Chapter Text
HERMIONE
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Hermione Granger was pissed.
Not in the, too many firewhiskeys, dancing on tables sort of way, but more in the, I’m going to burn this place to the ground with all of you still inside it way. A far less fun way, particularly for those facing said fiery demise.
Which, in this case, were the esteemed - pompous, arrogant, foolish - members of the Wizengamot.
She spoke, loudly, hands gesturing emphatically as she stared up at the rows of anxious witches and wizards from her position on the dais at the center of the court’s circular chamber. She paused to brush the rogue curls from her face, still damp and slightly frizzed from the rain she had walked through on the way to the Ministry that morning.
In her first act of rebellion Hermione refused to use the special floo connection that minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had arranged for her. A symbolic middle finger. She believed in symbolism, as it was the cornerstone of most effective protest movements, and protesting she was. But more than that, she needed the walk, needed time to prepare. Because before she even stepped foot in the chamber that morning, she knew how the conversation would go.
Across the room Kingsley shifted uncomfortably, his rings clinking against the arm of his chair as he considered her with growing unease. Beside him, several older witches exchanged whispers, their forced, tight smiles making them look like caricatures of themselves.
“Clause seven,” she said, voice carrying easily through the chamber, “grants the Department of Magical Regulation the authority to conduct indefinite reviews of any witch or wizard of uncertain lineage.”
A murmur rippled through the gallery as she continued. “Uncertain lineage shall include individuals with documented or suspected Muggle ancestry within the previous five generations.”
The murmuring grew louder.
“In simpler terms,” she said, eyes narrowing menacingly, “this abomination dressed as reform lays the groundwork for an all out, ministry sanctioned, muggleborn hunt.” Silence percolated through the chamber. Someone coughed.
“I will not endorse this legislation.” Her piercing gaze did not waver even as the Minister leaned forward, his expression incredulous.
“Madam Granger,” he said, carefully measured, “You are the Senior Undersecretary of Magical Law Reform. Your department drafted this bill-”
“The bill I drafted was intended to better integrate muggleborn witches and wizards into the magical world. To make their transitions easier. It most certainly did NOT include discriminatory surveillance, forced genealogical disclosures, or the power to revoke wands pending investigation!” She slammed a palm against the podium, the loud smack echoing in the silence. When the silence persisted she threw up her hands. “Can you really not understand how dangerous, or at the very least, how offensive this is?”
Another murmur. Kingsley cleared his throat. “Hermione, surely we can discuss this-”
“No.” The word landed heavy as lead and her chest tightened with the sharp, breath stealing finality of consequence, of everything she was about to lose. And then, just as quickly, the feeling settled. “Either this legislation is withdrawn in its entirety,” she said, “or you will find someone else to champion it.”
The chamber buzzed. One of the elder witches chuckled uncomfortably. “Madame Granger, this is all a bit dramatic don’t you think? You know as well as I do that, historically speaking, Muggles have been rather hostile towards the wizarding community. Surely even you can understand the need for us to keep track-”
“Oh, you have not yet begun to see me be dramatic, Romelda,” Hermione interrupted with barely contained contempt, her gaze drifting to where Rita Skeeter sat in the corner, her quill scribbling. It froze midair.
“Your resignation will not stop this bill from passing,” Kingsley said finally, a hint of pleading in his tone.
“I know.” Hermione reached into her satchel and removed a sealed envelope. “But at least I won’t be the one signing it.” She placed the envelope containing her official resignation letter on the podium, tapping it twice with her wand. It glided across the chamber and landed neatly on the Minister’s desk. “I’ll see myself out.”
Shocked gasps rippled around the room as she stepped away from the dais, away from the career she fought so hard for and the delusional version of herself who always believed she could change the system from within. She did not even spare Kingsley a second glance as she stormed out of the Chamber, the enormous double doors slamming shut behind her for the last time.
***
The Prophet moved very quickly. The daily rag’s ability to churn out news at breakneck speed was begrudgingly impressive if one put aside the whole penchant for slander.
HERMIONE GRANGER SNAPS, RESIGNS IN DRAMATIC OUTBURST
The accompanying photo was spectacularly unflattering. Hermione examined it over the rim of her tea. Yes, that was precisely the angle from which her face had no less than three chins and appeared to be mid-sneeze. A deliberate choice. An act of revenge on Skeeter’s part, no doubt. She could respect that.
The article used words like emotional, volatile, and unpredictable to describe her but rather predictably did not once mention the legislation that led her to become that way. Not for the first time, Hermione lamented the death of journalistic integrity as she folded the newspaper neatly and slid it under the leg of her small, round kitchen table, which had been wobbling for months and had, until now, resisted all attempts at stabilization.
The table steadied immediately.
Hermione nodded pleased with her own ingenuity. “At least the Prophet is useful for something,” she said out loud to her empty flat.
The flat in question was, in many ways, exactly what one would expect from her. Which was to say somehow both cozy and organized to the point of aggression. The space itself was a modest size but thoughtfully arranged. A narrow kitchen, adjoining living area, a bedroom just large enough to accommodate a king size bed, a separate office space with a desk and an alarming number of bookshelves. She may or may not have employed a wildly ingenuous and terribly illegal extension charm in order to accommodate her ever growing collection of texts and magical artifacts. Those that were visible to the naked eye were double-stacked and packed to the brim - yet still all perfectly alphabetized, thank you very much.
The sofa, upon which she now draped herself lazily, had been charmed for maximum comfort, and several knitted throws, courtesy of Molly Weasley, were strewn about on armchairs and in baskets by the fireplace.
By contrast, the kitchen was immaculate. Practically untouched, mostly because Hermione did not cook. Or more accurately, could not cook and therefore had been begged by numerous friends, on numerous occasions, to give up on the task entirely. And so, her kitchen was ostensibly a fancy hallway leading out onto a small balcony.
She liked living alone. It suited her. At least, that’s what everyone said. So much so that, over the years, it had become a sort of internal mantra she repeated to herself whenever loneliness came creeping in. She and Ron had made a proper go of it after the war, though it did not take long for them to determine that no amount of forced proximity, or shared trauma, or even love could make up for their lack of physical chemistry. Since then she dated on and off, even had a few long-term relationships. But whenever the subject of moving in together came up, the thought of their things in her space, their routines pressing against hers, always felt more like an encroachment than a comfort.
There were moments when she wondered if there was something wrong with her. She’d heard it enough times, in enough different voices, for it to settle somewhere deep and stubborn inside her. Too particular. Too difficult to please. Impossibly high expectations. Already married to her job. Ron had said as much, though never cruelly, and others after him had found gentler ways to imply the same thing. That she held people at arm’s length and then resented them for not trying harder. That loving her required navigating a maze of rules and requirements no one but her could see. Over time, it was easier to tell herself that she preferred being alone than to consider the possibility that she had simply become unlovable.
And so she prioritized her career. Focused on making the world a better place and told herself love could wait.
The career she no longer had.
She swallowed the rising panic, refusing to let it take root, and reached for the book she had picked up from a quaint muggle bookshop in a moment of impulse. “Let us find out what color my parachute is, shall we Crooksy?” she said to the orange furball now making itself at home in her lap. The furball mewled in agreement.
***
Just as she expected, Harry Potter arrived later that evening, presumably sent there by Kingsley to talk some sense into her.
“Hermione-”
“Don’t.” She held up her hand.
“But I haven’t even-”
“I know what you are going to say and I don’t want to hear it.” She waved him off as she summoned a bottle of wine and two glasses.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his boyishly messy hair and, in a show of defeat, handed her the bag of chinese takeout from her favorite hole-in-the-wall muggle restaurant three blocks down. It was a pity dinner, she realized, complete with a permanent look of concern etched on to her best friend’s face and three extra fortune cookies. She ignored the former for the latter, cracking open one of the cookies to see what her future held. The little paper inside was completely blank.
“Well that’s not ominous at all,” Harry muttered as they sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room eating mooshoo beef and chicken fried rice out of the carton, and absolutely not addressing the enormous, Ministry shaped elephant in the room. She did not respond, instead choosing to focus on her food while Harry did his best not to blatantly stare at her like she just detonated her entire life. It was, she reflected, a surprisingly successful self-perpetuating system of denial, all things considered.
Predictably, Harry returned the next morning with reinforcements in the form of Ronald Weasley, both quite striking in their all black Auror uniforms. She did not even look up from her tea as they entered.
“Hermione-”
“Don’t start with me, Harry.”
“But-”
“I mean it, Ronald.” Ron was attempting to look serious. He was failing. Partially because he was Ron, and partially because Hermione was very deliberately not taking him seriously.
There was a pause. A brief, collective recalibration, as though the two of them were silently renegotiating their approach. Hermione took a slow sip of tea, a strong Earl Grey that was slightly over-steeped, and reached for a pity pastry from the pink box that Ron had sheepishly handed over upon arrival. They sat around her newly stabilized kitchen table like a solemn intervention committee. She managed, with award-winning effort, to not roll her eyes.
“Hermione,” Harry said carefully, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, his tone that of someone attempting to explain to a child where babies come from. “You quit your job yesterday.”
Hermione gasped. It was an excellent gasp. “I did what?!” She pressed a hand to her chest, the back of the other hand to her forehead as if she might faint. “Surely you jest.”
Harry blinked at her. Ron's mouth twitched.
“You’ve donated most of your money…” Harry continued, nonplussed, removing his glasses and wiping them on the hem of his jumper. “You gave to three different activist groups just last month alone.”
She thought for a moment. "Four actually. Let us not forget the Merfolk Rehabilitation Alliance. Did you know more and more of the poor things are getting speared or caught in fishermans’ nets each year?” She tsked, shaking her head.
Ron stared at her the way one might stare at a mental patient, a little entertained but mostly confused. Like maybe he wanted to sign her straightjacket. “Mione. There is really no kind way of saying this so I am just going to say it," he paused. "You’re broke, mate.”
For a moment there was silence as the word broke settled into the room and made itself comfortable. Hermione took another sip of tea. “I’m aware of my financial situation…mate.”
Harry dragged a hand down his face. “You’re being stubborn.”
“Part of my charm," she said smoothly.
Ron snorted.
Harry leaned in, forearms braced against the table, fixing Hermione with a look that suggested he might mentally will her to listen, like if he could just concentrate hard enough he could get her to see reason. “Look, I know how hard you worked for this. I know how important this legislation is to you-”
“Was,” she corrected. “It was important to me. I no longer care at all,” she lied.
“Yes you do,” Ron said and Harry nodded his agreement.
“I don’t like this bill any more than you do. Believe me. But you are the only one who can make it better! I’m sure if you go talk to Kingsley he’ll give you your job back and then-”
Her eyes narrowed and he flinched. “I don’t want my job back,” she said, putting a slow, deliberate emphasis on each word. Her chest ached suddenly and she tightened her grasp on the mug in her hands.“I used to think I could make a difference. That I could change the way Muggleborns are treated.” She cleared her throat, hating how shaky her voice sounded. “I thought surely, with all I’ve done for the magical world, people would at least try to see things differently, and that maybe with time, I could make things better.” She set her mug down on the table. “But I cannot change a system that is not interested in changing. I see that now. And I’m done wasting my life away trying.”
Harry blew out a breath as Ron slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms at his chest.
They sat like that for a long moment before Ron finally asked, “Well, then what will you do instead?”
Hermione smiled because she had, in fact, already made a plan. Of course she had, she wasn't actually insane.
“I have a job.”
Their twin shocked expressions tickled her.
“But, you only just resigned yesterday,” Ron said, his blue eyes widening. He rested his cheek against his fist, his elbow planted on the table. “How can you possibly have another job already?” He took a rather large bite of croissant, some of the flakes catching in his stubble on his face as they littered the table around him.
“I’m very resourceful. You lot of all people should know that,” she quipped.
“Ok, I’ll bite,” Harry said skeptically. “What is this new job?”
“I’m the new shopkeeper for that adorable Muggle bookshop down in Piccadilly. I stopped in on my way home from the Ministry yesterday and it just sort of happened.” She shrugged, feeling rather smug about the whole thing.
The bookshop was quaint and crammed to the brim with both new and secondhand books stacked in precarious towers with no visible system of organization. There were little reading nooks tucked into corners and between the stacks and over the years, street artists from all over London had stopped in to paint little murals on the walls. A small brass bell chimed when the door opened. Hermione adored it the moment she entered.
The owner, Mrs. Spitts practically hired her on the spot after Hermione spent twenty minutes passionately recommending four different editions of Jane Eyre to a flummoxed university student. Her “job interview” had gone a little something like this:
“You like books.” More of a statement than a question but Hermione nodded.
“You like to organize books?” Mrs. Spitts asked this time, to which Hermione replied, emphatically, “More than anything.”
“Wonderful. You’ll start Monday.”
She’d left that afternoon with a copy of the popular muggle self-help book What Color is Your Parachute and a badge with her name on it featuring an illustration of a monocled cat reading Tolstoy, the shop’s emblem.
It was purrfect.
Well, almost. The salary still wouldn’t fully cover her bills and though she did have some money tucked away for emergencies- again, not actually insane- she was loath to admit that Harry and Ron’s exasperating assessment of her finances was correct. Even with this job… Hermione was broke.
Still, she’d be damned before ever admitting it to them.
***
One week later.
“Well it appears you were right as always, Granger. Muggle literature is fascinating!”
Hermione sighed as Theo dropped an unsettling number of books down on the counter, a stack so tall she was forced to step aside in order to properly glare at him, realizing belatedly that she would forever owe her sincerest apologies to the entirety of polite society for introducing Theodore Archibald Nott to the Adults Only, section of the bookshop. In her defense, he’d baited her. Bookshops are boring, he’d said. Muggles are unimaginative prudes, he’d said. And then he went in for the kill - “You cannot convince me otherwise.”
It was the challenge that had done her in.
“I’ll take the lot of them,” he said cheerily, tapping his finger on the spine of a book somewhere in the middle of the stack of erotica. “I am particularly excited to find out what happens when the naughty nanny finds the ruggedly handsome but grumpy single father in his office working late…” he waggled his eyebrows. “Riveting stuff.”
Hermione raised a brow at the title: Now He’s My Daddy Too. Clever.
“Remind me again why you’re here?”
Theo shrugged, somehow managing to elegantly fall down onto an overstuffed green and white checkered bean bag chair in one of the many little reading nooks in the kids section of the store. It was far too small. Or he was far too big. Either way he didn’t quite fit. “Because Pansy is busy and I am bored.”
She did not bother to point out that she, too, was busy. At work!
Years ago, during what she would later deem a moment of temporary insanity, Hermione enlisted former childhood mean girl Pansy Parkinson to help her with a rather…delicate interior design project that required the utmost discretion and may or may not have involved a certain aforementioned illegal extension charm. She was skeptical at first, but Pansy’s references were impeccable and from what Hermione could gather, the witch had long since outgrown her pureblooded upbringing. They miraculously managed not to kill each other during the weeks they spent working together and when the project was finished, Pansy magnanimously decided that Hermione would henceforth become her own personal fixer-upper. What’s more, it very quickly became clear that Pansy and Theo were a set. Never the two shall separate. Well, except for that afternoon, apparently.
To make matters infinitely more annoying, Theo had somehow, right under her nose and without her consent, managed to slither his way into her heart like the brother she never had nor wanted and on most occasions, dreamt of strangling. Occasions such as this one, for instance.
She released an exasperated huff, blowing the curls from her face. “And just how long am I expected to babysit you in her absence?”
Theo shrugged, summoning Now He’s My Daddy Too! from the counter, the tower of books collapsing to the floor like a failed game of Jenga.
“Theo! This is a muggle bookshop! You can’t just go around using-”
“Shhhhhhh!!” He pointed to the pink neon sign just above his head that read Shhhhh. “Can’t you see I’m trying to read, Granger? Besides, don’t you allegedly work here? I’ve yet to witness anything more than shameful dilly dally.” He ignored her latest furious glare, his attention already returning to his book as he made a dismissive shooing motion. “Off you go.”
“You know, I once spent months in a tent, alone, with two exceptionally ridiculous teenage boys,” she explained, an eyebrow raised in warning. “I know my way around a good number of hexes. Behave yourself.”
The threat did not quite hit the way she’d hoped. “How terrifying,” he grinned wide. “Marry me, Granger. Oh, do say you will.”
She shook her head, amused. “I’m not your type.”
“A brunette?
“A female.”
He gasped. “How very heteronormative of you. Love is love, darling. I do not discriminate.”
Hermione snorted as he waved her off, returning his attention to his book.
By the time the little bell on the front door chimed announcing Pansy’s arrival, a devil in a red shift dress and matching heels, Hermione was just closing up shop for the evening. Theo had spent the rest of the afternoon reading naughty excerpts out loud until finally she was forced to cast a Muffliato around herself to block him out. So lost was he in his debauched literature that he remained none-the-wiser. And thus the hours passed. A Win-win.
She lifted the Muffliato just in time to catch the last bit of Theo’s summary “...on the hood of his car! A Camaro, of all things!” His eyes were wide as he brandished the book in the air. “Can you believe it, Parks? Truly, I had no idea Muggles could be so imaginative with their foreplay.”
“I’ve had several muggle lovers and I can assure none has ever so much as offered to tie me up,” she lamented, disappointed as she flipped through the book. “Perhaps they should read more.”
“Mm,” Theo contemplated. “Perhaps. It’s very educational .”
Hermione rolled her eyes, though, admittedly they weren’t wrong. Not that she would ever give them the satisfaction of openly agreeing.
“Granger, are you done here? I’ve made reservations for us at that new spot in Diagon, and I have had a day,” Pansy said, snapping the book closed and placing it back into the waiting arms of an eager Theo. He snuggled it and she sighed. “I need a drink.”
“Ah! And just how is your new house guest?” Theo asked as he magically summoned his things, despite Hermione’s repeated chastising or more likely because of it.
Pansy scrunched her nose as if a foul scent had just wafted past. “Heinously self-righteous and positively wreaking of ennui. Altogether miserable, really.”
“Sounds about right,” Theo said.
Hermione looked back and forth between them, considering whether she cared to know what they were talking about and very quickly decided she did not. She hit the lights instead, the shop suddenly basking in the hot pink glow emanating from the illuminated Shhhh sign. “Ready,” she said.
***
The following Tuesday, Theo’s Tawny Owl - who he named Alfred and which was somehow equally as flamboyant as its owner - made a theatrical show of swooping into the bookshop via chimney to drop an invitation onto the counter in front of her. She quickly looked around and, confirming the shop was empty, snatched the envelope.
The Owl bristled, tapping a talon on the counter expectantly as she read.
You are cordially invited to Muggle Cultural Education &Appreciation Night.
Hermione paused, considering. Evaluating the phrasing, carefully. “Suspicious,” she determined, her eyes narrowing as she read the next line:
There is absolutely nothing suspicious about it. And you don’t have other plans. I already checked.
See you at 8pm sharp. Bring wine!
-T
He was up to something. She knew it. She also knew she would be attending Muggle Cultural Education & Appreciation Night, however begrudgingly, out of an irritating, lifelong need to satisfy her curiosity. Theo knew it too. She cursed how well he’d come to know her. For one terrifying moment, she wondered if perhaps Theodore Nott might actually be her best friend, then banished the thought immediately as she wrote a quick reply and sent Alfred on his way with a chocolate cookie (his preferred treat) before any potential customers walked in and found him there.
The afternoon dissolved as Hermione worked her way through three shelves of biographies, realphabetizing, straightening spines, pausing to admire certain names. Curie. Wollstonecraft. Nightingale. Her whole life she thought she wanted to be like those women. To affect the sort of change that stood the test of time the way they had. Now she feared, it was her that changed. The shop hummed pleasantly around her and she sighed, almost embarrassed by the relief of it. No one knew her name. Or rather, there was nothing attached to it, no weight or expectation pressing down. She was simply Hermione, the girl who knew where everything was. The girl who loved books and could convince you to love them too. It was an almost scandalous luxury- to be surrounded by the extraordinary lives of others and asked only to keep them in order, to tend to their stories like a quiet curator.
Evening rolled around and she closed the shop a bit early, giving herself just enough time to run home and change before apparating to Theo’s flat.
She arrived promptly at 8pm per his instruction.
The door opened before she could even knock.
Suspicious.
"Granger!" Theo beamed at her, wearing what appeared to be a cashmere jumper in a shade of camel that made the gold flecks in his hazel eyes pop. The wickedly devilish twinkle, however, emanated from the depths of his very soul. "You came! And with…wine?” his voice trailed off, ending in more of a question as he read the label, doing his best not to wrinkle his nose. She didn’t bother an attempt at defending her choice. It was cheap. But it had recently been brought to her attention that she was broke and so it seems beggars cannot also be wine snobs.
To his credit, Theo recovered quickly as he swept her coat off her shoulders, transferring the bottle from her hands to his in the same fluid gesture. "Come in, come in. Make yourself at home - I've got to get the-”
From somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, something dinged.
"Popcorn!” He declared. “Living room's just through - oh, you know where it is, you've been - just go, I'll be right there-" he gesticulated vaguely over his shoulder, the wine tucked under one arm and her coat under the other as he retreated toward the kitchen at an impressive clip.
She shook her head. Definitely suspicious.
The flat was enormous with tall ceilings and windows that ran the entire expanse of the far wall. The skylights above had been charmed to show a clear night sky (despite London’s incessant fog) and yet the space was unexpectedly cozy, comfortable in a way that felt lived in, with furniture in a combination of jewel tones and dark wood. She had a vision of Theo squealing with glee as he hopped around his flat - from sofa to ottoman to chez and back again - on a personal mission to soften the cushions just so. It frankly did not seem that far-fetched. Worn books lined the shelves. A large Dyptique candle burned on the low table. A vintage rug tied the room together. There were plants. Everywhere. It was, in short, a home. A very large, very expensive home that had been designed with enormous care to look as though no care or expense had been involved. A Parkinson specialty.
Deciding she might as well freshen up before whatever nonsense Theo had planned for the evening, Hermione headed towards the bathroom. Perhaps if she had not been so otherwise preoccupied trying to figure out Theo’s plan, she might have heard the distinct squeak of the shower faucet turning.
Alas she did not.
She swung the door open and once the puff of steam subsided, found herself face to chest with a very tall, very wet, very naked man, who had seemingly been in the process of wrapping a towel around his waist and had not, quite, completed the task.
Her gaze traveled down the length of him, taking in the chiseled muscle of his heavily tattooed forearms, the sculpted planes of his abdomen, the thick thighs, biting back a gasp at the sheer girth of-
The sound of a throat clearing came from above. "My eyes are up here."
That voice. The infuriatingly smug amusement… ugh.
Her gaze snapped up to his face - which was strikingly handsome and regrettably not at all hideous and deformed as she had so desperately hoped it would be - and added yet another adjective to the very tall, very wet, very naked man’s growing list of defining characteristics.
Blonde. So, SO very blonde.
Hermione blinked. Squeezed her eyes shut. Pinched the inside of her wrist, hard enough to bruise. Because surely this wasn’t happening. But when she squinted an eye open again he was still there staring at her, amusement dancing on his features. By the time the all too familiar smirk arrived her sanity had returned.
She was staring, nay, gaping, at Draco fucking Malfoy.
"Shit!” She released a sound that she imagined might be akin to that of a drowning cat, one hand rising swiftly in panic to cover her eyes, turning quickly and walking directly into the doorframe.
"-ow-fuck!”
She corrected herself, walked into the towel rack, corrected again and finally managed to get through the door by feel and instinct and sheer force of will, pulling it shut behind her. She could hear him laughing on the other side. She groaned and his laughter grew louder.
A quick assessment of the situation led her to the very reasonable conclusion that she would need to murder him. It was the only way. She would never live this down otherwise. So deep in contemplation of the various methods of murder was she that she did not notice when Theo materialized beside her. She screamed, startling them both so thoroughly he nearly dropped the bucket of popcorn in his hands. Kernels flew. Several landed in her hair. He plucked one from the mass of frizz and tossed it in the air, catching it in his mouth.
She glared at him. "Why is Malfoy naked in your bathroom?"
He blinked. “Showering I would imagine,” was his unhelpful reply.
“Yes I gathered as much, thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. “But why here? Specifically.”
“Well, he lives here. So…” he said, in a tone suggesting the rest should be obvious.
She stared blankly. "He lives here," she repeated.
"Yes."
"Here. In this flat. With you.”
"Last I checked. Yes."
"But," she said, doing her best not to sound shrill. “Why does he live here."
Theo sighed deeply, as though about to reveal a tale of great woe. "Because Pansy couldn't stand having him at hers a moment longer and he had nowhere else to go.” He lifted a piece of popcorn to his mouth. "It was an act of mercy, really. I think Pansy might have killed him otherwise."
"With my bare hands," came Pansy's voice from the living room.
“That’s not- ugh!” Hermione took a breath and tried again. "Why is he not living in his own house?”
"That," said a voice from behind her, "is none of your business, Granger."
She stilled.
His voice slid down her spine, deeper than she remembered, though in fairness, with the exception of the occasional picture in the Prophet or a passing glance at this or that social event, she hadn’t seen Malfoy since she and Harry had testified on his behalf at his trial, nearly ten years ago. After the war the Wizengamot had been in a frenzy, desperate for scapegoats to distract from their own failures during Voldemort’s reign of terror. His trial in particular had been a circus. A complete deterioration of the law and courtroom decorum. He’d looked terrified back then, too thin and far too pale, a mere ghost of the haughty and arrogant boy she knew from school.
In the end he was sentenced to two years in Azkaban and two additional years of house arrest following his stay. She’d heard that he’d moved to his family’s estate in France after that though very recent events would strongly suggest he’d returned to London at some point in the last few weeks. After all, she had just seen him freshly showered in Theo’s bathroom. Because, of course, he lived there. Obviously. Why should anything in her life proceed in a straightforward or predictable manner when it could instead do this?
She turned to face him, a slight blush on her cheeks as her perfidious mind conjured the image of his naked body, whether in fear or anticipation of potentially seeing it again was a distinction she did not care to dwell on. The feeling was remarkably similar either way. He was dressed this time (thank the Gods?) though the way his dark trousers and fitted white t-shirt hugged his form left little to her already overactive imagination. Not to mention the tattoos. Damn him.
"I wasn't asking you," she snapped.
"You were asking about me. I should be allowed to answer for myself, don’t you think?” He frowned. "Your lip is bleeding."
She ran her fingers over her lower lip to find she was, in fact, bleeding. Double damn him.
"Ya, well, you should see the other guy," she muttered.
He chuckled and his eyes twinkled. It was infuriating. "Yes, the towel rack has certainly seen better days. You know, it’s considered polite to knock before barging in on someone.”
"I didn't know you were here!” She said, exasperated. "The door was unlocked."
"All the more reason to knock. Besides, an unlocked door does not an invitation make."
She glowered. "I can see why Pansy wanted to kill you. You're as insufferable as ever."
Theo barked a laugh, thoroughly delighted as his head swiveled back and forth between them. "Oh this is just…what a…PARKS! Parks, are you hearing this??"
He rushed off toward the living room, leaving Hermione alone with Malfoy. She sighed as she watched him disappear down the hall.
"Well, knock or no, you seemed to enjoy the show." He said a bit more softly.
Smug. So fucking smug.
"It was entirely unmemorable actually. I’ve already forgotten all about it, in fact. Very average. Utterly unremarkable."
He raised a brow. "And yet, you seem to be remarking on it quite a bit."
Her eyes widened, realizing her unintended innuendo.“I’m not- I didn’t-” she closed her eyes and took a breath. “Ugh, I hate you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I forgot how much fun it is to rile you up,” he said as he brushed past her, coming in so close that she could feel the vibrations in his chest as he laughed, despite there being more than enough room in the hallway. The scent of his cologne was striking in its familiarity as it wrapped around her.
"Uggghhhh will the two of you either fuck or hurry upppppp? You're killing my buzz," Pansy called from the living room. "I have already had three glasses of whatever that thing was that Granger brought with her and I refuse to have a fourth alone. It's undignified.”
“It is,” Theo agreed, as he ushered her and Malfoy toward the large sofa. “Sit, sit.”
Pansy took the corner seat to Hermione’s right, forcing her further into the middle and much closer to Malfoy, who was manspreading to her left. Her thigh pressed against his and he stiffened. Briefly. Though notably, he didn’t move away. That was, well, it just was. It all continued to be completely unremarkable.
"Right," said Theo, setting his popcorn bucket down on the table. He moved to the center of the room where something was mysteriously covered by a large white sheet. "Welcome to Muggle Cultural Education & Appreciation Night. The first of many, I hope."
He took the sheet in both hands and yanked it off with a flourish. Beneath it sat a muggle television with a DVD player atop it, the small red light blinking steadily.
"Voilà." Theo lifted the remote, holding it like a wand and positioning himself into a dueling stance. He took aim at the television and moments later the screen lit up and the room filled with the unmistakable sounds of moaning. Not from pain but…
That's it - right there - don't you dare stop
More, I need more, harder Daddy!
Pansy excitedly nudged Hermione’s shoulder with her own as Theo beamed. “Behold! I bestow upon you this cinematic masterpiece! Now He's My Daddy Too! The film." He held up the DVD case like a trophy.
Hermione dropped her head into her hands as more enthusiastic, pleasure induced moans and dirty talk filled the room. She waited for Malfoy to protest. When he did not, she chanced a glance sideways through her fingers.
He was not watching in the way she expected. Well, she wasn't certain what she expected, exactly, but it wasn't this. His elbow sat propped on the armrest, chin resting in his hand, rubbing his jaw slowly with one finger in the specific, unconscious way of a person who was contemplating.
On screen, the man released a husky growl as the woman dropped to her knees, taking his cock fully into her mouth, sucking it down her throat as deep as she could before pulling back and doing it again. It was a fine cock, perfectly acceptable. And yet, to her immense chagrin and general horror, Hermione’s mind felt the need to remind her that she had, very recently, seen better.
"They get paid to do this?" Malfoy asked finally.
"They do," Theo confirmed. "It’s called Pornography. Muggles have an entire industry. Highly lucrative business. People get paid to have sex with each other in all sorts of delightfully creative ways, then they film it and other people pay to watch it.”
Malfoy’s finger moved slowly along his jaw, gray eyes still fixed on the screen. "And the people in it. That's their job. They simply- " he watched for a moment longer, his head tilted one way, then the other - "fuck each other? Professionally?"
Theo nodded emphatically. "I'm telling you, muggles are brilliant! Granger introduced me to it, actually," he said proudly. "She works at a porn shop."
The finger stopped moving on Malfoy’s jaw, his entire body pivoting to face her fully. "Does she now?" he drawled. "That explains a lot actually."
Hermione lifted her head from her hands.
"A bookshop," she deadpanned. "It’s a bookshop that just happens to have an Erotica section. That is a completely different-"
"Yes! She took me to the Erotica section," Theo confirmed, nodding.
"He tricked me into-"
"She selected several titles."
"I selected one title, under duress, because you said Muggles were unimaginative and-"
"And she proved me wrong." Theo raised his popcorn bucket in a small toast. "I have seen the error of my ways."
Malfoy had gone quiet, staring at her again. “A porn shop? I thought surely you’d be well on your way to Minister for Magic by now.” She ignored the implied question and the surprising sincerity behind it and instead chose to focus on a far less painful point of clarification.
“A bookshop!” She insisted pointlessly. "With a broad and very inclusive range of literary material that happens to-"
"Shut up this is my favorite part,” Pansy exclaimed, reaching across Hermione to smack Draco on the arm. “He’s about to eat her cunt on the hood of his car! You might learn a thing or two,” she quipped.
Malfoy raised a sardonic brow and Hermione ignored the sudden flush of her skin. “I’ve never had any complaints about my performance. You quite enjoyed it if I recall.” He smirked and Pansy slapped him again.
“I was fifteen, what the fuck did I know,” she snarked.
“Oooh you should make a porno, Draco! You’d make a killing. Just look at that exquisite cinematography…” Theo said, giving a chef’s kiss as he hopped over the coffee table to sit on the rolled arm of the sofa beside Pansy. Their eyes were practically glued to the screen as the woman lay splayed atop the Camaro. Malfoy’s gaze, however, remained fixed on Hermione. Head tilted. That blasted finger rubbing back and forth along his jaw again.
“Can I help you with something?” She asked when she couldn’t take it anymore.
He startled slightly, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. Then a small smile crept across his face as he shook his head and turned back to the screen without a word. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, presumably for a closer look at the woman writhing in pleasure, the man’s tongue stroking her cunt in long licks, three of his fingers glistening with her arousal as they pumped in and out of her soaked pussy. Faster. Deeper. Her large breasts bounced with the movement. She arched her back and cried out in ecstasy as he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked while he reached up with his free hand to roll her hardened nipple between his thumb and pointer finger…the camera shifted to a close up of her cunt just as she squirted all over the screen in an explosive finale.
Beside her, Theo and Pansy applauded!
“And that is why this film has rightfully earned several AVN awards,” Theo declared, as if that should mean something to them. “Just absolutely brilliant.” He stood, sauntering over to the stack of DVDs piled next to the television and retrieved the one at the top. “Now, you might be wondering what could possibly follow such a masterpiece.” He smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “Allow me to present Now He’s My Daddy Too 2!”
Oh gods. There was really only one way she would ever survive the rest of Muggle Cultural Education & Appreciation Night.
Hermione snatched the glass from Pansy’s hand, ignoring her surprised protests as she downed the remainder of its contents in one long-gulp. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and summoned the bottle, pouring herself another. Then she sat back against the cushions with a resigned sigh as Theo hit play. She didn’t need to see the amused smirk on Malfoy’s face to know it was there.