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The rest of Hermione’s day went slower than she’d have preferred. Her mind kept drifting to the mystery man on the other end of the texts, and even though she knew her mobile wouldn’t work within the Ministry, she couldn’t stop herself from checking for new messages.
As she waited for the lift, Dean appeared at her side with that look he often got when he was being mischievous.
“Golden Girl. Weekend plans?” he asked, grin sharp.
“Peace and quiet,” Hermione said, already tired. “What did you do?”
“Romilda cornered me for a quote,” he said, delighted. “So I told her: ‘Hermione Granger is the full package. Brains, backbone, and she still remembers your birthday. Anyone who comes up short beside her should blame their effort, not the gold standard.’”
Hermione groaned, then laughed. “Gold standard. Really?”
“You dated mouthy-Macmillan,” Dean said. “I’m just correcting the narrative.”
She huffed. “Lovely.”
The lift doors opened. Dean stepped in wrapping a protective arm around her. “Just warning you, by the time we hit the Atrium, everyone will be reading it.”
Feeling the need for fresh air, she decided to walk around muggle-London for a bit and left through the Whitehall telephone box. To her astonishment, there at the curb was her mystery texter, in his black suit, sitting on his bike, helmet on, and looking in her direction.
A rare phenomenon was happening - Hermione Granger stood frozen, her mind blank. She had been looking forward to hearing back from him all afternoon, and instead here he was and she had no idea what to say or do.
Breaking the moment between them, he reached into his pocket and enlarged a helmet. He held it out for her to take. “It was a wild hunch that I’d find you here, but I’m glad I was right. Would you like to join me for a ride?”
Hermione had been on a motorcycle only a few times in her life, and though it was illogical, she enjoyed it more than flying. She was also sure, somehow, that she’d be safe with her mystery rider. Stepping up and taking the helmet from him, she nodded quickly before putting it on.
Though his voice was muffled through the helmet and she couldn’t quite place who it belonged to, she knew it was familiar. There was a certain purr to it making her feel a warmth in her chest that quickly flowed to the more sensitive parts of her body.
As she swung a leg over, he glanced back at her. “Hold on,” he said, the quiet command in his voice settling her. “When I lean, you lean with me.”
The gentle prickle of a disillusionment charm danced along her skin as he started up his motorcycle. She tucked her hair into her helmet, then reached for him. She found his waist and paused, ridiculous with a sudden awareness of where her hands needed to be.
“That’s perfect,” he murmured low and pleased.
They pulled away from the curb, smooth and controlled. The bike moved like a living thing, powerful and eager, and she felt it through him: the shift of his shoulders, the line of his back, the quiet certainty in every change of speed. London blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to engine hum and his steady breathing.
He leaned into a turn and her body followed without thinking. Trust arrived before her mind could argue. It was exhilarating, intimate in a way that made her cheeks heat inside the helmet. The wind tugged and her hands slid, catching the firm plane of his stomach for balance. Solid. Real. Not the idea of him, but the fact of him.
At the next stretch he accelerated, and Hermione’s laugh startled out of her, swallowed by the helmet. He must have felt it, flexing in response, and all she could think was that she wanted to feel more.
By the time they slowed, her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. The bike rolled to a stop outside her flat. Hermione slid off, lifted the helmet and quickly put her hair up in a messy bun held by her wand. She couldn’t hide her smile if she wanted to.
“Thank you,” she said.
He tipped his visor up just enough, and his voice hit clean, soft at the edges.
“The pleasure was all mine.”
In an instant, her Floo flared green. Draco was there, and in three strides he’d crossed the room and cupped her face. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
“Please don’t,” she breathed, and he kissed her like he’d been starving, unyielding and warm. Fingers found buttons, impatient but careful, tongues claiming, laughter swallowed by a second kiss.
Clothes began to fall, a trail as Hermione guided him toward her bedroom, smiling against his mouth as the door clicked shut.