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Hermione should have known better than to answer a floo call from Pansy Parkinson after midnight, but she was awake, working, like most nights.
She was proven right when the witch opened with:
“You’re coming to my party on Saturday.”
Hermione didn’t even look up from the parchment spread across her kitchen table. “No.”
“No?” Pansy echoed dramatically. “That’s the whole response? Not even a fake scheduling conflict?”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Yes,” Hermione replied dryly, turning a page in her notes. “That tends to happen when one has a career.”
“Oh, don’t start.” Pansy clicked her tongue. “Theo already gave me the lecture about how adulthood is apparently ‘a prison of meaningless obligations.’”
“He’s not entirely wrong.”
“He was saying it while lying face-down on my sofa drinking elf-made limoncello straight from the bottle.”
Hermione snorted despite herself.
A true Slytherin through and through, Pansy could slip past defenses like smoke under a door.
“I appreciate the invitation,” Hermione said carefully, “but crowded pureblood parties aren’t really my thing.”
“Oh, please. It’s not a pureblood party. Blaise invited an accountant.”
Hermione blinked slowly. “You say that as if you found one wandering injured in the woods.”
“For all I know, we did.”
“I’m not going.”
A sigh crackled through the Floo connection.
Then Pansy’s voice turned deceptively casual.
“Hm. I suppose getting older has changed you. Not very Gryffindor of you.”
A beat passed.
“I expected more from the Golden Girl.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes instantly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Bit cowardly, honestly.”
“I fought in a war.”
Pansy hummed thoughtfully.
“Yes, and now you’re frightened of champagne and mild social interaction. Tragic, really.”
Hermione let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “That is not what this is.”
“No?” Pansy asked lightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, Granger, it looks an awful lot like you're scared.”
Hermione finally looked up from her work, brown eyes narrowing toward the green flames flickering in her fireplace.
“I am not scared of anything, especially spoiled little purebloods.”
Pansy barked out a laugh loud enough that Hermione heard Theo in the background yell, “She's absolutely terrified of us!”
“Oh, shut up!” Hermione snapped toward the fire.
“See?” Theo called back faintly. “Defensive!”
“You’re drunk!”
“And insightful!”
Something shattered somewhere behind them.
Pansy didn’t even flinch.
“For Merlin’s sake,” Hermione muttered.
“He’ll survive,” Pansy said dismissively. “Probably.”
Hermione rubbed at her temple.
“You are all exhausting.”
“And yet,” Pansy drawled, “you like us anyway.”
That was the infuriating part.
Because somehow… she did.
Against all reason, against every expectation her younger self would have had, these ridiculous, morally questionable Slytherins had slipped into her life and made themselves comfortable there.
Theo with his unsettling emotional accuracy disguised beneath chaos.
Blaise with his dry observations and habit of appearing exactly when gossip was about to become interesting.
Pansy—sharp-tongued, socially lethal Pansy—who treated affection like warfare.
Was she scared?
If she were being honest with herself… a little.
After the war, Hermione had turned inward for comfort. Her friends had all drifted into new lives and relationships while she—
She had simply drifted alone.
Until, somehow, she’d struck up an unlikely friendship with Pansy Parkinson.
Hermione exhaled slowly.
“I still don’t see why my attendance matters so much.”
“Oh, it doesn’t,” Pansy said easily. “I just think it would be entertaining for you to walk into a room full of wealthy purebloods looking like that.”
Hermione frowned. “Looking like what?”
“Like every bad decision they’ve ever wanted to make.”
Hermione stared.
Then blinked once.
“That might be the most absurd thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Not even close.”
Theo shouted something unintelligible in agreement.
Pansy continued smoothly, “Besides, Draco’s coming.”
Hermione’s expression didn’t change.
Which, unfortunately, was change enough.
Pansy smiled slowly.
“Ah,” she purred. “There she is.”
Hermione grabbed her quill and stabbed it into the inkpot harder than necessary.
“…What time?”
Pansy gasped theatrically. “Oh my God, she’s coming.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Eight o’clock. Wear something alarming.”
“I own cardigans.”
“Tragic. I’ll send over a dress.”
“And Pansy?”
“Yes?”
“If you need someone to bail you out, it will be significantly more difficult if I’m sharing the cell with you. Keep that in mind.”
A delighted cackle echoed through the Floo.
Then:
“Oh, Granger?”
Hermione sighed. “What now?”
“You’ll thank me for this eventually.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“I sincerely doubt that.”
Saturday arrived far too quickly.
Hermione spent most of the day pretending she wasn’t going.
Which was difficult considering Pansy had sent three separate reminders, Theo had apparently attempted to Floo in drunk at noon, and Blaise had sent a single note that simply read:
Don’t embarrass us by wearing tweed.
As if she owned only tweed.
Just a few things really.
By seven-thirty, Hermione stood in the middle of her bedroom staring at the open wardrobe with growing irritation.
She could still refuse.
Claim illness.
Fake her own death.
Frankly, all reasonable options.
Then an owl smacked directly into her window.
Hermione blinked.
The bird gave her a deeply judgmental look until she opened it.
A sleek black box tied with emerald ribbon dropped onto her bed.
“Oh no,” Hermione whispered.
Inside was chaos.
Not merely a dress.
An entire strategy.
Black fabric spilled like ink across her comforter, elegant and dangerous and significantly smaller than what Hermione considered socially acceptable. The gown was backless, sleeveless, with a slit running scandalously high up one leg and a narrow cut down the center that suggested Pansy had confused fashion with attempted homicide.
Hermione held it up slowly.
“That barely counts as clothing.”
The owl hooted smugly.
Beneath it sat matching heels—black stilettos with gold serpents curling around the ankle straps, jeweled eyes glittering beneath the bedroom lights.
Hermione stared in horror.
“They’re at least four inches.”
The owl blinked.
There was also jewelry.
Of course there was jewelry.
Gold cuffs shaped like winding snakes. Delicate earrings dripping black stones. Rings clearly designed by someone with both excellent taste and malicious intent.
And finally—
A parchment folded neatly on top.
Hermione unfolded it cautiously.
The first page was an illustration of the entire outfit assembled together like a battle diagram.
Including hair.
Including makeup.
Including enchanted instructions.
Hermione narrowed her eyes as she scanned the spellwork attached to the styling charms.
“Oh, you absolute bitch.”
Because the hair charm was brilliant.
A few simple wand movements transformed her usually untamable curls into soft, glossy waves that fell elegantly down her back while somehow still looking effortless.
Hermione stared at herself in the mirror afterward with open betrayal.
“She knew this the entire time?”
Seven years at Hogwarts.
Seven years of humidity.
Seven years of fighting her own hair like a blood feud.
And Pansy Parkinson had apparently been gatekeeping divine intervention.
Unbelievable.
Hermione looked back toward the bed.
At the dress.
At the heels.
At the version of herself Pansy clearly envisioned walking into that party.
Desired.
Dangerous.
Seen.
And perhaps that was the truly humiliating part.
Because beneath the exhaustion and responsibility and carefully cultivated competence…
There was still something darker buried inside her.
Something that did not want to be admired for intelligence or morality or saving the bloody world.
Something that wanted eyes on her the moment she entered a room.
Something that wanted to be wanted.
Coveted.
Consumed.
Hermione swallowed hard.
“Well,” she muttered to herself, reaching for the dress.
“Fuck it.”
Forty minutes later, Hermione stepped out of the Floo at Pansy Parkinson’s townhouse and immediately understood two things.
First—
The party was obscenely extravagant.
Second—
Pansy was going to be utterly unbearable about how right she’d been.
The moment Hermione stepped fully into the party, a sharp whistle cut through the music.
“Well,” Theo Nott said from across the room, sounding personally offended, “what the fuck?”
Several nearby heads turned.
Hermione barely had time to roll her eyes before Theo appeared in front of her, drink already in hand and grin positively feral.
“Oh, Granger.”
Before she could protest, he caught her hand and spun her once beneath the golden chandelier light.
The movement sent the slit of the dress sliding dangerously high up her thigh.
Theo stared openly.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “If I’d known this was hiding under all those academic terrorism outfits, I might’ve tried sneaking into Gryffindor Tower.”
Hermione laughed—a real laugh, warm from the firewhiskey already burning in the air.
“You might have managed to sneak in,” she replied smoothly, “but I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t have known what to do once you got there.”
A bark of laughter exploded out of him.
“Oh, at fifteen? Absolutely not,” Theo agreed immediately. “Terrible odds for everyone involved.”
He stepped closer as he spoke, dark eyes glinting mischievously.
“But at twenty-five…” he murmured, one hand sliding lightly against her waist, pulling her a fraction nearer, “I’ve learned a few things.”
Hermione arched a brow.
“Have you?”
Theo leaned down slightly, voice lowering beneath the music.
“Would you like to find out?”
Hermione smiled slowly as she plucked a firewhiskey from a passing server’s tray, taking a small sip.
“Bold of you to assume you’ve earned a demonstration.”
Theo groaned dramatically. “You can’t say things like that while dressed like this. It’s cruel.”
Hermione hid her smile behind the rim of her glass.
Then, after another slow sip, she tilted her head toward him.
“If you’re a good boy,” she said lightly, “I’ll consider it.”
Theo looked moments away from proposing marriage on the spot.
Laughing softly, Hermione slipped easily from his hold—
And walked directly into the gaze of Draco Malfoy.
Oh.
He stood near the far side of the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of amber liquor gone untouched.
Watching her.
Not casually.
Not politely.
Watching her with the kind of stillness predators possessed before deciding whether or not to ruin something beautiful.
The noise of the party seemed to dull around the edges.
Draco’s eyes moved over her slowly.
The dress.
The slit.
The bare skin.
The gold snakes wrapped around her ankles and wrists.
Then finally—
Her face.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression.
Not surprise.
Not quite.
Something darker.
Something far more dangerous.
And somehow, absurdly—
Hermione felt her pulse skip.
Before Hermione could fully recover from the intensity of Draco Malfoy staring at her like a man considering violence, Pansy appeared at her side and looped an arm through hers.
“There you are,” Pansy declared. “Honestly, Granger, you disappear for five minutes and Theo starts looking emotionally attached.”
“I heard that,” Theo called from the bar.
“You were meant to.”
Pansy then ignored him entirely as she whisked Hermione deeper into the party.
The townhouse was overflowing now. Candlelight flickered against black marble and gold accents, music drifting through the crowded rooms while expensive laughter echoed off enchanted ceilings. Wealth practically dripped from the walls.
Hermione recognized most of the guests.
Former Slytherins.
Ministry officials.
Healers.
Witches she vaguely remembered from Hogwarts who had somehow become terrifyingly elegant adults.
And apparently—
Blaise had genuinely invited an accountant.
“Marianne Walsh,” the woman said warmly, extending a hand. “I work in acquisitions for Gringotts.”
Hermione blinked once before immediately launching into a conversation about vault restructuring legislation.
“Oh no,” Pansy muttered beside them. “There are two of them.”
Marianne laughed. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to talk to someone about Ministry financial reform without watching their eyes glaze over.”
Hermione grinned.
Shockingly, she was enjoying herself.
The music.
The drinks.
The attention.
The way conversations seemed to bend around her tonight instead of through her.
And through all of it—
She could feel Draco watching her.
Constantly.
From across rooms.
Between conversations.
Like a physical thing sliding across her skin.
Hermione finally leaned toward Pansy, lowering her voice.
“Okay…” she murmured carefully. “Am I insane, or is Malfoy—”
“Oh, he’s absolutely watching you,” Pansy said immediately.
Hermione nearly choked on her drink.
Pansy smirked.
“He likes to watch.”
“That is an alarming sentence.”
“It can get worse.”
“Pansy—”
“How about we give him something to look at?”
Before Hermione could stop her, Pansy lifted a hand.
“Theodore!”
Theo appeared almost instantly, as though summoned from the depths of hell itself.
“Yes, darling?”
“Dance with Granger.”
Theo looked at Hermione.
Looked at the dress.
Then at Draco across the room.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
“With pleasure.”
“Oh, I suddenly dislike this,” Hermione muttered as Theo stole her drink and dragged her toward the dance floor.
The music shifted into something slower. Darker.
Theo pulled her close immediately.
Too close.
Not enough for scandal.
Enough for intent.
“You know,” he said conversationally as they moved together, “I think half the room is considering homicide right now.”
Hermione snorted softly. “Why?”
“Because they all want to either be you or ruin you.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“You’re dancing with me at a pureblood party while looking like revenge wrapped in black silk,” Theo replied. “I’m actually underselling it.”
Hermione laughed again.
God, she hadn’t done that in a while.
Theo spun her smoothly before pulling her back against him, one hand settling low against her waist.
Lower than necessary.
Hermione noticed.
She didn’t correct him.
Theo noticed that too.
His grin turned smug.
“Careful, Granger,” he murmured. “You keep looking at me like that and I’ll start developing hope.”
“You strike me as someone who enjoys bad decisions.”
“I strike you as attractive. Let’s focus on that.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but warmth bloomed low in her stomach anyway.
And then—
A hand touched Theo’s shoulder.
“Can I cut in?”
Draco.
The words weren’t loud.
Didn’t need to be.
Theo looked up slowly.
Then grinned.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Traitor.
Theo took Hermione’s hand dramatically and deposited her directly into Draco’s waiting hold.
The difference was immediate.
Theo had danced like fire.
Draco danced like control.
One hand settled carefully at her waist while the other guided her effortlessly into motion. Smooth. Precise. Intimate in a way that felt infinitely more dangerous.
Hermione suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that even in four-inch heels—
Draco Malfoy still towered over her.
Nearly a foot taller.
It was deeply unfair.
“How are you?” she asked finally, hating how nervous she sounded.
Draco looked down at her.
“I was fine,” he said calmly. “Five minutes ago.”
Hermione’s breath caught embarrassingly hard.
Right.
So this was going to kill her.
“You dance well,” she managed.
One pale brow lifted slightly.
“Surprised to get a compliment from me?” she said jokingly.
“Surprised you are so good at being led. You just don’t seem like someone who enjoys following directions.”
A faint smirk touched his mouth.
“And yet here I am.”
The music carried them slowly across the floor.
Then Draco’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“What are you doing here, Granger?”
Hermione blinked.
“That’s your opening line?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I—” She frowned slightly. “Pansy invited me.”
“Yes,” Draco drawled. “I gathered that much.”
Hermione huffed softly.
“She’s… become a friend, I suppose.”
Draco’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.
“A dangerous social circle for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Innocent.”
Hermione nearly laughed aloud.
“Innocent?”
Draco’s eyes slid slowly over her body again.
The dress.
The slit.
Her throat.
Her mouth.
“In that outfit?” he murmured. “You look less innocent and more like prey.”
Heat crawled instantly up Hermione’s neck.
Offended.
Flustered.
Annoyingly affected.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“You think I’m prey?”
Draco tilted his head slightly.
“I think everyone in this room wants to devour you.”
The words settled low in her stomach like molten gold.
Hermione lifted her chin.
“Well,” she said coolly, “that would imply I’m worth hunting.”
Draco’s eyes darkened.
“You have no idea.”
The music slowed toward its end.
Hermione’s pulse thundered stupidly beneath her skin.
No.
Absolutely not.
She refused to let Draco Malfoy stand there acting like he was the predator while she melted into the floor over a dance and a few pretty words.
Hermione stepped back smoothly as the song ended.
Then, with deliberate elegance, she gave him a small mocking bow.
“You should be careful too, Malfoy,” she said softly.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Oh?”
Hermione smiled.
“There’s a lioness roaming your snake den.”
Then she turned and walked away from him before her courage failed entirely.
Straight toward the balcony doors.
Toward air.
The cold night air did little to settle Hermione’s pulse.
She wrapped her fingers tighter around the railing of the balcony, staring out across the glittering London skyline while the music thumped faintly behind her.
Honestly.
What the hell had just happened in there?
Draco Malfoy had looked at her like he wanted to either ruin her or worship her and somehow both options felt equally likely.
The balcony door slid open behind her.
“Escaping already?”
Blaise.
Hermione glanced sideways as he approached, impeccably dressed as always, two drinks already in hand.
“Your parties are exhausting,” she informed him.
“They’re not my parties,” Blaise replied smoothly, offering her one of the glasses. “I merely fund poor decisions.”
Hermione accepted the drink with a soft hum of thanks.
Blaise leaned beside her against the railing.
“So,” he said casually. “How are you holding up?”
Hermione shot him a look over the rim of her glass.
“I can hold my own.”
Blaise took a slow sip.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second.”
Something in his tone made Hermione narrow her eyes slightly.
“But?” she prompted.
Blaise smiled faintly.
“But can you,” he asked lightly, “once the real party starts?”
Hermione frowned.
“The real party?”
Blaise gave her a knowing look.
“Oh, Granger. This?” He gestured lazily toward the crowded ballroom below. “This is just the networking portion.”
“The what?”
“The social parasites, Ministry climbers, and pureblood legacy enthusiasts will leave soon.”
Hermione snorted despite herself.
“And then?”
Blaise’s smile turned dangerous.
“Then the interesting people remain.”
Hermione suddenly didn’t like the sound of that.
Blaise winked at her before stepping away from the railing.
“Enjoy your fresh air while you can.”
“Blaise.”
He paused.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Then he disappeared back inside.
Hermione stared after him.
“…Damn it.”
Perhaps she should leave.
Honestly, she’d already survived Draco Malfoy staring at her like a beautifully plated meal. That felt like enough excitement for one evening.
Decision made, Hermione turned toward the doors—
Only for Pansy Parkinson to appear immediately in front of her like an exceptionally fashionable ambush predator.
“No.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“You’re not leaving.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were absolutely leaving.”
“I was considering leaving.”
“Same thing.”
Before Hermione could argue further, Pansy seized her wrist and began dragging her through the crowd.
“Pansy—”
“We’re going upstairs.”
“We?”
“The survivors.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It should.”
Hermione nearly stumbled in her heels trying to keep up.
“Where exactly are you taking me?”
Pansy glanced over her shoulder with a wicked grin.
“To the real party.”
Oh no.
Absolutely not.
“Pansy—”
“We’re playing a game.”
“That sentence alone feels criminal.”
“Truth or Dare.”
Hermione relaxed slightly. “That’s all?”
“With Veritaserum.”
Hermione stopped walking so abruptly Pansy nearly yanked her arm from its socket.
“With what?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
“That is incredibly illegal!”
Pansy waved a dismissive hand.
“It’s not illegal. It’s merely… frowned upon.”
“No,” Hermione said flatly. “That is definitely illegal.”
“Only if someone reports it.”
“That is not how laws work!”
Pansy grinned.
“That’s exactly how the law works.”
Then she shoved open the doors to one of the upstairs sitting rooms.
Hermione stepped inside slowly.
There were about ten people gathered already, lounging across velvet sofas and chairs around a low black table littered with expensive liquor bottles.
Theo sprawled lazily across one end of a couch.
Blaise sat nearby looking deeply entertained.
Marianne—the accountant—waved excitedly.
Daphne Greengrass lounged elegantly beside Luna Lovegood, who appeared completely unsurprised by any of this.
And somehow—
Neville Longbottom was there.
Hermione blinked.
“…Neville?”
Neville looked up from his whiskey.
“Oh, thank God,” he said immediately. “I was beginning to think I hallucinated the invitation.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ask myself that every fifteen minutes.”
Theo raised his glass.
“He’s shockingly fun after midnight.”
“I made one bad decision in 2003 and now they keep inviting me places,” Neville muttered darkly.
Hermione laughed despite herself.
Then—
Her gaze caught on Draco.
Of course he was here.
He sat in one of the armchairs near the fire, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking devastatingly composed.
Watching her again.
Always watching her.
Hermione straightened instinctively beneath his gaze.
Pansy swept toward the center table and began distributing shot glasses.
“To bad ideas,” she announced.
“That should honestly be your family motto,” Hermione muttered.
“It practically is.”
Pansy uncorked a small crystal vial.
Hermione’s eyes widened immediately.
“Oh my God, that’s actual Veritaserum.”
“Only one drop each,” Pansy assured her.
“That is not comforting!”
One by one, Pansy added a shimmering drop into each glass.
“Bottom’s up!”
Theo lifted his shot.
“Well,” he drawled, looking directly at Hermione with shameless amusement, “all in due time.”
Hermione nearly choked.
Pansy cackled.
Draco’s expression darkened instantly.
The game began innocently enough.
Which, in hindsight, should have terrified Hermione more.
Pansy went first.
“Truth or dare?” Theo asked lazily from the opposite sofa.
“Dare, obviously.”
Theo grinned immediately.
“Kiss the hottest person in the room.”
A chorus of approving noises echoed around the circle.
Pansy rose with theatrical slowness, dragging her gaze deliberately across every person there.
Lingering.
Evaluating.
She paused dramatically in front of Hermione.
“Ah,” Pansy sighed wistfully. “If only I swung that way.”
Hermione snorted into her drink.
Then Pansy continued past her—
Straight toward Neville Longbottom.
Neville nearly dropped his glass.
“Oh no,” he breathed.
“Oh yes.”
Pansy slid gracefully into his lap and kissed him hard enough that the entire room erupted into chaos.
Theo shouted something obscene.
Blaise looked delighted.
Neville looked like he’d briefly left his body.
Pansy stood afterward looking deeply pleased with herself.
“Right,” she said smoothly. “Luna. Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
Theo leaned forward immediately. “Same one.”
Luna blinked serenely around the room.
Then—to Hermione’s astonishment—she copied Pansy exactly.
Slowly circling the group.
Thoughtfully considering.
Before calmly settling herself into Pansy’s lap.
Pansy went visibly still.
Luna kissed her softly.
Sweetly.
Like something out of a dream.
When she pulled back, Pansy looked genuinely stunned for perhaps the first time in her life.
“Well,” she said faintly.
Theo made a strangled noise and reached immediately for another drink.
“Oh, Merlin.”
Even Blaise looked impressed.
Hermione laughed softly—
And felt it again.
Draco watching her.
Constantly.
The sensation slid down her spine like warm smoke.
Luna’s silver gaze finally landed on Hermione.
“Truth or dare?”
Hermione hesitated.
“…Dare.”
The room immediately brightened with interest.
Pansy smiled slowly.
“I dare you,” she said, “to spend the remainder of the game sitting in Draco’s lap.”
Silence.
Hermione stared at her.
Then at Draco.
Then back at Pansy.
“…Truth,” Hermione said immediately.
“Nope,” Pansy replied cheerfully. “Touch play situation. You already answered.”
“That is not how the game works.”
“It is in this house.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
Pansy narrowed hers back.
The room waited.
Traitors. All of them.
Hermione took a slow breath before standing.
“Fine.”
She crossed the room toward Draco, hyperaware of every eye following her.
His expression revealed absolutely nothing.
Which was somehow worse.
Hermione stopped beside him.
“This is humiliating,” she muttered.
“A little,” Draco agreed calmly.
She shot him a glare before carefully lowering herself onto the very edge of his knee, leaving an aggressively respectable amount of distance between them.
Pansy immediately scoffed.
“Oh, absolutely not. Closer.”
Hermione turned slowly.
“I hate you.”
“Closer.”
Before Hermione could argue further, Draco’s hand settled lightly against her waist.
Then, with terrifying ease, he pulled her fully against his chest.
The room erupted.
“There we are,” Pansy purred. “Much better.”
Hermione could feel Draco’s heartbeat through his shirt.
Steady.
Infuriatingly steady.
Meanwhile hers seemed determined to kill her publicly.
The game continued.
Hermione picked Neville next mostly because he seemed safest.
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Neville answered immediately.
Poor man.
The Slytherins all exchanged deeply concerning looks.
Apparently the Veritaserum hit hardest early on.
And Neville clearly had no idea.
Hermione decided to be merciful.
“What was the bad decision that got you invited here?”
The entire room groaned instantly.
Neville’s ears turned red.
“Well…” he mumbled.
“Oh no,” Hermione whispered.
Neville stared into his drink.
“…Have you ever considered combining Devil’s Snare and sex?”
Hermione choked.
Theo fell off the sofa laughing.
Pansy screamed.
Blaise covered his face entirely.
“Neville!” Hermione gasped.
“What?” Neville asked helplessly. “You said truth!”
“I take it back! I don’t want the answer!”
“I was just experimenting about the constriction properties—”
“NO.”
Luna patted Neville’s shoulder supportively.
“I think that sounds creative.”
Neville looked deeply validated.
“Thank you.”
Hermione buried her face in her hands.
From behind her, Draco was shaking with silent laughter against her back.
Which honestly felt unfair.
Neville, still scarlet, pointed weakly toward Pansy.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
He swallowed.
Then apparently chose violence.
“Turn the lights off for the rest of the game,” he said. “And sit in the lap of the person you find most attractive.”
The room dissolved instantly.
Theo howled.
“Oh, Longbottom’s finally snapped.”
Pansy looked delighted.
“Gladly.”
With a flick of her wand, the room plunged into darkness.
Not total darkness.
Just enough that everyone became shadows and silhouettes illuminated by firelight and moonlight.
Intimate.
Dangerous.
Hermione suddenly became acutely aware of Draco everywhere behind her.
The heat of him.
The breadth of his chest.
His hand still resting against her waist.
Across the room came the rustle of fabric followed by Luna’s soft, musical laughter.
Theo made a wounded sound.
“Luna? Brutal. How quickly she jumps ship.”
Draco exhaled slowly near Hermione’s ear.
She shivered.
Then, quietly enough that only he could hear:
“Why hasn’t anyone picked you?”
A pause.
Then Draco’s voice, low against her shoulder.
“They never do.”
“Why?”
His fingers flexed slightly at her waist.
“They know I like to watch.”
Heat bloomed instantly beneath Hermione’s skin.
Oh.
That—
That explained far too much.
And suddenly she became very aware of the way she was sitting.
Of how close they were.
Of the fact that Draco Malfoy had spent the entire evening watching her like he intended to memorize every movement she made.
Hermione shifted slightly in his lap.
A mistake.
Draco’s hand tightened immediately against her hip.
“Careful,” he murmured near her ear.
Hermione’s breath caught.
“You’re distracting.”
“You’re squirming.”
“I am not.”
A soft, dangerous sound ghosted through the darkness behind her.
“Granger,” Draco said quietly, “either stop moving entirely… or start doing it on purpose.”
Heat flooded her face instantly.
The worst part—
The truly horrible part—
Was that some reckless, treacherous piece of her wanted to know exactly what would happen if she did.
The game continued, but no one picked Draco.
And since Hermione was currently seated in his lap, she appeared to be off-limits as well.
Which was unfortunate.
Because now she needed to entertain herself.
It began subtly.
A soft lean backward into his chest.
Nothing obvious.
Nothing deliberate.
At least, that was what she intended to let him believe.
Maybe she was tired.
Resting.
She was absolutely not.
Then she reached for her drink, leaning back even farther into him as she lifted the whiskey to her lips.
Deliberate.
Slow.
As she tilted her head slightly to take another sip, the movement exposed the line of her throat directly to him.
A dangerous decision.
One she realized fully the moment she felt Draco’s breath against her neck.
Warm.
Steady.
Then—
The briefest brush of lips just beneath her ear.
Followed by the faintest scrape of teeth.
Hermione nearly dropped her glass.
A quick inhale and her fingers tightened around the glass instead.
A mistake.
Because now he would know exactly what that had done to her.
Her breathing shifted immediately, shallow and uneven, and she could practically feel Draco’s satisfaction behind her.
Not smug.
Worse.
Interested.
How far could she take this?
More importantly—
How far would he?
The thought sent another dangerous thrill through her.
Hermione set her glass carefully onto the side table before slowly dragging her hand over the one still resting against her waist.
Draco went still beneath her touch.
Then his fingers flexed instinctively against her hip.
Not tight enough to stop her.
Just enough to warn her he was paying attention now.
Completely.
Hermione swallowed softly.
Good.
“Careful, lioness,” Draco murmured against her ear, his voice rough enough to send heat spiraling down her spine. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Laughter echoed somewhere across the room, distant and blurred beneath the rushing sound of blood in her ears.
Hermione let her fingers drift slowly over his hand still resting at her waist.
Testing.
Teasing.
“Do you…” she started softly, then tried again, quieter this time. “Do you want to play?”
Draco’s fingers tightened slightly against her hip.
Unlike her, he sounded composed.
Controlled.
Which only made this worse.
“Tell me something first,” he said.
Hermione’s pulse skipped.
“What?”
His gaze dragged slowly over her shoulder, down the length of her body.
“What exactly,” he asked softly, “are you wearing underneath this… dress?”
Oh.
Oh, he wanted to play.
A slow smile curved at Hermione’s mouth before she could stop it.
There you are, Malfoy.
Not detached.
Not merely watching anymore.
Interested.
Hungry.
“Well,” Hermione said carefully, grateful for the darkness hiding at least some of her embarrassment, “the dress was courtesy of Pansy.”
Draco hummed softly behind her.
“As you’re no doubt aware,” she continued, attempting composure she did not entirely possess, “that means it’s significantly more revealing than anything I would have chosen for myself.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“So… what you see is what you get, Malfoy.”
Merlin.
If the lights were on, the entire room would see exactly how red she’d gone.
For a moment, Draco said nothing.
Then his hand moved.
Slowly sliding from her waist down across the curve of her hip.
Lower.
Onto the bare skin exposed by the slit in her dress.
Hermione’s breath caught instantly.
Not because of where he touched her.
Because of how deliberate he was about it.
Like he was learning her.
Memorizing.
“Interesting,” Draco murmured thoughtfully.
Hermione hated how steady he sounded while she was actively losing the ability to think.
His thumb traced once against her thigh.
“Tell me something, Granger.”
She swallowed hard.
“What?”
“Are you actually enjoying yourself tonight?”
Hermione almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.
Was she enjoying herself?
She was sitting in Draco Malfoy’s lap in a darkened room full of morally questionable adults while every nerve ending in her body threatened mutiny.
She was one breath away from combustion.
And somehow—
Yes.
Terrifyingly so.
Before she could answer, Draco leaned slightly closer.
“Or,” he said quietly, “would you rather continue this game somewhere private?”
Every coherent thought left her immediately.
Hermione turned just enough to look at him properly.
Even in the dim firelight, his eyes looked dangerous.
Silver and sharp and fixed entirely on her.
Waiting.
Not demanding.
Waiting.
The choice was hers.
Desire crashed through her so hard it nearly hurt.
She nodded once.
Draco’s gaze darkened instantly.
“Excellent.”
Then he stood smoothly, one hand firm at her waist as he pulled her up with him.
The others barely noticed.
Theo was arguing loudly with Neville about plant classifications.
Pansy and Luna were still tangled together in one corner of the sofa.
Blaise looked up exactly once as Draco guided Hermione toward the door.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Traitor.
Hermione barely had time to glare at him before Draco led her out into the dark hallway beyond.
He crashed into her the moment the door closed behind them, driving her back against the wall.
Draco was suddenly everywhere.
Heat.
Hands.
Mouth.
His kiss was controlled at first, deliberate in a way that almost felt cruel, and Hermione opened for him immediately with a soft sound she would absolutely deny making later.
One of his hands slid into her hair, fingers tightening just enough to keep her exactly where he wanted her.
The world narrowed instantly.
The music downstairs disappeared.
The party disappeared.
There was only Draco.
Draco’s mouth.
Draco’s hands.
Draco pressing her against the wall like he’d finally decided to stop watching and start taking.
When he finally pulled back, Hermione was left breathless, struggling to remember what coherent thought felt like.
Draco looked down at her with a slow, dangerous smile.
“You know,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw, “I’m aware you think of yourself as a lioness.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly.
Draco’s smile deepened.
“But I can’t help thinking of you as something smaller.”
His fingers tightened faintly in her hair.
“Tell me, pet,” he said softly, “where would you like to continue this? Your place or mine?”
Hermione shot him a glare immediately, instinctively grasping for some semblance of control again.
“Mine.”
Draco looked entirely too pleased by that answer.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “Exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
He escorted them down the hall, though not back toward the party downstairs.
Instead, Draco guided her toward a smaller sitting room tucked away from the noise, where a private Floo burned low and green against the dark stone fireplace.
Hermione’s mind was spiraling.
Was she really about to do this?
Her body was already screaming the answer.
Yes.
Absolutely yes.
But her mind—
Her mind was somewhere between what the fuck are we doing and perhaps we should conduct a risk assessment first.
Which was difficult considering Draco Malfoy kept looking at her like he intended to ruin every intelligent thought she’d ever had.
He stepped closer as they reached the hearth, one hand settling lightly against the small of her back.
“Second thoughts?” he asked quietly.
Hermione opened her mouth immediately.
Nothing came out.
Draco’s mouth twitched slightly.
“That bad?”
“I’m attempting to determine,” Hermione said carefully, “whether this is a catastrophically terrible idea.”
“And?”
She looked up at him.
At the silver eyes.
The loosened tie.
The fact that he still looked entirely composed while she felt moments away from spontaneous combustion.
Hermione exhaled slowly.
“The results are currently inconclusive.”
Draco laughed softly at that.
Low.
Warm.
Dangerous.
“Come here, lioness,” he murmured, offering her his hand toward the Floo.
And Hermione took it.
Not because she was reckless.
Not because the Veritaserum was still humming faintly through her system.
But because she wanted to.
And perhaps that was the most terrifying part of all.
For so long, Hermione had denied herself things she wanted simply because wanting them felt dangerous. Indulgent. Irresponsible.
But tonight—
Tonight she was tired of denying herself.
And Draco Malfoy was something she had coveted for far longer than she cared to examine too closely.
Maybe since eighth year.
Maybe before that.
Maybe from the moment he’d looked at her like he finally understood exactly what she was.
Hermione stepped toward the hearth and grabbed a handful of Floo powder with fingers that only trembled slightly.
Then she tossed it into the flames.
“Granger’s townhouse.”
The fire roared emerald green instantly.
Draco looked down at her, silver eyes glinting in the firelight.
Slowly—
He smiled.
Not the sharp, dangerous smirk he wore around everyone else.
Something warmer.
More satisfied.
Like he already knew how this night would end.
Hermione’s pulse stumbled again.
Then Draco stepped into the flames beside her, one hand firm against her waist as the world spun green around them.
The moment their feet hit the floor of Hermione’s townhouse, Draco was on her again.
And honestly?
She met him halfway.
His jacket hit the floor first.
Then her hands were on him—sliding up his arms, pushing beneath the fabric of his shirt, fingers brushing cool skin as she tugged loose his tie and started impatiently undoing buttons.
He had entirely too many clothes on.
She had far too few.
A balance issue, really.
One she intended to correct immediately.
Draco made a low sound against her mouth as her fingers brushed his chest.
“Eager, are we?” he murmured.
Hermione ignored him completely as she reached for his belt—
A loud, offended yeowl echoed down the hallway.
Hermione froze.
“…Shit.”
Draco blinked once.
Another furious cry rang through the townhouse.
Hermione dropped her forehead briefly against Draco’s chest.
“How did I forget about him?”
“About who?”
“Crookshanks.”
As if summoned by name, the cat appeared at the end of the hallway looking deeply betrayed by the state of his dinner schedule.
Hermione glanced toward the clock.
Two in the morning.
Double shit.
“He already ate,” Hermione explained quickly, stepping away from Draco with visible reluctance. “But if I’m late with his nighttime treats he becomes emotionally manipulative.”
Crookshanks let out another dramatic cry.
“There,” Hermione pointed. “You hear that? Guilt tactics.”
Draco looked thoroughly entertained.
“That’s your familiar from Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” Hermione sighed. “And he’s become incredibly demanding in his old age. Hold on, let me just give him his treats before he starts knocking things off shelves.”
She disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
“Honestly,” she called over her shoulder, “don’t try to pet him. He hates most people.”
“That sounds familiar,” Draco replied lazily.
Hermione rolled her eyes as she grabbed the treat tin.
By the time she returned to the sitting room, Crookshanks had reached Draco.
And instead of hissing—
Instead of scratching—
Instead of behaving like the tiny orange menace he truly was—
Crookshanks was purring.
Loudly.
The traitor was actively rubbing himself against Draco’s legs with shameless affection.
Hermione stopped dead.
“…What.”
Draco looked down, mildly surprised, as he bent to scratch behind Crookshanks’ ears.
The cat immediately melted.
“Oh, you absolute whore,” Hermione whispered to her cat.
Crookshanks purred louder.
Draco glanced up at her, clearly amused.
“He seems perfectly pleasant.”
Hermione stared in disbelief as Crookshanks rolled onto his back.
“He hated Ron for years.”
Draco’s mouth twitched.
“Perhaps the cat has standards.”
Hermione pointed accusingly at Crookshanks, who looked entirely unapologetic.
“Oh, now you have standards?” she asked incredulously. “After eating a lacewing moth off the floor last week?”
Crookshanks blinked slowly at her.
“Questionable little traitor,” Hermione muttered affectionately, finally crouching to hand him his treats.
Crookshanks accepted them immediately, purring loud enough to shake the furniture.
“Unbelievable,” Hermione sighed.
By the time she stood again, Draco had made himself comfortable on her couch.
Or rather—
He was attempting to.
The sofa suddenly looked significantly smaller with Draco Malfoy stretched across it, long legs spread slightly, one arm draped lazily along the back cushion like he belonged there already.
Hermione hated how attractive that was.
She carried the treat tin back into the kitchen before turning toward him.
“Would you like a drink?”
Draco’s gaze lifted to hers immediately.
“Whiskey,” he said easily, “if you have it.”
Hermione huffed softly.
“Of course I have whiskey.”
Draco’s mouth curved slightly.
A few moments later she returned with two glasses in hand, only to pause as she realized Draco was taking up approximately ninety percent of the couch.
He looked up at her slowly.
Then patted the narrow remaining space beside him.
“Come here.”
Heat curled low in Hermione’s stomach again.
Still—
She sat.
Close enough that her bare thigh brushed against his trousers immediately.
Draco took the whiskey from her hand, fingers brushing hers intentionally as he lifted the glass for a slow sip.
His eyes never left her.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Hermione nearly dropped her drink this time.
Draco looked entirely too pleased by that reaction.
“This is good,” he said smoothly, taking another sip of whiskey. “Gives us a moment to establish the rules.”
Hermione paused halfway through her own drink.
“…Rules?”
“Yes, love. Your game, your rules.”
“Honestly, Malfoy,” she admitted, lowering the glass slowly, “I’m improvising rather heavily at the moment.”
His mouth twitched.
“Very Gryffindor of you.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That sounded suspiciously like criticism.”
“Not criticism,” Draco corrected lazily. “Observation.”
He leaned back slightly into the couch, studying her over the rim of his glass.
“You’re intelligent enough to solve most problems as they appear.”
Hermione blinked once.
She wasn't quite certain what his intention had been with that comment, but she chose to hear it as praise.
“Yes,” she replied primly, “some of us are capable of functioning without a written instruction manual.”
Draco huffed a soft laugh.
“Rules make things more interesting, Hermione.”
The sound of her name in his mouth nearly distracted her again.
“How?”
“They tell me where your boundaries are,” he said simply. “What you enjoy. What you don’t. What’s permitted.”
His gaze darkened slightly.
“And what isn’t.”
Hermione swallowed.
Right.
This was apparently happening.
Properly happening.
“Fine,” she said, trying for confidence. “Rule one.”
Draco gestured elegantly with his whiskey.
“Go on.”
“First names.”
One pale brow lifted.
Hermione waved a dismissive hand.
“When I think of ‘Malfoy,’ I think of your father, and I would really prefer not to think about Lucius right now.”
Draco’s expression shifted instantly.
Darkened.
“Agreed,” he said quietly.
Then, softer:
“Hermione.”
The way he said it sent warmth spiraling straight through her.
She smiled despite herself, and some of the sharpness in the room eased again.
“Second rule…” Hermione hesitated briefly. “You stay the night.”
Draco stilled.
She suddenly found her whiskey extremely interesting.
“I,” she started awkwardly, “don’t particularly enjoy sleeping alone.”
Something gentler flickered briefly across Draco’s face.
He reached over, took her glass from her hand, and set both drinks onto the table.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad you asked.”
Hermione’s chest tightened unexpectedly at that.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“Right,” she said quickly, trying to recover. “Your turn, then. One rule for you.”
Draco looked thoughtful for approximately half a second.
“Minimum of three.”
Hermione frowned.
“…Three what?”
Draco stared at her.
“Hermione.”
“Draco.”
His eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Three orgasms.”
Hermione froze completely.
Three?
THREE?
She was lucky if she managed one with previous partners.
“Oh,” she said intelligently.
Draco looked smug now.
“Problem?”
“That may be…” Hermione cleared her throat. “Slightly ambitious.”
“No,” Draco said calmly. “It’s really not.”
The certainty in his voice should have been illegal.
Hermione could physically feel herself blushing.
“I’m just saying,” she muttered, “statistically speaking—”
“Hermione.”
She looked up.
His gaze burned straight through her.
“Three.”
Merlin.
Then Draco’s expression softened slightly again.
“And one more thing.”
Hermione nodded carefully.
“If at any point you want me to stop,” he said quietly, “you say red.”
No teasing now.
No arrogance.
Just certainty.
“Anything you dislike. Anything you don’t want. You say it once and I stop immediately. Understood?”
Hermione stared at him for a moment.
At the seriousness beneath the heat.
At the care hidden beneath all the control and dangerous smiles.
Speech had abandoned her entirely.
So she nodded instead.
Draco’s gaze softened with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now come sit on my lap again, love. That was one of the more pleasant experiences I’ve had in quite some time.”
Hermione laughed softly under her breath.
“Merlin,” she muttered as she stood, “you really do enjoy ordering people around.”
“Yes,” Draco replied immediately. “Especially you.”
Heat rushed through her all over again.
She settled carefully back into his lap, this time with far less hesitation than before.
Draco exhaled slowly the moment she touched him.
“Good girl.”
Then he kissed her again.
Not frantic this time.
Not rushed.
Intentional.
Like he was taking his time learning her.
Hermione felt dizzy from it.
From the slow drag of his mouth against hers.
From the way one hand rested possessively at her waist while the other slid into her hair again.
Nothing in her past experience compared to this.
There was no impatient grabbing.
No hurried desperation.
Draco kissed her like he enjoyed the process itself.
Like he wanted to savor every reaction he pulled from her.
His mouth moved slowly down the curve of her jaw toward her throat, alternating soft kisses with faint teasing nips that made warmth coil lower and lower in her stomach.
By the third one, a quiet moan slipped free before she could stop it.
Draco froze.
Hermione blinked, breath uneven.
“…Is something wrong?”
Draco looked up at her slowly.
“No,” he said, voice roughened with desire. “Quite the opposite.”
The way he was looking at her nearly melted her into the couch.
“I’ve just imagined that sound,” he admitted quietly, “more times than I should probably confess.”
Hermione’s pulse stumbled hard.
“And hearing it for real is significantly worse.”
“Worse?” she echoed faintly.
“For my self-control,” Draco clarified.
Then suddenly—
His expression changed.
“Shit.”
Hermione frowned immediately.
“What?”
Draco leaned back slightly, one hand dragging over his face.
“The Veritaserum.”
Hermione blinked.
Oh.
Oh no.
“I completely forgot,” Draco muttered. “Anything you ask me right now, I’m required to answer truthfully.”
His eyes lifted back to hers.
“And you as well.”
The realization settled between them heavily.
Dangerous in an entirely new way now.
Not just physical.
Emotional.
Hermione could feel it immediately—that strange vulnerable edge the potion created. Like all the walls between thought and confession had quietly dissolved.
Draco’s hand settled gently against her waist again.
“That puts us,” he said carefully, “very much at each other’s mercy.”
Then, softer:
“Especially you.”
There was no mockery in it.
No manipulation.
Just honesty.
Raw and startling and impossible to avoid beneath the potion’s influence.
“Is that something you’re comfortable with?” he asked quietly.
Hermione opened her mouth automatically to offer something evasive.
Something safer.
Instead, the truth came out cleanly.
“Yes.”
Draco watched her for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Good.”
And when his mouth returned to her throat, slower this time, more reverent somehow—
Hermione stopped trying to hold back the sounds he pulled from her.
It only seemed to encourage him.
Fine.
Two could play that game.
Her fingers returned to his shirt, continuing where she’d left off earlier, slowly undoing the remaining buttons until she could push the fabric apart and slide her hands beneath it.
Cool skin.
Tense muscle.
Then—
Hermione stilled.
Scars.
Her fingertips traced instinctively across the uneven lines stretched over his chest. Pale against his skin, branching sharply like fractured lightning.
Draco noticed immediately.
His body tightened slightly beneath her touch.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.
Hermione frowned softly.
“You have scars.”
Draco exhaled once through his nose.
“Ah.”
The response alone told her enough.
“They’re from sixth year,” he said lightly, though the forced casualness didn’t quite land. “Apparently Potter didn’t want to be the only one carrying dramatic injuries.”
Hermione’s chest tightened painfully.
She remembered the Sectumsempra incident.
The blood.
The screaming.
The panic afterward.
But she had never realized—
Slowly, carefully, Hermione pushed his shirt farther open.
The scars spread mostly across the right side of his chest, deeper there before branching outward across his ribs in thinner silver trails.
Violent.
Permanent.
“Draco…” she whispered.
He looked at her with an expression she hated immediately.
Resigned.
Like he expected revulsion.
Or pity.
Or worse—
Nothing at all.
Instead, Hermione leaned down and pressed a soft kiss directly against one of the scars.
Draco inhaled sharply.
Hermione looked up briefly, then kissed another.
Slower this time.
Lingering.
Before giving the faintest teasing nip against his skin exactly the way he’d done to her neck earlier.
Draco made a strangled sound.
“Oh, for Salazar’s sake,” he muttered hoarsely. “Hermione, love, I’m going to need you to stop doing that for approximately thirty seconds.”
Hermione blinked up at him innocently.
Or attempted innocence, at least.
Her expression was likely ruined somewhat by the fact she was still flushed and breathless and very much sitting in his lap.
Draco stared at her for a long moment.
Then groaned softly.
“Oh, I see,” he murmured darkly. “You’re angry.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“Well, yes.”
“Because Potter scarred me.”
“Yes.”
“And your solution to this problem,” Draco asked carefully, “is apparently to kiss me until I lose the ability to think?”
Hermione considered that.
“…Potentially.”
“Fuck.”
The word sounded genuinely tortured.
Then Draco stood abruptly, lifting her with him like she weighed nothing.
Hermione let out a startled laugh, immediately wrapping her legs around his waist instinctively as his hands tightened beneath her thighs.
“Bedroom,” he ordered roughly.
Hermione pointed down the hallway.
“Left door.”
Draco kissed her again before she’d even finished speaking.
Harder this time.
Messier.
The careful control from earlier beginning to crack around the edges as he carried her down the hallway.
By the time he kicked the bedroom door open behind them, Hermione was no longer entirely certain either of them remembered how to behave like civilized adults.
Draco lowered her gently onto the edge of the bed without breaking the kiss.
Which somehow felt more dangerous than if he’d been rough.
There was something devastating about the restraint.
About the way he kept touching her like she was something precious while simultaneously looking at her like he wanted to ruin her completely.
His hands drifted slowly over her body, mapping the curve of her waist and hips through the thin fabric of the dress as though he were committing her to memory by touch alone.
Hermione’s fingers tangled instinctively in his hair.
Draco made a low sound against her mouth.
Then, unexpectedly, he pulled back.
Hermione blinked up at him, breathless and thoroughly disoriented.
Draco stood slowly from the bed and took a deliberate step backward.
Then another.
Her pulse quickened immediately.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly.
Instead of answering, Draco took her hand and had her stand up, then he began circling her slowly.
Studying.
The intensity of his attention nearly made her squirm.
Hermione suddenly became acutely aware of everything at once.
Her hair was completely ruined now, curls tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
The dress barely clung to her after everything that had happened.
And the heels—
Merlin, the heels.
She wobbled slightly trying to stay upright.
Draco’s mouth twitched faintly at that.
“Cruel shoes,” he murmured.
“A necessity. You’re very tall,” Hermione informed him defensively.
“I could apologize,” Draco said thoughtfully, “but I’m not particularly sorry.”
His eyes drifted slowly down the length of her body.
“Not when I get to watch you walk around in heels like that.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, though the effect was likely ruined by the fact she was flushed head to toe and visibly unraveling beneath his attention.
Draco moved behind her then, close enough that she could feel his warmth without him fully touching her.
He leaned down slowly beside her ear.
“Darling,” he murmured, voice velvet-soft, “may I take the dress off now?”
The question should not have affected her that much.
But something about him asking—
About the control in it.
The patience.
The fact that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was treating her like something to be carefully unwrapped instead of hurried through—
Hermione’s thoughts dissolved completely.
She nodded once.
Speech remained entirely unavailable to her.
“Lovely,” Draco whispered.
Then his fingers found the zipper at the top of her spine and slowly began pulling it down.
Hermione shivered as the sound filled the quiet room.
“Let’s leave the shoes on,” Draco murmured behind her. “At least for now.”
She nodded automatically.
Again.
Merlin, was she capable of communicating in complete sentences anymore?
Apparently not.
Slowly, the dress loosened from her body and slipped downward, pooling around her feet in a spill of black fabric.
Cool air brushed against her skin instantly.
Hermione’s pulse thundered.
It took every ounce of self-control not to immediately cross her arms over herself or hide somehow beneath the wreckage of the dress.
Because she hadn’t lied downstairs.
There truly had been nothing beneath it.
For one terrifying moment, she couldn’t look at him.
Couldn’t breathe.
Could only stand there wondering if this had all been a catastrophic mistake.
Then Draco exhaled softly behind her.
“Beautiful.”
Not rushed.
Not performative.
Honest.
The word wrapped around her like a hand.
Hermione finally looked up enough to catch his expression as he slowly circled her again.
And stopped breathing entirely.
Because Draco Malfoy looked wrecked.
Controlled only by sheer force of will.
His gaze moved over her with open hunger, yes—but also something more dangerous.
Wonder.
Like he genuinely could not believe she was allowing this.
Hermione looked away quickly, heat flooding her face.
Immediately, Draco stepped in front of her.
One hand slid gently beneath her chin, lifting her gaze back to his.
“No,” he murmured softly. “None of that.”
Hermione blinked.
Draco’s thumb brushed once along her jaw.
“You don’t get shy now after tormenting me for the six hours.”
Despite herself, Hermione laughed softly.
His expression softened immediately at the sound.
“Lovely,” he said again, louder this time, like he wanted her to truly hear it.
Then he kissed her once more, removing the remaining clothes he had on as well.
Slowly, Draco guided her backward onto the bed, following her down until he was stretched over her, surrounding her completely.
The weight of him felt intoxicating.
Safe.
Dangerous.
His mouth returned to her throat first, lingering there while his hands roamed slowly over her body like he was trying to learn every inch of her through touch alone.
And Merlin—
The man took his time.
There was nothing hurried about him now.
Nothing careless.
He kissed her like worship.
Like devotion.
As though her body deserved reverence rather than simple hunger.
Hermione had never experienced anything remotely like it.
His mouth drifted lower, attention lingering over her skin in a way that made her feel cherished and wanted all at once.
“Perfect,” he murmured against her skin. “Just so fucking perfect.”
The praise alone nearly undid her.
Draco continued downward slowly, leaving soft kisses along her stomach, occasionally teasing her with the faintest scrape of teeth that made her breath hitch.
Then lower still.
And suddenly—
Hermione tensed.
“Um… Draco?”
Immediately, he looked up at her.
“Yes, love?”
The softness in his voice somehow made this more embarrassing.
Hermione swallowed hard.
“You seem to be headed in a very specific direction,” she admitted carefully. “And I should probably mention that it’s… not something I’ve particularly enjoyed in the past.”
Draco’s expression shifted instantly.
Not offended.
Not irritated.
Attentive.
Hermione pushed onward awkwardly.
“My previous partners didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic about it either, so you really don’t have to if you don’t want to—”
Draco blinked at her once.
Then looked genuinely appalled.
“You would deny me dessert?” he asked gravely.
Hermione stared at him.
A startled laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
“No,” she admitted quickly, “but I’m just saying it may not be—”
“Do you trust me?”
The question interrupted her completely.
Simple.
Steady.
Hermione looked at him for a long moment.
Then answered honestly.
“Yes.”
Something dark and satisfied flickered briefly through Draco’s expression.
“Good.”
He kissed the inside of her thigh once, slow enough to make her shiver.
“Then lie back,” he murmured. “I have a very important assignment to complete, and frankly, Hermione…”
A wicked smile tugged at his mouth.
“I fully intend to earn exceptionally high marks.”
Hermione rolled her eyes automatically despite the heat flooding her entire body.
“Arrogant.”
“With reason.”
That earned another reluctant laugh from her.
Still smiling faintly, Hermione relaxed back against the pillows.
After all—
It wouldn’t hurt to let him try.
Draco started slowly.
Patiently.
Like he intended to learn her before asking anything from her.
And Merlin, that alone nearly undid her.
Her previous partners had approached intimacy like a task to complete.
Draco approached it like worship.
Like art.
Like something worth taking his time over.
The attention alone was overwhelming enough to leave her breathless, his hands anchoring her gently whenever she tried to squirm away from the intensity of it.
“Draco…” she gasped softly.
The sound seemed to encourage him further.
The room blurred around the edges.
Heat and sensation building steadily until Hermione could no longer separate one from the other.
And when release finally crashed through her, it left her trembling and stunned beneath him.
For several long moments afterward, she could only lie there trying to remember how breathing worked.
Draco lifted his head slowly, watching her with entirely too much satisfaction.
Hermione stared down at him in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me right now?” she demanded weakly. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like?”
Draco laughed softly against her skin.
“Darling,” he murmured, eyes dark with satisfaction, “I am going to ruin you.”
Hermione let out a breathless laugh.
“Well,” she said weakly, still trying to recover, “consider me ruined.”
Draco looked entirely too pleased by that.
“Merlin,” Hermione continued, dragging a hand through her thoroughly destroyed hair, “if I’d known you could do that, I might have tried to jump you in eighth year.”
A slow smile spread across Draco’s mouth as he crawled back up the bed toward her.
Unhurried.
Predatory.
“Love,” he murmured, settling over her again, “you simply needed to ask.”
His mouth brushed softly against hers.
“I would have gladly worshiped you like the goddess you are.”
Hermione blinked at him.
“Really?”
“Really,” Draco said immediately, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.
Hermione studied him carefully.
“Before eighth year?”
Draco stilled.
Then lowered his mouth to hers again, kissing her slowly once before pulling back just enough to answer.
“Yes.”
Fire burned openly in his eyes now.
Honest fire.
Veritaserum fire.
Hermione’s pulse skipped.
“How long?”
Draco groaned softly.
“Darling,” he muttered, dropping his forehead briefly against hers, “are you truly doing this to me right now?”
Hermione smiled innocently.
“You know you can’t lie.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Please, Draco.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“You begging,” he muttered darkly, “is going to become a serious problem for me.”
Hermione laughed softly.
“Tell me.”
Draco lifted his head again and looked at her for a long moment.
“Third year,” he admitted finally.
Hermione immediately grinned.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“Second year.”
This time Draco blinked.
“Really?”
Hermione smirked.
“Really.”
Draco looked genuinely stunned by that.
Hermione laughed again at his expression.
“The Quidditch uniform was unfortunately very effective,” she admitted. “At first it was just a crush.”
Her fingers slid lightly through his pale hair.
“By fourth year, however, it had become a full-blown problem.”
Draco stared at her.
“You fancied me during the Yule Ball?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Granger.”
“Malfoy.”
“You watched me play Quidditch.”
Hermione smacked his shoulder lightly.
“Yes, really.”
Draco looked unbearably smug now.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then he kissed her again like he’d just won something important.
Like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real beneath him.
The kiss deepened slowly, reverently, until Hermione felt herself dissolving into it.
Into him.
The heat between them returned almost immediately, stronger now, sharpened by confession and honesty and the terrifying realization that this had apparently been building between them for years.
“Draco…” she whispered helplessly.
He pulled back just enough to look at her.
Really look at her.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
Hermione stared up at him like he was the answer to a question she’d been asking her entire life.
“Yes.”
Draco closed his eyes briefly, exhaling like he’d been holding that breath for years.
“Thank Merlin.”
He lined himself up to her core, larger than what she was used to. She bit back a moan as he slowly entered her, filling her. He pulled out, breathless, and pushed in again.
Slowly, taking his time, torturing her in the best way. Each time going just a bit deeper until, sweat running down his back he was fully in. He breath heavily on top of her.
"I am going to move now, love... if it becomes too much you must let me know."
"Draco, please, I need... I need it." she squirmed underneath him and he began to drive into her.
"Fuck." He lost himself in her and she took everything he gave, she could feel herself building again. Lost in his movements, lost in his breath, lost in him.
Hermione clung to him as sensation and emotion blurred together until she could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
The room faded.
The world faded.
There was only Draco.
Draco’s breath against her throat.
Draco whispering her name like prayer.
Draco looking at her as though she was something holy.
When her release finally crashed through her, it was like she was falling of a cliff.
He kept going, pushing her through it, grabbing one of her legs pulling it up, pushing himself deeper.
"Again." he growled.
Again?? AGAIN? Oh yes, he said three. She wasn't sure she could do it again, but the deeper he plunged into her, she felt that fire burning again.
No... Oh Merlin... not again...
But her body was an instrument and he was playing her like a master. He pushed deeper and deeper until she had no other choice but to let go again.
She screamed, "Draco!"
"Thank fuck." He said as she exploded around him and finally released himself. Filling her with all of him.
He was breathing hard, his body heavy on top of her. She didn't care, she didn't care about anything in that moment.
For several long moments afterward, neither of them moved.
Draco remained draped over her, breathing hard, one hand tangled in her hair while Hermione traced slow patterns against his back trying to remember how to exist inside her own body again.
Eventually, Draco lifted himself just enough to brush the hair back from her face.
His expression looked almost stunned.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
Then he kissed her softly.
Tenderly this time.
Like something fragile.
A quick wordless cleaning charm by Draco and he pulled the blankets over them both and drew Hermione tightly against his chest.
Hermione immediately curled into him on instinct.
Warm.
Safe.
Sated in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
Draco’s fingers drifted slowly through her curls as exhaustion finally began pulling her under.
She could hear him murmuring something softly above her.
Sleep blurred the edges before she could fully make it out.
But Hermione was almost certain she heard the word:
“Love.”