco would never need to know that it was her in his closet. And if she stays, the temptation might overcome her more rational ideals. She might look. She might imagine.

Hermione bites her lip and mulls over the decision as she sneaks one last glance through the door. Draco’s fist slides rhythmically over his cock, slow and controlled, his thighs tense. Beautifully undone. A master class in restraint and its subsequent loss. 

Her nails dig into her palms, pressing nearly hard enough to draw blood, to remind herself that what she’s doing is wrong. And she almost convinces herself to turn tail and flee.

Almost.

Because then a stuttering noise falls from Draco’s lips. A little whimper. A soft groan. And then the words that will undo her forever.

“Fuck, Hermione.”

She freezes. He can’t have—? 

Her name. He said her name. He’s thinking about her. He’s thinking about fucking her. He’s getting off to the idea of fucking her. Her best friend is lying in his bed, stroking his fist and pleasuring himself to her. Hermione.

This is— 

The floor spins beneath her and the walls close in. No, no, no. 

He can’t— 

He doesn’t—  

She doesn’t know what to think.

Her sharp intake of breath pierces the silence, but thankfully—so fucking thankfully—Draco doesn’t hear.

He keeps stroking himself, faster now. 

His cock glistens with oil. A bit of pre-cum leaks from the tip. He’s close.

Hermione stares, transfixed, suddenly all too aware that she’s a warm-blooded creature. Because her blood and that warmth pool between her thighs, striking up a slow heartbeat. Her breasts feel heavy beneath her shirt, her nipples peaked. She lifts her fingers to her cheek and neck only to find a flushed heat spreading across them.  

Hermione aches. This isn’t how she’s supposed to feel. She should be racked with guilt. Mortified. Horrified.

Draco bites down on his lip to suppress a muffled noise. 

Hermione’s thighs clench together.

“Fuck, baby, that’s it, so good. You can take it all.”

Oh gods. That’s so— Who knew Draco had such a dirty mouth? Hermione wonders what he’s fantasising about. Is he picturing her on her knees as he slowly feeds her his length until he hits the back of her throat and she swallows him down? Or maybe she’s quivering on the bed beneath him, taking deep breaths while he pushes into her and stretches her open.

“Spread those legs a little wider for me, yeah? Just like that.”

Well, that answers that question. So he’s thinking about fucking her. Now she’s thinking about him fucking her. About him holding her legs open so he can slot between them. About him peppering kisses up and down her neck and chest, leaving little purple impressions to remind her of him.

That heartbeat between her thighs ticks up as Draco’s movements grow more frantic, and his hips jerk off the bed, thrusting up into his hand. Pretending they’re thrusting into her. She rubs her thighs together, mortified by the slick, warm sensation in her knickers. She’s dripping. Turned on and ashamed by it. 

“Fuck. So good, coming for me. Tight. You feel— Fuck, Hermione.” His sentences grow more fragmented, choppy. Hermione feels herself tighten up the way he praises her for in his imagination.

She thinks about coming around Draco‘s cock. Being filled to the brim. 

“You’re gonna make me— Fuck. So warm, so tight, so pretty.”

Hermione trembles as Draco comes. Her inner walls clench and pulse, desperate to be filled. Draco flies over the edge and shoots a stream of white across his fist and his stomach. There’s so much of it. Again, Hermione warms. All because of her.

Draco vanishes his mess, runs a hand through his hair, and groans.

Hermione couldn’t agree more.

He tugs on a pair of briefs and falls back into bed, still half-dazed. 

“Always so fucking good,” he mumbles, turning over onto his side. 

Hermione stills. Does he mean…her? Has he thought of her more than once? Or does he simply mean getting off in general? He probably fantasises about all of his female friends. 

Hermione suppresses a nervous laugh and shifts her legs beneath her. Her right calf has gone numb. Pricks and tingles shoot up her leg, and she massages the muscle to restore blood flow. 

Now she has to wait for Draco to fall asleep and stay asleep before she can risk sneaking out. Thirty minutes, at least, just to be safe. 

She leans back against the wall of his closet and begins to count. 

All throughout the coming weeks, Hermione can’t stop thinking about what she saw in Draco’s bedroom. She stutters through their usual Ministry lunches, and even though Draco clearly senses something’s off, he doesn’t pry—mainly, he ensures she never runs out of tea.

Spending time with him is torturous. Because all of a sudden, she sees Draco in a whole new light. When he glances up at her over the rim of his glasses, she imagines him doing the same thing when they’re fifty, curled up on the sofa together after dinner, a tabby cat sleeping between them. When he clucks his tongue and chides her for being cheeky, she imagines him using the same admonishing tone in the bedroom. Their trips would end with them falling into bed together at the end of the day instead of neighbouring rooms. But the hard parts of relationships—the trust, the openness, the fun—they have those. 

She always compartmentalised Draco in her mind. A friend, and nothing more. So she went on dates. Met people at bars. 

Has he really been an option this whole time? 

He’s objectively attractive—she’d be silly not to think so—but she values their friendship more than his looks. It’s why she never allowed herself to think of him as anything but a friend. 

Until now. 

Now…she thinks she might want more.

Hermione even talks to Pansy about it, leaving out the finer details about what changed her mind. Pansy assures her she has nothing to worry about, that Draco’s head over heels for her and that no, he hasn’t said anything to me but based on the way he looks at you, he either loves you or wants to murder you and I really hope it’s the former.

So it’s partly with nerves and partly with unbridled excitement that Hermione gets ready for the Secret Santa exchange at Draco’s. No dinner this time, just cocktails and presents and some new inventions Ron’s bringing from the joke shop for them to test out. 

Time to face her fears and flirt her way into Draco’s heart. 

Hermione tugs on a soft, A-line miniskirt and light jumper. She grabs her usual bottle of Italian swill, as Draco likes to call it, and apparates to his flat. 

She’s the last to arrive. The group greets her in the living room from their usual spots. Except—

“Where’s the sofa?” Hermione frowns, depositing Draco’s present atop the pile near the fireplace. The massive Chesterfield is gone. In its place is a squashed loveseat barely big enough for two people, let alone the three it currently holds. Ginny perches on Blaise’s lap, both of them looking far too at ease, and Draco occupies the other half of the sofa. 

“Right,” she laughs. “I’ll just…” She heads for a spot on the floor near the coffee table, but Pansy snaps at her. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Granger, you can’t sit on the floor in that skirt.” 

“Sure I can.” 

“You’ll freeze to death, and probably flash us—” 

“Fine by me,” Theo quips. 

“—so please do me a favour and sit on the sofa like the refined witch I know you can be.” 

Hermione lifts a brow. “And where exactly do you propose I sit?” 

“Sit on Draco’s lap. You’re small enough, and he’s certainly got the thighs for it.” 

That would certainly aid her goals. 

“Pans.” Draco gives her a reproachful look, his teeth gritted. 

Well then. “Draco doesn’t want me to sit with him. So I’ll just—”

He sighs. “It’s fine, Hermione. Come here.” 

While Hermione came there with every intention of laying the groundwork re: her newly realised feelings, she didn’t expect to do it like this. She perches carefully on Draco’s thighs, her spine ramrod straight, and takes care to leave a few inches of space between them. She can tease him, but she doesn’t want to push him too far.

Draco tugs her backwards so her back is flush with his chest. “Relax,” he breathes. “You’re so tense. It’s just me.” 

That’s the problem. It’s Draco, and the connotations of this are different from what they would’ve been a month ago. But Hermione wills herself to obey. Three slow, deep breaths undo the knots in her stomach, and she sinks into Draco’s hold. He smells as enticing as ever, some mix of herbs and woods and spice.

The conversation moves on, and Ginny regales the group with the latest woes of the Holyhead Harpies. New recruits, somehow both arrogant and untested, leaky showers in the locker rooms, and an insane travel schedule on account of their recent dominance in the standings. 

“I’m having it refurbished, by the way.” 

From this position, Draco’s voice is low and warm and smooth in her ear, a soft croon just for her. 

“Wh—what?” 

“The sofa,” he chuckles. “It needed reupholstering. New leather.” 

“Oh.” Why can’t she think? 

His hand comes to rest at her hip. Before long, his thumb begins to trace little patterns on the inch of skin between her skirt and where her shirt has ridden up. 

Draco responds to a quip from Ginny, not sparing Hermione a second glance. He likely doesn’t even realise he’s touching her. 

But it still makes her shiver. 

Ron clears his throat and addresses the group. “Right. Now that everyone’s here, the fun can begin. Before we do presents, we’re playing Truth or Drink. But first…” He passes out little test vials labelled with “Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes Prototype 117F.” 

“F?” Hermione asks. 

“Oh, yeah, this is our sixth attempt at this one.” 

“That’s…reassuring.” She regards the concoction suspiciously, eyeing the gold bubbles suspended in the lavender liquid.

Harry holds his vial up in question. “Er, what do these do, exactly?” 

“George came up with the idea. It’s brilliant. A twist on Elixir to Induce Euphoria. Makes you more confident, more open-minded. Like you’ve had a few drinks, but without any side effects or hangovers. And it’s non-addictive.” 

“I think it’s genius,” Pansy says. “If I have to swallow down one more disgusting Hangover Potion, I’m going to be sick.” 

“Not the worst thing you’ve swallowed,” Theo quips, looking pointedly at Ron. “Bottoms up, everyone!” 

“Fucking gross,” Ginny pouts.  

A few reluctant sips later, they’ve all downed their potions. True to Ron’s word, Hermione immediately begins to feel lighter. Happier. And….hornier?

Oh no. Ron did say this would mimic the effects of alcohol, and Hermione always gets extra touchy after a few glasses. 

She leans back further against Draco’s chest, unable to help herself, delighting in his warm, broad body. “You’re quite comfortable,” she mumbles. “I wouldn’t mind sitting on your lap more often.” 

What. 

The. 

Fuck. 

So much for subtlety.

Draco coughs, his abdomen shaking against her back. “I mean, you’re welcome any time.” 

She peers back at him, searching him for any signs of disgust. But no, he looks completely genuine. Her fingers lift to his face without thought. “I like your glasses,” she says, running her fingers along the temple of his glasses, stretching from eye to ear. “They suit you. Make you look all handsome and intellectual.” 

His brows lift in surprise, and a gentle, pleased smirk graces the corner of his lips. “I am handsome and intellectual.” 

“Even more than usual.” 

The words keep pouring from Hermione’s mouth without conscious thought. Surprising, since she can usually hold her tongue even when tipsy. But the truth is destined to come out tonight, it seems. 

The truth. 

Oh. Oh no. 

“Ron? What all did you say was in this?” Hermione asks in a mild panic. 

“Oh! It’s a proprietary mixture of Elixir to Induce Euphoria, Babbling Beverage, and a dash of Calming Draught to mellow it out.”

“And there wouldn’t happen to be veritaserum in here, would there?” 

“Just a few drops,” Ron says, shrugging. “Enough to loosen inhibitions but that’s it.” 

Hermione closes her eyes and breathes deeply. This is fine. She will not have a conniption. 

“Elixir to Induce Euphoria and Calming Draught both increase the potency of veritaserum. So putting a few drops into this mixture is essentially the same as adding an entire vial.” 

Theo whistles low and slow. “Oh, fuuuuu—” 

“You’ve essentially dosed us all with truth serum. Maybe we should call it a night and get together next weekend instead?” 

Pansy shrugs. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Might be fun. Besides, the game’s called Truth or Drink, not Lie or Drink.” 

Hermione eyes Pansy suspiciously. She seems remarkably unsurprised by the commotion, and Hermione would cut off her wand arm if Pansy didn’t have something to do with this.

She should’ve known better. Never trust Pansy Parkinson.

“Fine by me,” Blaise adds. 

“Me too,” Harry says. 

Draco stiffens behind her. “Pans, maybe we should—” 

“Well, that’s settled,” Pansy declares, ignoring Draco entirely. “Why don’t I ask the first question? Draco, describe your ideal witch.” 

 Draco glares at Pansy. His fist curls around the hem of Hermione’s shirt. “Pansy.” 

“What’s the matter?” She bats her lashes and peers up at him with an innocent expression. 

Draco shifts his thighs, moving Hermione with him, and tightens his hold around her waist to keep her in place. 

It lights her up. 

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Pansy teases. 

“I could choose drink.” 

“You won’t.” She challenges him with a raised brow and a smug grin, and shockingly, Draco takes the bait.

“Fine. My ideal witch is smart,” he begins. “Headstrong. Someone who can put me in my place. Gorgeous, obviously. Incredible hair. Funny. Kind.” 

Jealousy roils in Hermione’s veins, against her better instincts. She pictures Draco on a date at a fancy restaurant, holding hands across the table with some faceless, perfect pureblood, probably named Patricia or Penelope. Penelope has the silkiest, most gorgeous blond hair, a smile brighter than the sun, and a sense of humour to match. 

Draco won’t stay single forever—he’s a catch. He’ll make any witch he’s with insanely happy. He’ll be an attentive husband. Considerate. Competent. 

Hermione isn’t so blind as to miss that.

It only bolsters her resolve. 

She came here to make him sweat, and she’ll do just that. Part of her had still yearned to hold back, worried to lose him as a friend. Because what if he doesn’t return her feelings? What if it’s just lust for him? But she sees the future clearly now—if she doesn’t lose his friendship because of unrequited feelings, she’ll lose it when he inevitably finds his Penelope. 

So why not try? 

She smiles to herself and leans back in Draco’s embrace. He’s so calm, cool, and collected all the time, and she wants to change that. It’s time to make him sweat. 

Hermione takes a sip of her wine and decides to test a few theories and possibly tease her best friend in the process. She shifts back and forth, rubbing her arse over Draco’s lap. 

He lays his hands on her hips and tries to shift her off. But she doesn’t give in. Hermione arches her back and grinds into him, preening when he mutters a curse under his breath. It doesn’t take long. 

And then on the next question, Pansy clearly has Hermione’s best interests at heart, because she asks, “What’s something you like during sex that might surprise people?” 

Theo grins. “You wouldn’t believe the things Harry lets me put up his—” 

“Gross,” Ron interjects. 

 “I can vouch for that,” Ginny says. “Harry always got so excited when I whipped out the—” 

“Your turn,” Harry says to Hermione. “I’m begging you.” 

Fine. Hermione sits up straighter and leans back into Draco. She has a hunch about his proclivities in the bedroom based on how he likes to take care of her. Based on how he talked to her in his fantasy.

“During sex? I like people who take control,” she says. “Although it’s rare that I let someone. Oh, and I like to be choked.” 

Draco shifts behind her and squeezes her hip, seemingly automatically. 

Hermione preens. She crosses her legs and squeezes her thighs, too eager for a touch between them. Draco’s touch. 

He answers Pansy’s question next. He bands Hermione against him as he says, “I like to be in control.” 

His answer, so immediately after hers, lands pointedly. 

“Boo!” Theo tosses a balled-up serviette his way. “She said something that would surprise people. And no offense, but no one is surprised by that.” 

“That’s all you’re getting out of me,” Draco retorts.

The Truth or Drink questions keep coming, one after another. Hermione drinks at “What’s everyone’s most embarrassing moment?” and “What are your biggest regrets?” 

No way is she spilling the truth on either of those. 

“So, Granger.” Pansy shifts to face Hermione and crosses her legs. “You and Draco have been best friends for ages now. What are your three favourite things about him?” 

“Three?” Hermione blanches, because how is she supposed to limit it to three? But she thinks carefully. “His sense of humour,” she starts with, because that’s an easy one. “He can make me laugh like no one else can.” Draco’s thumb, currently rubbing her hipbone, slows its pace. “Second, the way he makes me feel seen. Always listens to my boring work updates. He understands me. All of me.” 

“And number three?” Pansy prompts. 

Right. Hermione racks her brain trying to pick one final thing. His competence, his cooking abilities, being her perfect travel companion. His body, dripping with water…

What? No. She shakes her head and tries to clear the image of Draco wrapped in a towel, stepping out of his shower. But then her brain fast-forwards, and she’s in his wardrobe again, watching him get himself off on his bed, to thoughts of her, and…

“Is it too late to drink?” 

Pansy’s eyes gleam. “Oh, this will be good. And yes, it’s too late to drink, you have to finish.” 

Oh gods. Hermione pinches her lips shut, because her mind has decided what her third favourite thing about him is, but she can’t say it. Except the veritaserum is wreaking havoc on her tongue—she can’t say anything but the truth. 

And before she knows it, it’s spilling out of her and she claps a hand over her mouth to try and muffle the sound. 

“Thawaisesmynawhegoms.” 

Pansy cocks a brow. “What was that, Granger? Draco, darling, be a dear.” 

Draco chuckles and grabs her wrist, pulling her hand off her mouth easily. He pins it by her side. 

“You’ll regret that,” Hermione warns. 

Pansy repeats her question. 

Hermione squirms, ignoring Draco’s resulting hiss behind her. There’s no stopping this trainwreck. “The way he says my name when he comes,” she squeaks. 

Pansy’s jaw drops. 

Ron spits out his drink.

Harry grimaces. 

Theo toasts them and says, “Nice.” 

Hermione closes her eyes and succumbs to her shame. 

Draco is frozen behind her. Rigid. His arm tightens around her waist. His thighs stiffen. 

“What the fuck—” 

Hermione turns a bit, but she still can’t bear to face him head on. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear, but I saw you a few weeks ago after our last dinner. I was in your room, and you came in, so I hid in your wardrobe, and then I couldn’t sneak out, and—” 

By now, the room has fallen silent, everyone watching in a mixture of intrigue and dumbfounded horror. 

Draco stands suddenly, dislodging her from his lap. He storms out of the room without a word, hurt laced clearly across his expression; in his tight, hunched shoulders. 

“Shit.” Theo watches him go with a grimace. 

“Really, Pansy?” Hermione glares at the witch, who’s still sipping her wine unabashedly. “That is not what we talked about.”

“What? How was I supposed to know you’d say that? I thought you’d compliment him a bit and he’d finally admit he likes you as more than a friend.” 

“At this rate, I’ll be lucky if he ever speaks to me again.” 

Hermione hears Draco stomping around upstairs and her stomach twists. She needs to fix things with him. The last thing she ever wanted to do was embarrass him, and now she’s gone and mucked it all up. 

“I think the party is over,” she says to the group. “You can see yourselves out.” Harry goes to collect everyone’s glasses, but she shakes her head. “Leave them, I’ll deal with it.” 

“You heard the witch,” Ginny says, pulling Blaise off the sofa with her. “Let’s hit the floo.” 

“I’m still trying to forget I heard any of that,” Ron mutters, his face turning a sickly shade of chartreuse. 

“Oh, grow up,” Pansy snaps. “So your friends want to shag each other, big deal.” 

Hermione huffs and leaves the group behind, trusting them to make a hasty exit. Nerves churn in her stomach, but she forces herself to keep moving. 

This is what she wanted. The realisation she came to over these past few weeks. She just didn’t want it to happen like this. 

Hermione creeps upstairs. “Draco?” She knocks on his door and hears a muffled grunt from inside. 

“Go home, Granger.” 

Oof. Granger. He’s mad. 

Well, nothing for it. Hermione twists open the knob, pleased that it’s not latched, and barges in. 

He flings his shirt into a laundry basket and whirls around, his jaw clenched. “What the fuck are you doing? I said go home.”

She pointedly fixes her eyes on his face and not his bare (sculpted) chest.

“Draco, I’m sor—” 

“I don’t want to hear it, Hermione. Please leave and let me retain what scraps of dignity I have left.” 

“No.” 

“Do I have to beg? Is that what it’ll take? I’m not even dressed.” 

She eyes his shirtless form. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

“Thanks for the reminder,” he deadpans. He stalks closer, and her breath hitches at his proximity. 

“I shouldn’t have looked,” she whispers. Hermione hates knowing she made him angry.  

“I don’t think I could have resisted, if it were you,” he says bitterly. “It’s only a natural inclination, I suppose.” 

“I’m sorry for breaking your trust, and I’m sorry for laying it all out there in front of our friends. But…” She takes a step towards him now, herding him until his back bumps up against the wall. “I’m not sorry it happened.” 

Draco swallows but stays silent.

“Come on,” she teases. “Don’t you remember Pansy’s question?” Her lips twitch as she waits for the realisation to settle in. 

What are your three favourite things about Draco? 

“Your favourites,” he breathes. He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering sigh. When he opens them, his pupils are blown wide, a sprawling sea of onyx.

“Mm-hmm.” Her eyes glaze over and fall to his lips. “I really, really liked it.” 

“Hermione.” Her name tumbles from his lips in a whisper, light as the summer breeze. 

“Will you say it again? I want to see if I like it as much during the real thing.”

A slow, teasing smile tugs up the corner of his lips. “You want this?” 

“I want this.” 

“With me?” 

“I’m all yours, Draco.” 

He exhales like he’s releasing years of tension. “What did I do to deserve this?” 

“Managed to be an incredible person. A wonderful friend. And incredibly fit to boot.” 

“Keep telling me how fit I am, it’s good for a wizard’s ego.” 

“Think we’d better focus on deflating yours instead. Your head’s getting a bit too heavy.” 

He reaches out and twirls one of her curls between his fingers, tugging on it gently before letting it spring back into place. “Hard not to be. It’s full of thoughts about how lovely you are, and they take up a lot of room. I’ve been hoarding them for ages.” 

“Really? And how long have you liked me?” 

“I don’t like you,” he huffs. “I’m in love with you.”  

Her heart beats faster. “You’re in love with me.” 

“Against my better judgment, yes.” 

That makes her pause. “That’s rude.” 

“Only because I know you don’t reciprocate, and I haven’t the faintest chance in hell of getting over you.” 

Curious. “You think I don’t reciprocate?” Hermione sinks to her knees, and Draco falls back onto the wall behind him. 

“Hermione. What—?” 

She undoes his trousers and looks up at him for permission. 

Draco’s jaw hangs open; his fist clenches by his side. “Don’t do this if you don’t mean it. If you don’t want—” 

“You have no idea what I want.” 

“Then tell me,” he grits out, his whole body vibrating. 

She tugs down his trousers. “During the game, when you talked about your ideal woman—”

“That was you, by the way.” 

“Yes, I figured that much out, thanks. But I couldn’t stop picturing you with some faceless, beautiful, intelligent woman and it hurt. All I kept thinking was that you’re mine, and I’ll be damned if I lose you to perfect pure-blood Penelope—”

“Who?” 

“That’s what I named her, in my mind.” Hermione lays a palm over his length, still hidden beneath a layer of fabric, but hot and heavy through the fabric. 

“Fuck.” 

She reaches into his pants and wraps her hand around his cock—hard, twitching beneath her touch. Draco whimpers, and the sound goes straight between her thighs. 

Hermione wonders if he’s ever thought about this exact scenario—her on her knees. 

(Who is she kidding? He’s a man.) 

So she endeavours to make reality more enticing than his wildest fantasies. 

“If I haven’t made it clear yet, I want you.” She frees his cock and starts slow, with teasing licks along his underside, never once breaking eye contact. His hands fist into his shirt hem, like he’s trying to restrain himself from reaching for her. 

Well, that won’t do. Hermione tugs at his hands and lays them gently on either side of her head, nodding encouragingly when his fingers thread through her curls. 

And then her lips welcome his cock.

It’s a delight, taking him in her mouth. Hermione grows wetter the longer she works him, her body responding to every last one of Draco’s shudders and twitches and groans in kind. Her thighs squeeze together, her knickers soaked. 

Why weren’t they doing this the whole time?

“Fuck—you—gods, Hermione.” Draco throws his head back against the wall with a clunk. His knees tremble, so Hermione takes him deeper, eager for his complete and utter ruin. 

She opens her jaw and stretches her lips wide, moaning at his warm, masculine taste. 

“Can I try something?” Draco rasps. 

Hermione nods. Whatever he wants. 

“I keep thinking about what you said during the game. About wanting someone to take control.” He guides his cock back to her lips and pushes in, feeding her every last inch until she starts to resist. “Hold it,” he orders. “Right there, fuck.” 

She blinks up at him with watery eyes and holds him deep as long as she can, loving the way his hips twitch as he strains to hold himself still and not thrust into her mouth. 

It’s challenging to fully let go and cede control in the bedroom. Hermione wouldn’t dare let a one-night stand choke her or dominate her. Only someone she trusted implicitly. Someone who respected her. Then she could turn her brain off and let them disrespect her. 

So this? This is as easy as breathing. Draco knows her tells better than she does. He knows what she can handle. He senses exactly how long she can hold him against her throat without activating her gag reflex. 

She takes him deep again, choking on him until he pulls back, gasping for air. 

“Stop. I can’t—” His hands stay twisted in her curls, holding her head away from him. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. I can’t finish now.” 

“What does properly mean to you?” 

Draco holds out his hand and she takes it. He unwraps her like the most precious gift under the tree. Removes her shirt. His thumb skates down the length of her upper arm as he guides her sleeves over her wrists. Hermione sucks in a sharp breath as the cool air hits her abdomen. 

Draco undoes her bra next. He doesn’t even look, just reaches behind her back and snaps it open with one hand. 

Next comes her skirt. Then knickers. 

Draco drinks her in. Swallows. Guides her onto the bed. Lays her down gently on the sheets and crawls atop her, eyes heated. 

It’s so easy to give herself over to him. All of the usual concerns when she sleeps with someone are nowhere to be found. Draco’s seen her in swimwear and shorts and frumpy sweatpants and everything in between. He knows what she looks like, and he likes it. 

Hermione can let go and enjoy herself. 

Draco kisses his way up the length of her body, lingering at each crevice and joint—her knees, her hipbones, the creases of her elbows. He watches her the whole time, his gaze hot and scorching and all-consuming. She can’t look away. 

“You’ve liked me for years?” she asks, still chewing over his words in the wardrobe. 

“Loved,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She gasps as his lips plant flags all over her body, marking his territory. 

“I thought if I could be friends with you, that would be enough. And it was. I always wanted you, always, but having you in my life was more important than making my feelings known. I like making you happy, even when it’s not the way I would choose.” 

She frowns. “Draco…” 

“No, no, none of that pouting. This is a happy occasion. Don’t feel bad for me because I was too scared to be honest with you. I don’t deserve that.” 

“You do make me happy, you know. You know me better than anyone at this point.”

“Hmm, you might be right. I do know many things about you. Things you might not even know about yourself. For example, I know that when I do this…” He skates his lips across her ribs. “…your breath hitches. Are you ticklish, or is it something else?” 

“A bit of both.” Her voice is embarrassingly uncontrolled. 

“I also know that you like it when people take charge. Provided they’re competent. I knew that even before today.” He flattens his body over hers and pins her wrists by her head. “You like to let go and enjoy the ride. Will you trust me to take control?” 

His lips skim the shell of her ear and her neck, making her shiver. She can’t help but arch into him, loving the way her body feels beneath his. 

“I trust you.” 

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, kissing his way across her collarbones. “But you’ve kept me waiting for so long. And then you had a chance to do something, and you hid and watched.” 

“I didn’t know—” 

“Yet still, you made me wait. Am I wrong?” Draco’s lips brush over the swell of her breast, and Hermione moans. 

“No.” 

“So now I’m going to make you wait.” His fingers snake between them and locate her clit, puffy and needy. He starts with light circles around it, dipping down every so often to wet his fingers with her arousal. 

His touch is lightning, sparking every nerve in her body to life. Hermione’s mouth drops open and little keening noises escape her—whimpers and soft moans and half of Draco’s name, dripping in slippery, syrupy syllables. 

She rockets to an orgasm at the speed of light, so worked up from Draco’s words and his utter devotion to her takedown. 

And just as she’s about to crest, he pulls away. 

“Why—?” she gasps, the word crestfallen and needy. 

“Like I said,” he murmurs, dipping his mouth to her breasts. “For every year you kept me waiting, I’ll return the favour.” His tongue swirls over her nipple, warm and wet and languid. “That was one.” 

Next, he scoots down the bed until his lips hover between her thighs. And then he kisses her, soft and slow and gentle and respectful and not enough. 

“Draco—“ 

“You’ve no idea how often I dreamt about this. Imagined what you would taste like.” 

“Then fucking do it.” 

He cocks a brow at her demanding tone and bites her inner thigh hard enough to leave a mark. 

“Ow.” 

“Ungrateful,” he scolds. “Fucking menace.”

“If you’re not going to fuck me, you can at least put your tongue on me—” 

Draco licks her without abandon, flattening his tongue over her centre before zeroing in on her clit. He swirls his tongue around the bud once, twice, and then wraps his lips around it and sucks. 

“Gods.” Hermione weaves her fingers through his hair, fine and fair as corn silk. She holds his head against her, canting her hips into his mouth, seeking out his warm, talented tongue. 

Once again, he gets her remarkably close to orgasm and pulls away at the last second, somehow able to read her body like a clock. 

And again, she groans and pleads and whines and begs. And still, he gives her nothing. 

Twice more, he does this. 

“Four years?” she gasps after the last ruined orgasm. 

“Four godsforsaken years,” he mutters. “If you think this was torture, you should’ve tried watching you prance around your flat, braless, in those t-shirts and shorts.” 

“Congratulations, I now know what it feels like to want something and not have it,” she huffs. “Now fuck me. Please. I’m begging, see?” 

She really is. Her body vibrates like a guitar string, so on edge, pent up with potential energy that has nowhere to go. She needs him. Needs Draco. Wants to feel him inside her. Wants to drive him insane, to see him let go, to cede control for once and for all. 

“Please, Draco, please please please—”

His cock twitches and he lets out a plaintive groan. “Fine, but the first time I slide into you, I won’t be able to hold back.” 

Hermione lets her knees fall wider. “Is this what you thought about? How you imagined it that night?” 

“Always,” he groans, lining himself up with her entrance. “I was thinking about this. You, flushed, hair wild. Spreading your knees and thrusting so deep you couldn’t breathe.” 

Without giving her a chance to respond, he pushes into her, and she’s so wet that he slides deep with zero resistance—sheathes himself in a single thrust.

A shuddering breath escapes him, and Hermione gasps at the sensation. 

Gods. 

She’s so close to coming, her inner walls swollen and overworked from the way he edged her. Feeling his cock stretch her nearly overwhelms her. It’s too much. Too good. Too full. She might tumble over the edge. Her release is right there, just out of reach. 

“Fuck, I’m going to—” 

“Not yet.” He pulls out of her, leaving her empty and bereft. “Knew you’d feel like this,” he mumbles. “Knew I wouldn’t be able to resist getting inside you as quickly as possible. I’ve dreamt about—” He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and grips her hip, holding her wide open. “But this is what I’ve really wanted to do.” He pushes in an inch, no more. “Tease you. Drive you insane.” 

He repeats the motion twice more, stretching her with the widest part of him but never giving her the fullness she craves. 

Merlin. She’s going to die. Each minuscule thrust threatens to topple her sanity. She clenches around him, wanting more, desperate to be filled. 

“Draco.” 

“Yeah,” he grins, “like that.” 

“I thought you loved me. So why—fuck—must you torture me?” she whines. 

“Consider it payback. Do you know how infuriatingly oblivious you are?” 

“…No?” 

“Do you remember our trip to Nice?” he asks, sheathing himself halfway. The few extra inches are nirvana.

“Of course I remember. I think I ate my weight in tapenade and rosé.” She joined him on an excursion to clean up one of the Black family properties he inherited when Narcissa passed.  

“We went to the beach one of our first days there. Because you demanded it, of course.” He pushes into her fully, nice and slow. “You wore a little white swim costume that drove me fucking insane.”

“I remember that day—you stayed in the ocean for hours like a drowned seagull.” She moans when he holds himself deep and swivels his hips in little circles.

“Because I couldn’t—fuck—get out of the water. Not without my wand to conceal some very telling bodily reactions.” 

“From my swim costume?” 

He licks his lips and grins. “When it got wet, it turned see-through.” 

“Draco.” She smacks him on the arm. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“It’s fine, it was a private beach.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” But she hums and melts beneath his touch anyway. She arches her back and extends her neck, head falling back to gaze at the ceiling, letting Draco fuck the stress out of her.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he croons. “So good. So sweet.” 

“Never been called sweet in bed. Many other things, but not that.” 

Draco nips at her ear. “We’ll see. I’ve thought about all the ways you might like it, you know. Fast and rough, slow and sensual. Everything in between. But the first time I fucked you was always going to be in my bed.” 

“So if I’d thrown myself at you in Nice, you would’ve resisted until we got home?” She whimpers on a particularly forceful thrust. 

“Technically, I own the property, so they’re all my beds. And no, I couldn’t have resisted. Do you know you’re immensely fuckable?” 

“Really?” she gasps. “I’m not too—shrill? Controlling?” 

“I like when you freak out. And when you tell me off.” 

“Too uptight, then?” 

He chokes out a laugh and holds himself deep inside her. “You’re only tight in the ways that matter.” 

“Draco!” she chides. “That’s atrocious.” 

“Don’t care. Besides, even if you are uptight sometimes, it makes it all the more satisfying when I…can do…this.” He circles her clit and spans his other hand over her throat, applying the slightest pressure. 

Hermione melts. A low, keening sound escapes her as tension flees her body. She feels safe in Draco’s hold. So languid.

“See? Nothing uptight about you right now. In fact…” He pins her wrists beside her head and fucks into her. Hard. “You’re very malleable like this.” 

She hums and softens under his restraint. That should be an insult, but his tone was so adoring. “You—you called me baby. When you…” 

His expression grows hesitant. “I usually do. Was that okay?”

“More than okay.” 

Draco’s eyes flash molten silver. He fucks her until she trembles beneath him and then he nips at her pulse point. Her jaw. Her ear. “In that case… Do you like when I tell you how good you’re being, baby? How incredible you feel?” 

“Gods, yes.” Her knees splay wider, and her whole body succumbs to the heat of his praise. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coaxes. “So good, letting me in nice and deep.” 

This is sex like Hermione has never had. Draco sees her like no one else. Fucks her like no one else. Every time she sucks in a breath, he pays attention. Adjusts. Speeds up. Slows down. Anything to drive her crazy. To make her desperate.  

Hermione trembles, overcome by the intensity of Draco’s stare and the way he fucks her so purposefully, like he’s spent years dreaming of exactly how he would do it.  

Hermione raises her knees towards her chest, angling her hips to the ceiling. And Draco’s cock hits something deep inside her—some perfect, primal spot that renders her useless and makes her shake from head to toe. 

Draco groans. “Do you know what an ego boost it is to see you like this? Looking down at you to see your teeth chattering, uncontrollable noises spilling from your lips? Knowing that I put them there?”

“Draco, you’re gonna make me come. I’m so close—please—” 

“I’ve waited years to know how it feels when you come. What you sound like. Look like. Fuck— Give it all to me, baby.” 

Hermione grasps at his shoulders, slicked with sweat, and arches her hips for that glorious friction. This is Draco. Draco fucking her into the mattress, Draco making her come, Draco murmuring strings of praise into her ear. 

“Fuck, I love you. I love you, I love you, I’m sorry, but I do—” 

“Come inside me,” she gasps. “Want to feel you.” 

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me—” 

Hermione rockets into her orgasm, carried over the edge by Draco’s repeated I love yous. Her whole body trembles, sparked by a need so deep inside she can’t tell where it begins or ends. Draco occupies every last inch of her body and mind. 

Thick. Full. Incessant. He pumps into her as she squeezes him, and then he’s coming and twisting his fingers in her hair and biting her neck, and it’s so good and this is Draco and she tells him she loves him with every ragged breath and every press of her fingers into his back. Something beautiful takes flight inside her chest as they crest in unison. A rightness, locking into place. Gratitude. Desire. Joy. Everything that Hermione is belongs to Draco. To her best friend.And she cherishes it. 

Oxygen evades her—her brain fills up with chemicals and serotonin and pure, unadulterated relief. Slowly, her muscles unclench, though her cunt keeps fluttering, stretched to its limits and warmed over. 

Wetness drips between her thighs, a blissful reminder of Draco’s release.

“Fuck, that was—”

“Better than I imagined,” Draco gasps. “You’re so fucking perfect, do you know that?” 

“I haven’t come that hard in years,” she counters with. 

“Let me do it again. Tonight. Tomorrow. Literally any time you’ll have me.” 

Hermione chuckles and trails a finger down his bicep. “Hmm. I think that can be arranged.” He still hasn’t pulled out of her, and she doesn’t want him to. 

“I am so ridiculously into you it isn’t funny.” 

Hermione smiles. “I am too. I’m just sorry it took me so long to realise it.” 

“I would’ve waited as long as you needed.” 

“That’s not healthy.” 

“No, probably not.” Draco reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and slides them back on. 

“There you are.” Hermione trails her fingertips over his cheek. She clenches around his softening cock, her clit still throbbing with the aftershocks of her release. 

“You must really like my glasses,” he teases. 

“I love them,” she replies, and the breathless wonder in her voice belies her true meaning. But there will be time to tell him—all the time in the world. She’ll do it properly. For now, she wants to bask in the afterglow. “I got you for Secret Santa, by the way. That’s why I was in your room.” 

Draco laces his fingers through hers. “Really?”

He hums a thoughtful noise.

Winks.

“So. What’s my present?”