Work Text:
“Malfoy!”
The shout echoed through The Outsider's offices. Draco looked up from his desk. He heard several voices exclaim as the source of the disturbance grew nearer. Whoever it was, they were making no attempt at hiding their progress through the office's cramped cubicles and narrow halls.
“Hey, you can't go back there!” That was Regina Spintz, the front-desk secretary who'd barely been three weeks on the job, just like the rest of the office.
“These are private offices, Miss!” That would be Henry Smith, the only sportswriter who'd been willing to take a job at Blaise's brand-new free, weekly paper.
The door to Draco's office burst open, revealing an outraged Hermione Granger. Draco blinked. He hadn't spoken to Granger since Hogwarts, but now she was standing in his office and he had absolutely no idea why. He'd heard that she'd gone on to a career at the Ministry, probably busy climbing the political ladder. He was scrabbling for spare Knuts as a freelance writer, leaning on Blaise's slight sense of Slytherin loyalty while working in an office that had seen better days.
“What is this rubbish, Malfoy?” she shrieked, brandishing a folded-up newspaper. Draco leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.
“It looks like a newspaper, Granger.” He tilted his head and pretended to look closer. “One of ours, actually. If you look closely, it has the paper's name at the top and these things called articles within. These articles are composed of words, which people read to find out information. I thought you knew that, seeing as Muggles have them as well.”
“I know what a bloody newspaper is, Malfoy, I'm talking about what you've written.” She threw the paper on his desk. It skidded across the surface and landed in his lap. It had been folded to the page where his Slytherin Secrets column ran, but his piece was drowning under a veritable flood of red ink. It looked like someone—most likely Granger—had upended an ink pot over it; Draco could barely make out the original newsprint under the mass of hand-written notes.
“Not enough to do at the Ministry, Granger? Have to find someone else's work to hand-correct, since Potter and Weasley can't ask you to do their homework?” What in Merlin's name was her problem? Perhaps she was so prudish that the very idea of a sex column left her wanting to write up-tight letters to the editor. If so, she could go whistle. Blaise had been adamant about running a sex advice column; he said that it would be the thing that everyone secretly read.
Granger seethed. “Your advice is rubbish, Malfoy.”
Draco went cold. He thought he'd been thorough. He'd even asked for fact-checking, as discreetly as possible, from some of the blokes he knew. There was no way she could know.
“Witches and wizards are going to read this and take your advice, when it's clear that you know nothing about what you're doing.”
Draco's stomach twisted in knots. Granger continued onwards, unaware. “You advised a young witch, who was afraid that her first time would hurt, that she should just lie back and bear it, and then you went on to tell a wizard that he should spice up his marriage by getting a divorce.”
Draco was bewildered. “He said that he wasn't a pureblood, so I knew that getting divorced would be easy. He also said that his wife was frigid and that she wasn't interested in having sex! What else is a bloke supposed to do? Also, all first times hurt, so what else was I supposed to tell that girl? To never have sex in her entire life?”
His words only seemed to enrage Granger further. She stepped forward and slammed her hands down on his desk. “For the record, Malfoy, it's not true that all first times have to hurt, and you've probably terrified that poor girl and anyone else in her position,” Granger shouted. “Secondly, you didn't even bother to ask that wizard any questions about his marriage, you just assumed that he was telling the truth. What if he's boring his wife to bits in bed or doesn't want to do any of the things she wants? Sex isn't just something that women resign themselves to having, or have all the women you've been with been left that unsatisfied in bed?”
This conversation was going downhill, fast. “I've never had any complaints,” he said stiffly. Which was true, but not in the way that Granger would interpret it. His stomach had progressed from knots and was rapidly working on turning itself inside out. He could feel his palms sweat.
“With this kind of advice, Malfoy, I'm surprised you've ever had sex in your entire life!” Her shout echoed in his office and Draco could practically hear the ears of his co-workers perking up.
Draco's nerve broke. With a quick gesture, his office door slammed shut and locked, and he cast a muffling charm on his office.
“I'm a virgin, all right?” The words burst out of Draco's mouth. His face was on fire. He was sure it was, because he'd just confessed to Hermione Granger that he'd reached the age of twenty-four without losing his virginity. Perhaps a convenient Dementor would appear to give him the Kiss, and then Draco would never have to think about this moment again.
She stared at him. Draco forged onwards. “Blaise offered me this job based on my reputation at school, and I couldn't turn it down. All the family money's been tied up since my father's conviction and the Manor was impounded. Mother's living with Aunt Andromeda, but I need to pay the rent. So I'm bloody sorry if the column doesn't exceed your fucking expectations, but I'm doing the best I damn well can.”
The words echoed in the office. It was probably the longest personal confession Draco had made in years, and it was to Granger, of all people. She'd always had a way of getting under his skin, because in hindsight, he should have had her thrown out of his office and charmed the door shut. His sudden fit of honesty was going to get him fired, but that would soon be the least of his concerns.
Draco closed his eyes and braced himself for the heap of scorn that was about to be thrown upon him. Granger would take out advertisements in The Daily Prophet. Potter and Weasley would volunteer to litter Diagon Alley with flyers; they'd fly tandem teams across the town with giant trailing banners that said 'Draco Malfoy Still A Virgin.' He could see it now; he'd be the laughing stock of wizarding Britain—no, the entire wizarding world. He'd have to take up sheep farming in some forsaken place. Perhaps Siberia. He'd always heard horrible things about Siberia, about the slow death through isolation. It would be a blissful way to go. There was only one thing stopping him from enacting his plan immediately. Granger had yet to say a single thing, which he needed her to do so that he could throw her out and commence his flight.
Draco cracked one eye open. Oddly enough, she'd gone from fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail to completely calm. She was no longer leaning on his desk, but instead standing with her arms crossed, looking at him as though he was a particularly problematic exam question.
She sniffed. “Your being a virgin doesn't excuse this column, Malfoy. Sexual experience isn't the be all and end all qualification for dispensing sex advice; there are plenty of people who aren't virgins whom I would never trust to write this sort of thing.”
Draco tried to connect the concepts of Granger not making fun of his virginity, the idea that sexual experience didn't mean being qualified to give sex advice, and Hermione Granger asking someone for sex advice. He should have checked his tea for some kind of mind-altering potion or perhaps he'd been the target of a Confundus Charm. Either of those would make more sense than the scene unfolding in his office. He fumbled for a response.
“I'm not quitting this job, Granger,” he said stiffly. “I need the money, and what does it matter if that results in one more rubbish advice column? Witch Weekly's full of 'em. So unless you're willing to pay my rent, get out of my office.”
She gave him a look. Draco knew that look from Hogwarts. It was the same look that she'd worn as a prefect docking House points, when she'd passed out buttons for S.P.E.W., and probably the same look she had these days when alphabetizing her Ministry case files. They all meant the same thing: Hermione Granger had found a cause.
She spoke. “There's no need to quit your job, on one condition. Before you dispense any more rubbish advice, you'll run it by me.”
Draco blinked. That was not what he'd expected to hear. “This is a newspaper, not one of the Ministry's endless white papers. We're on a pretty tight press-deadline. I can't just send you my column and wait around for an answer.”
“I know. Which is precisely why we'll be meeting to go over your column throughout the week.”
“Absolutely not.” Working was bad enough. He wasn't going to volunteer to do unpaid overtime.
She frowned. “You will do this, or I will go to Zabini and inform him that you are completely unqualified to write this column, and list all the reasons why.” Her voice had that oh-so-familiar bossy tone that he thought he'd never hear again after Hogwarts.
Fuck. There was no way that Blaise wouldn't fire him—since Draco had lied about his expertise—and use this information for future blackmail. Well, blackmail in the sense that it was a social one-up that Blaise could call on at any time, like any decent Slytherin would. It didn't mean that Draco had to enjoy letting the other man get leverage on him.
Draco scowled and bit out his response. “Fine.”
She smiled in triumph. “Excellent.” She pulled out a scroll and scribbled something on it. “These are my free hours, so look over them and owl me with what works for you. I suggest that you find something that works for tomorrow, so that we can start repairing your column immediately.”
She pushed the scroll across the desk. Draco looked at it with little enthusiasm. “Will do.”
Granger nodded and whipped out her wand. The door unlocked and she left, leaving Draco feeling as though he'd barely escaped being eaten alive. It was probably the most-unsubtle scheming Draco had seen in years, but he couldn't deny that it had worked.
In a way, it was almost Slytherin of her, manipulating him into forced study sessions so that she could take control of his work. Though, there remained a significant problem. It wasn't as if they could study his virginity away.
Draco stared at the pile of books on Granger's desk. They were Muggle. There were naked people in them. Granger had just given him Muggle books full of naked people, with instructions to read them over the next two hours in her flat.
Could one be Confunded so completely that reality turned on its head? It looked like a distinct possibility. Although, judging by the book which she'd opened, these weren't the interesting kind of naked pictures. Only Granger could have managed to find books of naked people that were less exciting than Binns' History of Magic lessons. He didn't bother hiding his boredom. He wondered if he could get away with lounging in his chair.
“Anatomy is important.” She looked at him with a frown, as if disappointed that he didn't grasp her point. She was perched next to him in an armchair, looking far too reminiscent of McGonagall, with her look of disappointment and enveloping over-robe and unexciting outfit. Underneath her robe, she was dressed in a blouse that was buttoned up to her neck, a dark skirt that fell past her knees, and sported the most uninteresting pair of heels that he'd ever seen. He wouldn't be surprised if she had on tartan knickers underneath that blouse and skirt get-up, in her attempts to become a miniature McGonagall by her mid-twenties. She looked far more like someone he'd expect to rap his knuckles over his late homework than a self-appointed tutor on sex advice.
He sulked. “I don't see how textbooks are going to help me write this column. I don't have practical experience, if you recall my little confession, and I don't see how pointless Muggle knowledge is going to be of any aid in remedying that,” he said bitterly.
She huffed in exasperation. “Draco, you're a virgin, not a blithering idiot. Most of the people writing to the column are looking for one of three things: relationship advice, medical advice about a problem which they should have taken to a Healer, and permission to do things which are perfectly fine to do but which society tells them they should feel guilty about wanting in the first place.” She thumped the pile of books. “These will help you with all of those areas. Now, stop whinging about your virginity—which, by the way, is nothing to be ashamed about—and start building the foundations of knowledge which will help you write a better column.”
He'd barely had time to sort out her virginity remark before she launched into a lecture. She proceeded to bore him to death for the next two hours, alternately lecturing him on various points of anatomy and drafting up a column for this week while he read. So far, the only bonus seemed to be that Granger had taken over the column's writing duties, at least initially. She'd said something about not trusting the quality of his work.
He now knew terms such as 'clitoris', 'labia', 'ovaries', 'urethra' and 'prostate'. Granger had given him black and white diagrams with labelled parts. He told her that he'd have to hide them from his landlady or get thrown out for being a pervert. She'd smacked him on the head and told him that not only were the charts scientific, but that even if they had been pornographic, there was nothing inherently wrong with pornography anyhow.
He'd staggered back to his flat clutching the books and a draft of this week's column, nearly tripping as he stepped out of the Floo. He was reeling more from the fact that Hermione Granger approved of pornography rather than the weight of the books. Granger had admonished him to study. She said that they had a lot of ground to cover, and that he'd need to know some biology before they could continue. Well, she could go stuff it. He was done with school and wasn't about to do homework.
He ignored the books for the rest of the evening. He was absolutely not curious about anything they contained, and it was beyond insulting that Granger had not only blackmailed him into working with her, but apparently thought that she could relive Hogwarts at his expense. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
The next day at work, he turned in Granger's column and spent a great deal of time fiddling with the organization of his office supplies while thinking about how extremely uninterested he was in anything that might be in those books. It didn't matter that they had diagrams or line drawings of things that he'd never seen or heard of. It wasn't as though he was actually interested in the mechanics of some of the acts illustrated in the magazines that got passed around—with snickers and promises not to show the girls—back in Slytherin. That evening, he spent a great deal of time pointedly ignoring the books, which took up far more concentration than he liked.
It took three days for him to crack. On the third day, Draco picked up one of the textbooks and stared at the title: You and Your Changing Body stared back at him in jaunty letters. It wasn't as if anyone would ever know that he'd read a Muggle book, never mind one with naked people in it. Still, he checked that all of his curtains were drawn, and warded and triple-jinxed his flat before he started. He was only going to take a peek, just read enough to lie convincingly to Granger. It would only take a few minutes to pry out some terms and general concepts. It was seven o'clock, and if he was lucky, he'd have his evening free in less than half an hour. Besides, how interesting could Muggle books be? They didn't even have proper Healers. They had to cut people open and poke them with sharp metal sticks in order to try and fix them. No wonder they died all the time.
It was midnight by the time he checked his clock again. At some point he'd started writing notes, and he'd hit the end of the scroll. It was only when he'd reached for a new one that he'd realized how much his neck ached and had looked up to check the time. Unbelievable, this Muggle stuff. Draco was pretty damn sure that he now knew more about certain things than almost anyone else but Healers. Granger had said that most of this was common knowledge in the Muggle world, but it certainly hadn't been on the Hogwarts curriculum.
There had been one excruciatingly awkward conversation with his father when he was sixteen, mostly about 'keeping the bloodline pure,' and being shown one or two contraceptive charms, but Draco had been left to guess about the actual mechanics of the deed which he'd been prohibited from participating in. He'd inferred a bit from dirty jokes and some of the other students' bragging and crude explanations—which involved hand gestures—but it seemed that he'd been misled about the actual physical workings.
He got up from his tiny, cramped desk and stretched, his back popping. He even forgave Granger her dogged insistence on assigning him extra work, although he'd be damned before he ever told her. By the time that Draco dragged himself to bed, his mind was in a whirl. Bloody hell, why didn't anyone explain any of this? How was anyone supposed to figure all of these things out?
“Very good. I can tell that you spent some time with those books.” Granger beamed at him, as if he was a small child or Pygmy Puff.
She sat next to him in that armchair she liked, leaving him with the wooden desk chair. They were both parked in front of her massive desk, which was stacked with books, scrolls and quills. It was as though they were study partners back in the Hogwarts library, and Draco reminded himself that this was yet one more sign of her inability to let go of the past. Who wanted to recreate late-night cramming sessions, for pity's sake?
Draco repressed the urge to roll his eyes at her words. So, he'd read the books. It was a one-time fluke and wasn't going to happen again. There was no need to act as though he'd done something nice. Besides, she probably had something much more tedious planned for today. He looked warily at Granger. She was dressed drably yet again, as if having come straight from work. Even though it was seven o'clock, he wouldn't put it past her to stay that late.
At least she'd taken off her formal over-robes, leaving her in another dull work blouse and tailored skirt that fell to just past her knees. He decided that her skirt wasn't too bad; she did have nice legs. Draco realized what he'd just thought and mentally groaned. He must have been overworked and not quite thinking straight. There was no possible world in which he, Draco Malfoy, looked at Hermione Granger as anything other than a sexless, know-it-all bookworm.
The mating habits of flobberworms should be more interesting than whatever Granger got up to in her spare time. Draco braced himself for another pile of Muggle textbooks and diagrams.
“The fundamentals of pleasing one's partner—or partners,” she corrected, “—require self-knowledge. One should know what pleases oneself. Sex is as much psychological—that means in one's mind, Draco—as it is physical.” Granger reached across her desk for a Muggle book and put it in front of him, indicating that he should open it. The title was Introductory Sexual Techniques for Solo and Partner Play and it was printed in dull black text on a flat grey cover. It looked as dry as his History of Magic textbook, given that all the exciting stuff usually had titles like Minxes of Manchester or Voluptuous Veelas Pour Vous, and pictures of witches in various stages of undress winking at the reader.
Draco took the book, trying to fake some level of interest. He opened to a random page, looked down, and turned bright red. There were photographs of naked people fucking and delicate line drawings of what they were doing. For instance, he now knew where to find a good guide for introductory prostate stimulation, should he ever wish to try it. It wasn't that he was trying to look at the pages, but more that he couldn't look away. The pictures, even though they weren't moving, were very explicit. The models looked like they were enjoying themselves quite a lot.
When had the room become so stuffy and quite so hot? Draco shifted in the chair, trying to appear unmoved by the contents of the book. He was sure that he was failing miserably, considering that it felt like his face was on fire.
“I've found this book quite helpful, and I think you will too,” Granger said. She reached across him to turn to a different section, and Draco noticed that she readily found the section she was looking for. “These are the parts that describe different masturbation techniques, which are applicable to oneself and one's partners. Now, there's also a section about various popular sex toys, as well as some recommendations. I suggest you familiarize yourself with them, and if you want, I can take you shopping.”
He made an inarticulate strangled sound.
She paused and looked at him with concern. “I meant shopping for research purposes. You wouldn't have to buy anything and all the shops I'd recommend have very discreet staff. I'd strongly suggest going with me, though, as it's much better to go to a shop that has a practical, forward-thinking outlook. I have a couple of favourites in the London area, but if you're uncomfortable at the idea of going with me, I can just give you a list of addresses.”
Draco looked at the pages in the book, which had fallen open easily—a sign of a frequently read passage—and added the comment about her having “a couple of favourites in the London area” and put the entire picture together. He was in the exact same flat as Granger's personal collection of sex toys. He wondered if she blushed when buying them in the shop. He wondered if she blushed when she used them on herself. Maybe she blushed only when someone else used them on her—and then he realized what he was thinking and decided that he'd find out if it was possible to use the Killing Curse on oneself. He realized that she was looking at him curiously and he choked out a reply.
“Yeah, it looks—um—interesting. I think I should just read it for a while, and you can answer any questions I've got?” he said desperately. She nodded happily and fished out a Muggle novel from the stack of books near her end of the desk. Soon she was curled up reading. Draco could also see that she'd kicked off her heels and tucked her feet underneath her, which also had the side effect of giving him a really spectacular view of her calves.
Draco swallowed and tried to focus on the book. He flipped a couple of pages, more for looks than because he was reading. Although, the content wasn't helping take his mind off sex. He found himself stealing glances at Granger out of the corner of his eye.
Her blouse was buttoned up nearly to her neck, which should have been dead-dull, but somehow wasn't. When had the lines of her neck become so fascinating, when had he wanted to look so much at the hollows of her collarbone and the curve of her jaw? He was not attracted to Granger. Maybe his mind was being thrown for a loop by all this unexpected information. It was an unlucky set of coincidences that had him associating sex with her. He was just looking for some kind of outward sign that she was apparently a sex goddess in her spare time. His cock twitched with interest at that thought and Draco repressed the urge to hit the desk in frustration.
No, no, no. That was the exact kind of thought he didn't want. Although, holy fuck, it would help if she didn't wear such well-tailored skirts. He hadn't realized that not being able to see anything but her calves would leave him with a burning curiosity about what it would feel like to slide her skirt up.
Shit. He could feel that his cock really liked that idea, and Draco scooted closer to the desk in desperation. Luckily, Granger didn't look up from her reading. This was even worse than getting this kind of problem in class back at Hogwarts, because he couldn't even blame it on something other than her. No, wait, she'd think it was the books, and then launch into a long discussion about perfectly natural physical reactions, which would mean that they were having a long talk about the state of his cock.
Now he was thinking about Granger thinking about his cock, and his trousers felt like they were at least two sizes too small. Draco hunched over the desk, attempting to look absorbed in the book. It wasn't his fault. He was a young man, and her terrible sense of dress aside, she was a young, not horrifically unattractive witch his age. Uncontrolled physical reactions were bound to happen; all the books had said so.
Draco sat in the chair next to Granger and tried to concentrate on anything besides what might be hidden under her clothes and the fact that he was desperately trying to hide his stiff cock.
He'd escaped Granger's flat successfully, or at least he'd thought so. She hadn't appeared to notice that anything was going on, and he'd eventually got the contents of his trousers to calm down by reading the first aid and acknowledgement sections several times. Still, she'd shoved this week's column and the book into his hands before he left, saying that she wanted him to familiarize himself with it for next week.
Which explained why he was sitting in his tiny flat and staring at that bewitching, evil book yet again, only this time safely seated at his own desk. His nerves felt on edge, like they did before a Quidditch match, as though he had too much excess energy. He should just ignore the book and go find something else to do, but curiosity was teasing at him. He wondered what else might be in that book. What might he find utterly fascinating? Could there be things which he'd never had explained, or acts which remained yet undiscovered? Draco, never good at standing up to temptation, gave in and opened the book.
He read quickly, his eyes darting from picture to picture, trying to take it in all at once. Here in the privacy of his own flat, hidden behind wards that he'd personally set, he felt himself relax even as arousal pulled at him yet again.
He'd made fun of her all the time in school to his housemates, nasty cracks about her getting off on her books, but now he was holding her book and feeling his cock harden in his underpants. It was the thought of Granger doing the very same thing that he was doing, of going over words and pictures of people fucking, that eventually got him worked up. Draco groaned and unzipped his trousers, running his fingers over his stiffening cock. In his mind, she was lounging in her nightclothes on her bed, reading this very same book. She shifted, hesitantly turning away from her reading to slide a hand between her thighs. In his fantasy, she explored herself slowly, gently, until she slid the tip of a finger within herself with a gasp.
His cock was so hard that it hurt, and Draco gingerly lifted himself out of his underpants. He wrapped his fist around himself and stroked, lost in the images forming in his mind. She pushed one finger in, and then another, growing wetter with every touch. She bit down on her lip to keep from moaning as she explored herself and her hips arched off of the bed. Her other hand moved up to slide over her clit, rubbing it with her own wetness until her fingers glided over it with every touch. Her motions grew faster, and she started to moan—
—and Draco's hand wrapped tightly around his cock, pumping frantically. He stroked himself to the thought of her fingers sliding in and out, as his heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to come so badly, but he didn't want to stop.
He imagined her fingers pushing in, working herself until she writhed and gasped as she came, shaking, around her own hand. Draco moaned as his cock jumped under his hand, and semen spilled out over his knuckles, and onto the floor. He sat gasping, his cock still twitching. His hands were sticky; he'd coated the floor and he was betting the underside of his desk, too. The fantasy of Granger touching herself was still burning in his mind.
Her book sat there—luckily untouched—mocking him.
Draco spent the next few days resolutely not thinking about what he'd done with Granger's book back at his flat. When he looked at the book, he tried to do so dispassionately, and he threw himself into his work. Which ended up being not quite so arduous a task as he'd thought, given that Granger was still writing his columns. Work mostly consisted of showing up at around nine or ten in the morning, getting congratulated by Blaise on the rising popularity of his column, and sorting through the rapidly growing pile of mail.
Even though the column had only been around for three weeks, the letters were stacking up. Some he threw out without opening, such as the ones from the Wizards and Witches' Morality League and the obvious Howlers. Others he dropped straight into the pile that he'd take to Granger, and the third type he read. He found that he got an occasional letter addressed to him personally, rather than to him as the author of the column. Those personal letters mostly consisted of invitations, either for drinks or more bluntly straight to bed, from forward wizards and witches. None of which he had any intention of accepting, despite the occasional inclusion of some rather tempting photographs.
Despite his occasional resentment at his virginity—he blamed it squarely for this entire situation with Granger, inappropriate wanking included—there were reasons for it. He hadn't planned on being a virgin this long. Truth be told, he'd never thought of his virginity—or the losing of it—as something to be planned. He'd simply assumed that it would happen at some inevitable point. For a while he'd thought that he and Pansy would get there, but then it had been the sixth year and the war, and it seemed that everything his family touched rotted from the inside. He'd pushed Pansy away, first during the sixth and even further during the seventh. He'd frozen her out, and she'd survived. He wasn't sure if one had led to the other, but he had no regrets on the latter count. That romantic part of their relationship hadn't recovered after the war, but they were tentative friends these days.
After the war, meeting witches had been the furthest thing from his mind, at least for the first few years. There had been the trials, the rumours, and patching together the remnants of the Malfoy estate under his mother's guidance while his father's trial dragged on. Not that it had mattered, as the majority of their lands and wealth had been impounded as evidence before their trials began. They were scheduled to get it back around the time he turned thirty, if the Ministry felt like it. Most of the other pure-blood families had stopped talking to the Malfoys. What with the death toll and the imprisonment rate, these days a fair number of his friends couldn't afford to be seen with him.
He didn't blame them. He'd had an owl or two from Theo, Pansy and Greg, in response to his occasional letters, as well as a couple of discreet invitations to private Slytherin and pure-blood gatherings. To be honest, it was excruciatingly awkward to be at the kind of events that he'd once attended without a thought, dropping money on food, drink, trinkets, and ten Galleon bets with his friends. Now that his disposable income could be counted in Knuts, well—
It was better not to attend. Power and money were what paved one's passage in pure-blood circles and these days the Malfoys were more than a little short of both. He'd had nothing to lose when Blaise had offered him the sex-advice column, and at least the notoriety of his name had given the column good initial word of mouth.
He'd had a reputation for knowing his way around the bedroom back at Hogwarts, thanks to a combination of ludicrous rumours and flat-out lies that he hadn't bothered to deny. The truth was that he hadn't had a girlfriend since Pansy, despite the offers of sex that had been thrown his way. It seemed that there was more than one witch or wizard who hadn't quite got it into their head that the Dark Lord was dead, and fancied shagging Draco Malfoy, youngest Death Eater in history. The idea of being collected as part of someone's Death Eater fetish was stomach-churning, and Draco couldn't be certain of any stranger's intentions on that count. So, he'd played it safe and waited, even though being a virgin had become rather tiresome. Perhaps at this rate, he'd simply wait until his wedding night, which probably wouldn't occur until after the money came back and certain pure-blood families became very interested in the Malfoys once again.
He looked at a photograph of a rather charming young witch, who winked and blew a kiss at him. He sighed and chucked it into the bin. At least this job was proving quite entertaining, and tonight Blaise wanted to take him out for a celebratory round of pints. The paper had had more inquiries written to Slytherin Secrets than all the other columns combined, and Blaise knew when he'd struck gold. Hopefully Granger would continue writing and co-editing for a while, so that no one would notice when Draco finally took over.
Coming round to Granger's flat was getting close to torture, as they spent yet another evening sitting at a desk that was the site of some of his more detailed fantasies, sitting next to the woman who was starting to feature in almost every one. Maybe he wasn't the only one having difficulty concentrating on their work? He'd caught her eyeing him more than once or twice, so he decided that he'd test his theory and tease her until she confessed. He was good-looking and he knew it, and whatever else she was, he was damn sure that Granger wasn't looking at him as a Death Eater fetish object. If anything, maybe she had fantasies about editing his drafts. So, five weeks into their little arrangement, he made an attempt.
“Don't bother denying it, Granger. You think I'm good-looking.” Draco smirked. He leaned back in her desk chair, taking a break from the latest sex guide she was having him read, confident that he was about to get her to confess. She looked up from her novel in surprise, and—oh yes—she was starting to blush. Excellent, he'd caught her off-guard. She couldn't deny it any longer. She wanted him, and by Merlin's beard, he was going to let her have him. They'd be shagging by the week's end.
“While I might find you aesthetically pleasing, and—”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“—don't give me that look, Draco,” she chided. “Yes, I think you're good looking. You're attractive. That doesn't mean that I'm going to do anything in particular about it. I find many people attractive; it's really not a distinctive appellation. Now, if you've finished reading, please look at my draft so that we can finish this column.”
Draco numbly accepted the neatly-written draft and tried to hide his bewilderment. Did the woman have knickers of ice? How could she sit there and talk about oral sex one week and then brutally reject him the next? Since when had being told that he was attractive sound as though he was being informed that he had a fatal disease? Morgana's Sword, he could throw himself at her feet and beg her to shag him, and she'd merely inform him that she was flattered but not interested in accepting.
Not that he was contemplating such a drastic course of action; at least not yet. He sneaked a look at his infuriating, know-it-all, utterly shaggable self-appointed teacher. There was no way some wizard—or some witch—wasn't benefiting from her encyclopedic knowledge and astonishingly flexible attitude towards sex, but whoever the lucky person was, Draco's own chances looked rather dire.
He was reaching for another pile of letters when Granger's fire flared green. A man's head appeared; he looked vaguely familiar.
“Hermione, I'm sorry to intrude, but—oh, you have company.” He sounded surprised.
“Hello, Anthony,” Granger said easily. With that, the pieces slid into place. For whatever reason, Anthony Goldstein was firecalling Granger, and the two of them seemed to be pretty familiar.
“Draco, you remember Anthony Goldstein? Anthony and I work at the Ministry together from time to time.” Draco nodded warily, echoing Goldstein's own dubious nod of greeting. “Anthony, I'm sure you remember Draco Malfoy.”
There were few who didn't at least know of him, given that he was something of a notorious celebrity these days. Still, better to be thought of primarily as a scandalous sex-advice columnist than a former Death Eater. How she knew him was left unsaid, even though he was sure that the question was burning on Goldstein's tongue. They'd all been in the same year at Hogwarts, and Draco and Granger's former animosity had been legendary. There was no way that the man had expected to firecall Granger and find her having tea with a Malfoy as though it were a part of her regular life. Which, these days, it was.
“Hermione, you remember that thing we talked about today? About meeting later today, if that thing happened? Well, it did, so if you're free—” Goldstein's voice trailed off.
“Oh, oh!” Granger jumped up. She whirled to look at Draco. “I'm sorry, I've got to go. Feel free to stay as long as you want, but I won't be back until much later tonight,” she said as she shoved things into her beaded handbag. Goldstein's head vanished from the fireplace, even as Granger grabbed a handful of Floo powder.
“Ministry of Magic,” she shouted and leapt through the Floo, leaving Draco bewildered. What the fuck had that been about, and why had she needed to meet Goldstein at the Ministry at eight at night?
It was another two weeks before Granger let him write a first draft. She perched next to him in her usual armchair and read his draft, looking tempting in a crisp white blouse and dark woollen skirt. He loved it when she got distracted by reading and her skirt hiked up more than usual. He'd finally accepted the fact that for whatever reason, he found her fetching. He'd even come to terms with the fact that he wanked to thoughts of her more often than not, though he'd rather lose what remained of his money than confess to such thoughts. The object of his carnal speculations nibbled on the end of her quill and occasionally made a mark. Eventually, she put down her quill and his draft.
“I like your first response, but I think that we need to have a little discussion about the second one.” She fished out the original letter and skimmed it. “I think the relevant section is where the writer asks if it's normal to fantasize about wanting to be trapped or under the control of someone else, and asked to perform sexual acts.” She tapped the paper. “I know it sounds odd to you, but it's quite common. There's a technical name for it in the Muggle world—I'm not sure if it's the same here or different—and it's known as BDSM.” She pronounced each letter distinctly. “It's a compound acronym for the following: bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism. It can encompass anything from restraining someone while having sex to enacting violent fantasies.”
He wasn't quite sure what some of those words meant, but what she described sounded incredibly dangerous, not to mention painful.
She must have seen the dubious look on his face, because she smiled as she spoke. “I know, it sounds a little unusual, but it's all consensual fun. BDSM only occurs with the full consent of both parties. That consent can involve planning and discussion, as well as the use of a safe word—” She saw his puzzled look. “—it's a pre-arranged word that means the entire scenario should stop, no questions asked. It's usually an odd word, like duck or carrot, which would never otherwise come up during sex. There are other forms of signals too, but a safeword is the most common type. If there's no consent—” She sighed. “—well, it can look like BDSM to someone who doesn't know better, but the proper words to describe those acts would involve the terms assault and rape. People who don't know much about BDSM tend to leave out the consensual aspect of BDSM when it comes up, which gives BDSM an undeservedly unsavoury reputation.”
He stared at her with wide eyes. She smiled wryly at his reaction. “My general point is that you can be wearing a collar and chained to the floor, but still be having consensual fun.”
“Have you ever done anything like that?” he blurted out. Sweet fuck, that was a personal question. He could feel himself blushing. “Not that you have to answer or anything,” he stammered.
Granger smiled. She reached up to touch her neck, almost unconsciously. “Occasionally. It really requires someone that you can trust. Now, try re-writing that draft, now that we've talked about this a bit. There's a lot more involved than I've gone into, so I'll bring you a book next week.”
That night Draco imagined Hermione on her knees, a collar around her neck, sucking him off with wide eyes and a willing mouth. Her mouth was warm and wet, and her tongue slipped along the underside of his cock. He was leaning against a wall in a shadowed room somewhere, one hand tangled in her hair and holding her head, as her mouth glided up and down. His hand gently nudged her forward, until her breath travelled over the curls at the base of his cock. He pictured her starting to suck in earnest, working him until his hand fell away from her hair to brace himself against the wall. He could just barely see one of her hands slide between her thighs, pressing in and up, until she arched her hips and squirmed. He was so caught up in the fantasy that he could practically feel her lips wrapped around the base of his cock. When he came, it was to the thought of Hermione sucking him off and touching herself, getting off on his desire.
Draco could deal with having lurid sexual fantasies about Granger. Permanent self-induced state of sexual frustration aside, they were hot as hell. Whatever else he said about her, she fed some twisted part of his mind; she made for some of the hottest wanking material Draco'd conjured up in years. It wasn't as if she was ever going to find out that she was front and centre in most of his fantasies. He had excellent motivation for keeping up his Occlumency skills these days, given all the time he was spending with her.
He'd wanked to the thought of just shoving her down onto the damned chair and kissing her. After a moment's shock, she always wildly responded. He'd get one hand up her shirt while the other grabbed her ass and rocked her against his cock. In his fantasies, he stripped her off her blouse and yanked down her skirt, and then they'd fuck on her floor until she screamed loudly enough to rattle the pictures on her walls; she always screamed his name when she came.
Draco really did not want to see her face if she caught him imagining that. Truth be told, what was more disturbing than daydreaming about fucking her was the way she intruded into his thoughts. He'd be at work, having a perfectly normal day where he alternately thought about murdering Blaise over the latest round of edits and grudgingly admiring the man for his work, and then he'd be thinking about how Granger always said that editing was an art and a science as she worked on his latest draft. Or he'd be grabbing tea on his way back from work, and he'd find out that he'd absent-mindedly ordered two—one with triple cream and sugar, and one black, just the way she liked it—when the girl rang up the total. Or just last night, he was flipping through some Quidditch mags, and he'd thought of how it was a pity that she'd never taken a shine to Quidditch, and that in order for her to appreciate it, he should teach Granger the proper way to fly.
There was a time and place for her in his life, and that time was strictly supposed to involve editing the column and wanking to thoughts of her in various states of undress. It was not supposed to extend to planning picnic lunches with the woman so that he could demonstrate the proper way to grip a broom.
The thought rattled around in his head. He could almost hear her voice in his head: 'How do you grip your broom, Draco? Will you show me?' and concentrating became a lost cause as his mind rapidly spiralled down into imagining Granger sauntering up to him after a winning game—a Slytherin victory over Gryffindor, his mind crowed—and slowly sliding her hand up the front of his trousers. She'd lean into him and cup him with her hand, and holy fuck, the image of her undoing his Quidditch leathers screamed to be seared into his mind. Draco groaned and gave up his attempts at rational thought and tugged down the zip on his trousers.
By late October, the column had gone from moderately popular to wildly popular. Blaise had to hire a secretary just to deal with the Slytherin Secrets mail, and he had advertisers getting into bidding wars for the ad space next to where the column ran. The column had even made it into Witch Weekly's annual round-up of 'Things I Can't Live Without' as well as having been cited as a source of moral decay in a Daily Prophet editorial by the head of the Wizards and Witches' Morality League, an organization who was snapping up copies of the paper in an attempt to round them all up and burn them. Which, of course, only made Blaise's paper an even hotter item.
Draco had hung up both the Witch Weekly article and the angry editorial in his office. Both were worth bragging about, as the former proved that someone thought that his work was worth something, and the latter proved that he still had the ability to really piss people off. It was extremely satisfying.
He'd even managed to wrangle Blaise into giving him a raise with only moderate effort, which told him that Blaise thought the column was quite important. He'd told Granger about his raise and the mention in Witch Weekly. She'd hugged him, and said how proud she was of him. The hug had been a little awkward, as he hadn't been sure how to respond, but he'd settled for gingerly returning it. He'd very sternly told himself that a hug was not a good time to try and feel a witch up, and in the end he felt that he'd behaved so impeccably that even his mother would have approved.
They'd gone out to dinner to celebrate, and she'd spent all of dinner beaming at him across the table and talking with him about what seemed like every topic under the sun. Later, Draco couldn't remember what he'd eaten, but he did recall that he'd had a fantastic time.
Draco crumpled up Granger's letter and scowled. That was the third time this month and the second time this week that she'd cancelled on him. It was almost the end of November, and he'd only met with her once.
Working late? Working late? What did that even mean? Wasn't that some kind of hackneyed line that people used when they were cheating on their spouse? Not that Granger had a spouse to cheat on. Or even a current lover, as far as he could suss out. Goldstein was the only fellow besides her Hogwarts friends who owled or firecalled her flat regularly—Draco had peeked more than once at the letters on her desk—and she'd said that they were just co-workers. Why she had chosen to feed him that line about working late was beyond his understanding. Unless, she meant both kinds of 'working late' at once.
But Goldstein. Goldstein. The man was a Ravenclaw, for fuck's sake! They were all dead-boring bookworms who thought that a good party was a quiet study session in a library.
Even if she was having some kind of affair at work, it wasn't as if she needed to inform him of the fact. At least, she could have the good grace to cancel without rubbing his nose in the entire thing by mentioning that she was sure he could handle things by himself. Draco shoved her note away and dragged out this week's letters and rough draft. He had work to do, unlike other people, so he'd better get started since it appeared that he was going to be writing this week's column alone.
A column which he needed to get started, because it was due in two days, but all he could think about was how he should have been meeting her at her flat, so that they could go over his draft while sitting around her desk. Draco closed his eyes. He shouldn't have thought of that desk while at his own flat, because these days all he could think about was bending her over and fucking her on that damned desk.
Those fantasies about the desk always started off the same way. They'd be working on the column, and then he'd snap. He'd shove off all the books and papers on her desk as she stared in astonishment. She'd be even more surprised when he picked her up and put her on the desk, but she'd be pleased as he started running his hands up her sides and kissing her neck. She'd start wriggling underneath him, and from there the fantasies would deviate. Mostly, they ended up with him flipping her over and pinning her down on her desk. He wanted to bend her over and trail kisses down her spine. In his fevered imaginings, he worked her skirt up her legs and slid his hands over her hips. She would be trembling, caught between embarrassment and desire, and when he slid one hand between her thighs, her knickers would be wet to the touch. He'd pull them down, sliding them over her hips and let them drop to the floor. He'd trace his fingers over her hips and arse, watching as she shivered at his touch.
He knew exactly what would happen next, because he'd played it out so many times. He'd kiss her shoulder and nudge her legs further apart, until she was bracing herself against the desk and rocking up against him, moaning at the feeling of his trousers rubbing against her bare skin and the sensation of being pressed against his stiff cock. Draco shakily pushed away from his desk and stumbled towards his bedroom, unzipping his trousers as he flopped back onto his bed. He shoved down his underpants and roughly stroked his cock.
She'd look fantastic bent over her desk, half naked, wet and shaking, ready to be fucked. Not that he'd give her the satisfaction, at least not yet. Draco stroked his cock harder, groaning at the thought.
In his mind, he slid two fingers between her thighs and worked her clit until she begged because she wanted him so badly that she'd forgotten everything else. He'd give in, show her a little mercy, and fuck her with his fingers until she was good and ready for his cock. He wanted her to come at least once around his fingers, leaving her wet and over-sensitized. After feeling her shudder around his fingers, he'd pull his hand away and instead tease her with the head of his cock. She'd squirm and push back, trying to get more than he'd give her.
Draco ran his fingers over the head of his cock, and he could almost feel her instead, warm, wet and ready for him. He wanted to come so badly, he was practically shaking with need, but Morgana's tits, the fantasy of Granger was too sweet. In his mind, after she was reduced to begging for his cock, he'd take her by surprise and thrust into her, causing her to moan and clench around him. Draco grasped his shaft in his hand and stroked it hard. He imagined riding her until she screamed and came around him, and then fucking her mercilessly until he emptied himself inside of her. And when he came, she'd feel it and writhe underneath him, taking everything that he gave her and more. It was that thought which sent him over the edge, the thought of fucking Granger and taking her, claiming her as his and his alone, which set him gasping and writhing. He came in spurts over his clenched hand and his stomach as his hips arched up off the bed.
For a few seconds, everything seemed to fade out. He was panting and almost seeing stars, and nothing in his room was in focus. It took a good few minutes before he could string together a coherent thought. Eventually, he realized that his sheets were a wet, sticky mess that needed to be cleaned up. His cock twitched, still over-sensitized, and he gingerly raised himself off of his bed to reach for a towel. Towel first for his hand, and then his wand for a quick Scourgify. By the time his sheets were clean, Draco was more than ready to pass out.
The truth was that as much as fantasies got him off, he wanted something more. He wanted to actually come between her thighs. Or on her thighs, if he could get that. To be honest with himself—a state of mind which Draco rarely sought or achieved—he'd settle for just coming while she was touching him in any form or fashion. Draco groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. He was a doomed, desperate man. He wondered if it was possible to die from sexual frustration. His last coherent thought was that it was a damn good thing that Granger had no idea what was going on in his mind.
December rolled around, and Draco found himself at Hogsmeade. He had Christmas shopping to do, albeit for a very abbreviated list. He'd given his column to Blaise early, telling him that it was his present, which had caused Blaise to give him a two-fingered salute before offering to take him out for a pint.
With a list that pretty much consisted of his parents and aunt, Draco wasn't quite sure what to buy. His parents already had everything they could want, though it wasn't exactly accessible at the moment. His father was still off somewhere in Romania, working for some old school friends, while his mother was getting along rather well with Aunt Andromeda. Maybe he should get something for Teddy too? He supposed the kid was old enough to appreciate Christmas presents. He'd come to Hogsmeade because with the students at Hogwarts being so close, prices tended to be far more affordable for the student crowd—and Draco Malfoy, currently impoverished wizard—than at Diagon Alley.
He eventually picked up a pair of colour-changing children's socks at Gladrags Wizardwear for Teddy, and two delicate self-playing flutes at Dominic Maestro's Music Shop. If activated at the same time, they'd play duets, which he was sure his mother and Aunt Andromeda would appreciate. He'd settled on some fine parchment and stationary from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop for his father. It was a rather neutral gift, but at least it was something top-of-the-line that he could still afford on his limited budget. As he waited for it to be wrapped, he looked around the store. There were things in here that Hermione would appreciate, but he wasn't quite sure if she was planning to get him anything. He didn't want to get her something and have it not be reciprocated, which would be quite awkward.
Maybe he'd warm up and have a pint at The Three Broomsticks and think on it for a bit. Scrivenshaft's didn't close for another hour, since it was staying open late for the Christmas shopping rush. Draco walked through the busy streets, bundled up against the early evening chill. As he approached The Three Broomsticks, whose large windows were sparkling and brightly lit from within, Draco recognized Hermione standing by the bar. She was with a large group of people he didn't recognize, and he slowed his footsteps as he tried to figure out why she was there. They weren't her normal Gryffindor crowd, he knew that much. There were a couple of Ravenclaws that he vaguely recognized from Hogwarts, as well as some people too old to have been there during his time.
He frowned as he spotted one person whom he did recognize all too well. Anthony Goldstein was making his way toward the crowd while carrying two pints, one of which he passed to Hermione. He took up a place next to her, and the two started easily chatting.
Draco's stomach twisted, and he realized that he wasn't feeling good. Maybe he should skip The Three Broomsticks and just go straight home. He was about to turn away when he spotted something horrifying. An all-too familiar plant was lowering itself from the ceiling, and neither Hermione or Goldstein had spotted it. Draco willed Hermione to look up, to spot her impending danger, but to no avail. The mistletoe had descended completely and was now hovering over their heads.
One of the Ravenclaws looked up and choked, and then nudged Goldstein with her elbow. She pointed up, causing both Goldstein and Hermione to look in that direction. Hermione looked startled and Goldstein looked dumbfounded for a moment, as Goldstein's friends cheered. Hermione smiled and leaned over to whisper into Goldstein's ear, and Draco heard a crumpling sound. He looked down to find that he'd crushed the box from Gladrags. When he looked up again, Goldstein and Hermione were leaning in to kiss.
Perhaps this was some kind of reverse Christmas present. The kind where the charming young on-his-way-to-redemption ex-Death Eater found the girl that he—that he tolerated well enough—kissing some other bloke under the mistletoe. The horrible scene continued for a few more endless seconds, and then the two broke apart with apparent giggling as some stupid-looking arsehole—presumably one of Goldstein's friends—laughed and shouted for another round. Draco was rapidly becoming pissed off, which in turn pissed him off further. What did he care if Granger was snogging other men under the mistletoe? He turned from the sickening scene and quickly walked away. Why the hell was everyone in his way all of a sudden? Couldn't he just finish his shopping without having to run into every damn wizard and witch in the entire country, who'd apparently collectively decided that now was the perfect time to shop?
He kicked a snowdrift on the pavement and nearly howled in pain. Bloody hell, it felt like he'd broken his foot! The pain subsided a tiny bit, but not before Draco saw the gleam of ice under the deceptive, snow-covered drift. He Apparated back to his flat and limped to his dilapidated sofa, nursing his wounded foot and cursing Anthony Goldstein all the way. If the wanker hadn't been drooling all over Hermione at the pub, he would have noticed the damned charmed mistletoe. If he'd noticed the mistletoe before it was conveniently too late to dodge it, Draco never would have been subjected to the stomach-churning sight of a Ravenclaw attempting to snog without the aid of instructions and a labelled chart. If Draco hadn't been attempting to distract himself from the vile sight, he wouldn't have kicked the pile of snow. Therefore, his aching foot was completely Goldstein's fault. If it was broken, Draco ought to send the Healer's bill to him. To add insult to injury, Goldstein was a blundering twit. If it had been him—if it had been someone with actual style in Goldstein's place, Hermione wouldn't have escaped while looking amused. No, she would have been fucking breathless, that's what. She would have been in his—someone's arms, asking to go back to their place. Bloody Ravenclaws. Useless wankers, the lot of them.
After a frustrating and annoyance-filled week in which everything seemed to go wrong, Draco had come to the conclusion that Goldstein was a step up from Weasley, but not by much. Not that he was thinking about it. At least, he wasn't thinking about it all the time. His current theory was that Hermione Granger only dated pathetic blokes, such as Ravenclaws and Weasleys. Although, Weasley was a pureblood, which made him more suitable—
That argument collapsed around him like wet paper. Even he couldn't manage to justify how being a pureblood meant that one was a better choice to date a Muggle-born witch, even though some irrational part of his mind was doggedly insisting precisely that. It was probably the same part of his mind that said things like 'tell Blaise you'll write a sex advice column for his paper, even though you're a virgin' and 'next time Granger asks you what you'd like to work on this evening, tell her that you'd like to work on licking her head to toe,' so it could damn well fuck off. It clearly wasn't able to make rational decisions.
It was likely the same part of his mind that was responsible for the fact that he saw everything that she did through some kind of warped Granger-vision, which seemed to be a combination of mind-destroying lust and pathetic fantasies. The lust he could handle, even if was leaving him rather frustrated. Pretty much everything that he'd learned over the last few months said that there was nothing to feel guilty about for finding oneself fantasizing about an attractive acquaintance, as long as one was keeping fantasy and real-life strictly separate. Fantasizing was not the same as acting on a thought.
Of the fantasies, the ones where they fucked on every surface imaginable were easy to understand. The ones that threw him were the times that he'd catch himself daydreaming about what things might be like if they were more than accidental co-workers and sort-of-friends. He indulged the former and ruthlessly stomped on the latter. Who the fuck spent useful time wondering about how some girl would look at you if she fancied you?
He blamed Granger for the way that his mind would wander, usually around midnight while he was working away on the column, to what she was doing, where she was, who she was seeing and whether or not she was thinking about him in return. Draco dragged his mind back to his column, which was becoming an ink-soaked disaster. He'd already snapped two quills tonight. He stared at the smeared words and the stack of letters, but his mind didn't seem very interested in putting letters and words together into coherent sentences. He was staring at his work, but not seeing it. For which he blamed Granger, again.
Draco repeated the very logical arguments that he'd been working on all week: he did not care about Hermione Granger and he did not care who she was seeing, especially if she spent all of her time these days wrapped up with some apparently fascinating Ravenclaw. Who was, as far as Draco could tell, the dead-boring sort. Maybe Goldstein had hidden talents, such as being really good in bed. Even though Goldstein most likely had experience in that department, Draco had enthusiasm and knowledge going for him, as well as four months of close, personal time talking with Granger about all of her thoughts and feelings about sex. Surely some of that theoretical knowledge would cross over into practical application.
Draco groaned and ran his hands over his face, not caring that he was likely getting ink all over himself. He was not going to spend his time wondering if he would be better at sex than Goldstein. It was almost one in the morning, and speculating about who was better in the sack was a clear sign of impending insomnia. He pushed back from his desk and went to get ready for bed.
It wasn't as though the entire thing weren't theoretical anyhow. It wasn't as if he was ever going to have the chance to get Granger into bed, never mind have her comparatively rate him and Goldstein. Although, Draco reassured himself as he crawled into bed, he was quite sure that he would win.
It had been almost two months since that stomach-churning scene at the Three Broomsticks, and Hermione hadn't cancelled one of their weekly meetings since. These days he usually showed up at her flat carrying takeaway—he'd wrested another raise from Blaise, citing the ridiculous popularity of his column—and going over the column took less than an hour. She mostly pointed out minor mistakes and made some suggestions, and then they went through the previous week of letters to find one to consider for next week.
Even though the column didn't take much time, Draco found that he wasn't leaving her flat until ten or eleven at night. Sometimes he wondered what Goldstein thought of Hermione entertaining some bloke until near midnight in her flat, but he'd never quite summoned up the courage to ask her. He was welcome and he wasn't going to question it.
Sometimes they'd talk about the column or how Blaise's paper was getting on, and other times they'd argue over some new book, film or newspaper article. She'd started showing him different types of Muggle films and recommending books, Muggle or otherwise, and to his surprise he found that she had a pretty good eye for things that he'd like.
He'd even thought of asking her to take him places that sometimes showed up in the Muggle books. A lot of them mentioned things that were either in London or parts of England that he'd never visited or heard of before even though he'd checked a map and found them to be quite near to many wizarding locations.
Right now she was going on about some library called The British Library and another called the Bodleian, which as far as he could tell nearly rivalled her beloved Hogwarts library.
“—I'd love to find more time to explore the book stacks, but I rarely can get over there. I just don't have that kind of free time,” she said as she shoved her hair behind over her ear. They were lounging on her sofa with takeaway containers of chicken vindaloo, saag paneer and stacks of naan.
“Only you would consider browsing in libraries a type of holiday.”
She rolled her eyes and lightly kicked him with her foot. They were both wearing casual clothes, as Hermione had got into the habit of changing if he stayed after nine at night.
“At least the Ministry library is rather good. I'd say that it's one of my top favourite libraries, all things considered. They're much more reasonable about books than Madame Pince.”
Draco shrugged. “I've never been.”
Hermione sat up in astonishment. “Never? Not ever?” She sounded horrified.
It hadn't ever been on the list of places that Lucius Malfoy had deemed it important to show to his son, nor had it been a part of Draco's Wizengamot trial. Although for Hermione, its very library-ness was apparently enough to qualify it as a magical must-see destination. He could see her looking speculatively at him even now.
“We're going tomorrow,” she announced.
“What?” Draco nearly choked on his naan.
“Tomorrow, you're going to come by the Ministry around two—” She looked pointedly at him. “—since I have some free time, and I know that you always have free time. Please don't try and tell me that Blaise keeps you chained to your desk. I know very well that you're free to come and go as you please.”
“Fine, if it'll keep my secret co-writer pleased,” he said, as if quite put-upon. Hermione huffed in amusement and poked him again with her foot. He stuck his tongue out at her.
Grumbling aside, he was quite pleased. This was the first time they'd have gone anywhere that was completely unrelated to the column, since those trips to sex shops didn't count, and she'd even been the one to propose the idea. Maybe after this entire thing with Goldstein blew over, which he was pretty sure it would given that he hadn't heard a thing about the man in the last month— he'd ask her to take him somewhere in Muggle London. He wouldn't quite propose it as a date, more like a day out, but if she chose to interpret his invitation that way—well, he wouldn't bother to correct her.
He'd arrived by Floo at the Ministry with some trepidation, dressed in elegant robes that he hadn't had cause to wear in years. Hermione had already secured a visitor's pass for him, so he was able to avoid fighting with any bureaucracy. He was lucky that robe fashions changed rarely and slowly, so his old robes from wealthier days were still in style. It was a far cry from the mix of casual wizarding-wear and Muggle clothes that he found himself wearing most days. Still, he didn't want to show up at the Ministry looking less than well-off, even if the pitiful state of the Malfoy family coffers was public knowledge.
Hermione was waiting for him when he arrived, and she smiled and waved excitedly when she spotted him. She was dressed in a very fetching set of robes and a pale jacket with a matching skirt, and Draco took the opportunity to admire how good she looked. She whisked him away towards the library, pointedly ignoring anyone who gaped or glared, while taking him through the twisting Ministry corridors with easy familiarity. They went through two sets of lifts and around more turns than he could count. Before long they were standing in a wide corridor which led to a set of staggeringly large ornate bronze double doors.
“You're going to love this,” she said as she tapped the doors, which glided open at her touch.
The Ministry library was easily the size of the one at Hogwarts, and filled with hanging lights that gave off a soft glow. Large tables were laid out everywhere, as well as plenty of carved wooden chairs. All in all, it gave the impression of a library that was both built for extensive reading and research, and he could see why Hermione loved it so much.
“Come on, I've got to show you the flying card catalogue and the invisible interlibrary loans transit system. You can see books arrive from all over the world!” She smiled at him and took hold of his arm. He blinked in surprise, but before he could inquire, he was being dragged toward a far corner of the library. Hermione was rattling off library facts as they walked and Draco found himself smiling as she pointed out this and that. He hadn't been sure how interesting this visit would be, but somehow Hermione's enthusiasm was infectious. She probably knew more about the inner workings of the library than Ministry employees who'd been there twenty years.
“—and if you look to your left, you can see how they've modified the inter-office memo system to act as a waiting list for books. Can you see how each of the paper birds has a name written on the edge? They used to have a problem with the birds trying to migrate with the seasons, but they've recently fixed that with a—”
“Hermione!” a voice rang out, and they turned to see who it was. Draco's good mood vanished. Anthony Goldstein was walking quickly towards them, waving at Hermione enthusiastically.
“Hermione, there you are. I've been searching for you all over,” Goldstein said excitedly. He didn't even register Draco's presence for a moment. “Ah, afternoon, Draco.” He sounded surprised.
“Goldstein,” he said stiffly.
Draco nastily hoped that Goldstein was surprised, surprised in a way that meant Draco had ruined his day. If Draco had a list of 'People Whose Day I Strive to Ruin'—which he did, incidentally—then it was only appropriate to mention that Goldstein had managed to work his way into the top five. Which was rather impressive for a man he'd spoken to a mere handful of times.
“Hermione, do you—I mean, could you possibly—” Goldstein said as he walked closer, eyeing Draco dubiously all the while.
Draco's stomach twisted. What the hell was so fascinating about Goldstein for Hermione, anyhow? The man didn't know how to dress and was stammering like a third-year trying to ask a girl to Hogsmeade.
“What did you need to speak with me about, Anthony?” she said brightly, as if she was actually enjoying having a conversation with the prat.
Goldstein coughed nervously and reached into his pocket. He fished out a tiny carved wooden box and presented it in the palm of his hand. Draco swore silently to himself. This had better not be what it looked like. Hermione's eyes widened and she reached out, barely stopping herself from touching the box.
“So soon? I thought that we'd—” She cut herself off.
Fuck. This was exactly what it looked like. He'd been dead wrong about the two of them being on the verge of splitting up. Draco's heart plummeted and his gut clenched. Hermione and Goldstein were giving each other meaningful looks. They both wanted him gone.
Hermione cleared her throat. “Draco, if you could excuse us for just a moment?”
Right. No need to stand around where he wasn't wanted. He turned and walked away. “I'll see you later,” he said loudly, not bothering to look behind him to see whether or not she waved goodbye. It wasn't like he wanted to stand around and watch some Gryffindor and fucking Ravenclaw get all sappy over each other at the prospect of shacking up to breed more relentless little do-gooders. It wasn't like he cared whether or not she said yes. Although, judging by the glow on her face when she looked at that box, Goldstein was getting lucky in more than one way tonight. As Draco walked through the stacks, he viciously kicked a stool that was in his way.
He didn't feel any better.
It'd been four fucking days since that train wreck in the library, and Draco was beyond pissed off that he was still thinking about it. He was thinking about it at his flat, he was thinking about it while doing his shopping, he was even thinking about it at work, just like he was doing right now. Why did he care, anyway? Hermione could go ahead and make a disaster out of her own life—and wedding Goldstein was guaranteed to be a disaster—if she wanted.
She'd sent him three owls in the last few days, and he'd sent each of them back in a fit of pique. He'd even turned off the ability to firecall his Floo. The last thing he wanted was for her to tell him the gory details of how the entire proposal scene had played out. It was the entire principle of the thing that had him so wound up. That was it. After all, what kind of loser proposed at work? How romantic could that possibly be? Goldstein had to track her down between filing paperwork and writing memos, and he'd had to run her to ground in the library. Although—perhaps that had been the plan? To propose to her in the library amidst stacks of rotting, mouldering books?
Draco leaned back in his office chair and grudgingly conceded that it wasn't a half-bad plan, given Hermione's unnatural fetish for books. Although if Goldstein had any kind of class or wealth, he wouldn't have had to borrow a location like some sort of pauper. Why, the library at Malfoy Manor had at least as many books as the Ministry's reference library. Which was, of course, a totally unrelated example that he'd only thought of to show exactly how well-bred he was compared to Goldstein.
Not that Draco had access to the Manor, due to the damned Ministry. Only a few months ago, Draco had been reduced to stealthily reading in second hand bookshops and sneaking out before the assistant could demand he make a purchase.
Proposing in a second hand bookshop while dodging the staff would make the whole Ministry library thing look positively brilliant by comparison. Draco slammed down a stack of letters with unnecessary force as he realized the direction of his thoughts. If he kept this rate of furniture abuse going, Blaise was going to think that he was tearing up his office. That was it; he was not going to think any more about the entire upcoming Granger-Goldstein wedding fiasco, even if it killed him.
The next Monday, Draco came into work with a pounding headache that refused to get any better. It was compounded when Blaise dropped his edits onto his desk. The column was soaked in red ink, barely visible under Blaise's notes and corrections. When he'd dropped it off, Blaise had said that he didn't know what the hell was wrong with him. The last few months had been excellent, but this latest column was excruciatingly bad and depressing to boot. 'Don't bother looking for love, she'll just leave you' was not the kind of thing that had people snapping up papers, or so Blaise had both said and written in his editorial note.
Not that Draco cared. This entire writing gig was ridiculous, as if a sex advice column could ever have a meaningful impact on people's lives. Anyhow, what was so absurd about writing the truth? It wasn't Draco's fault if he'd had a revelation that this entire dating—never mind sex—thing was nothing short of a giant run-around to either breaking up or marriage. Which, now that he thought about marriage, that always ended in divorce or death, so it was pointless too. Everything ended, and he didn't know why he hadn't realized it before. There was no point in fighting the inevitable.
Draco looked down at his column blearily. He wondered if he could scoot out for an early lunch, seeing as it was nearly eleven o'clock. Still, he'd arrived at half-past ten, and it was too soon to make a break for the nearest pub. He'd have to stay for at least half an hour and see if he could somehow work his column into something that Blaise deemed acceptable. He went to pick up his quill, only to have it roll off his table and out of his reach, just like everything else in his life.
He leaned over and just barely reached the quill, sitting up with a grumble, when he realized that he had company. Hermione was leaning in his office door, looking at him with a puzzled frown. She looked—well, aside from her frown—she looked good. She was dressed for a day at work, so presumably she'd come over on her lunch break. He was really going to miss seeing her dressed like that. It was nice to pop over to her flat to see her after a long day at work, which was yet another thing he resented Goldstein for taking from him.
She'd apparently grown tired of him staring at her, because she broke the silence and spoke. “You've been absolutely impossible to get hold of, did you know that?”
He glanced at her left hand, unable to stop himself. He wanted to see whatever monstrosity of a ring Goldstein had sprung for, not that the bastard had the taste or ability to purchase anything truly nice. Unexpectedly, her hand was bare. Where was her ring? Perhaps it had been lost, or gone back to the jeweller's to be resized? Trust a Ravenclaw to be unable to pull off a surprise engagement without botching something so important. Or maybe the engagement was broken, because Goldstein had conveniently died. Not that he cared at all.
“I thought you wouldn't have time for me—my column, what with being engaged and all.” He thought he'd done a masterful job of not sounding too bitter about the way she'd dumped the column for a side project that happened to entail her getting married.
“Engaged? What are you talking about? I'm certainly not engaged, I'm not even seeing anyone,” she said with puzzlement.
Wait a minute. Not engaged? Not only without a fiancé, but without anyone at all?
“I thought you were seeing Goldstein?” he said, his mind working furiously. Perhaps they'd recently split?
“Anthony?” she asked incredulously. “No, we're just colleagues. We've been working together an awful lot, but it's because of this tremendous inter-department communications project between the DMLE and the Department of Mysteries.” She smiled ruefully. “I couldn't even have told you that much a week ago, but we wrapped up the majority of the research around Christmas and the first batch of devices just came out. Anthony brought one to show me last week in the library, if you recall seeing him just before you left. That batch marked the point at which the project was no longer classified. You'll see some of the devices at the Ministry, if you ever visit some of the higher-level offices.”
That was what had been going on? So, she actually had been working late all of those nights? That scene at The Three Broomsticks was nothing more than an office party and some high spirits among colleagues? The events at the library were nothing more than two tremendous know-it-alls getting worked up over some new magical device?
“I'd heard a rumour, but evidently it was wrong,” he lied. There was no need to clarify the misunderstanding. Hermione never had to know what he'd assumed these past couple of months. Draco noticed in passing that his headache had vanished, but the important part was that his mind took the information and leapt into action. Careful planning would have been preferable, but he wasn't about to wait and let the opportunity of a lifetime slip through his hand.
If she wasn't engaged and wasn't seeing anyone, then maybe all of his fantasies didn't have to be for naught. Hermione was open-minded and he knew that she found him attractive. Now that they wouldn't be working together so frequently or so closely, perhaps she could be persuaded to renegotiate their relationship?
By renegotiate, he meant that he wanted completely meaningless, screamingly hot sex with Hermione. That was the ticket. They'd have a bit of mutual fun, and then he could get over his fucked-up obsession with shagging the woman and move on with the rest of his life. If there was ever a time, now was it, before someone who was adverse to sharing swooped in and took the woman that he'd been fantasizing—truthfully, obsessing—about for nearly half a year.
The door slammed shut with a wave of his wand and she started with surprise. He cast a muffling charm and she looked at him expectantly, waiting to hear what he wanted kept from curious ears and prying eyes. The moment was reminiscent of the way that this entire deal had started, only now he was the one with a proposition for her.
“I thought I should mention that I've enjoyed working with you these past months.” Flattery got one everywhere, and it was mostly even true, barring the very beginning and the last two months where he'd been paranoid about what going on with Goldstein. Damn it, if he'd known that this might have had the slimmest chance of happening, he'd have taken a lot more care with his appearance and outfit today. He'd have to pile on the charm and hope that it was sufficient.
Either way, he hoped that he wasn't reading her wrong, and that his idea would appeal to her academic, practical and sexually-flexible mind. It was quite convenient that one of his fantasies had an entire script written out for such a scenario. He'd have to make sure to congratulate himself at a more proper time. He drew a breath and plunged right into his pitch.
“Since we've come to the end of our teaching relationship, I was thinking that you should give me a practical exam.” He could feel his palms sweat.
“I'd have thought that the column was a practical in and of itself.” She smiled at him. “I'm proud of the progress you've made and I think you've turned into an excellent writer.”
“I didn't mean that kind of practical exam.” Why was his mouth utterly dry? This was most definitely not the time to trip over his own tongue. “I meant a practical exam. You know, where you test me on everything that I've learned over the past few months. Thoroughly test me.” He gave her what he hoped was a seductive smile, ignoring the fact that his stomach was tying itself in knots.
She blinked and then looked at him with surprise. Why wasn't she saying something? Had he fucked this up? He had, hadn't he. He'd fucked this up, and now she was going to realize that he'd had a thing for her this entire time. If she didn't say something soon, he was going to die of mortification. It took a lot for someone who'd gone through seven years in Slytherin to feel embarrassed, but this moment was doing the trick. At last, she spoke.
“Draco, are you asking me to have sex with you?” she asked carefully.
“Yes,” he blurted. He winced at the utter bluntness of his statement. It wasn't his fault! Her question was so straight-forward. He wasn't used to that kind of thing even after six straight months of dealing with her. A man couldn't overturn the expectations and habits of a lifetime just like that.
She pursed her lips and looked at him speculatively. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, as Draco waited in agony for an answer.
Her thoughtful look turned into a small teasing smile, and she looked him up and down. “All right.”
It took all his self control not to leap up and shout with joy. This was the best moment ever! Even sweeter than a Slytherin victory over Gryffindor. Well, maybe not quite that sweet, but it was very close. Only, now what? This was where his planning had run out, since according to his fantasies, they'd shag right there in his office. Which was fine as a fantasy, but not all that practical. Although, what if she wanted to do it right now? He could, if she wanted. There was no way he was letting this opportunity slip through his hands, but he was completely unprepared. Fantasies aside, he'd rather that his first time not be on a desk. Somewhere with lots of privacy and plenty of time was far preferable.
She spoke again. “There's no need to hurry. We can take our time. Let's set a date, maybe later this month?”
Draco felt a bizarre mix of disappointment and crushing relief, and he nodded. It was something of a let-down, but Draco couldn't deny that he felt a lot less panicked now that the stakes were lowered.
“So, perhaps Friday? Friday night?” he asked, trying not to sound so desperate.
She was trying very hard not to grin. “Friday sounds good. My place at seven, how about that?”
Seven, their usual meeting time. Draco was starting to wonder if he'd been the only one who was having fantasies.
“Before I go, seeing as we've decided on having an assignation—”
An assignation? Who even used that word any more?
“—do you mind if I steal a kiss?” she asked.
A kiss would be fine. A kiss would be more than fine. A kiss would be excellent, in fact. He got up from his desk, feeling awkward as he stood. Was he supposed to walk to her, or was she going to walk to him? This was all a lot more confusing that he'd imagined.
While he'd been wondering, she had been deciding, because he found himself with an armful of Hermione. He'd thought he was the one who was supposed to have those Seeker reflexes, but it seemed that there was something about her which just muddled his mind. He slid his hands up her back in the smallest of caresses. She felt fantastic, and he was going to have to work not to embarrass himself while holding her so close.
She tilted her head up, and as he leaned down to meet her, he hoped that he still remembered how this worked.
The kiss started off tentative, but quickly moved beyond a hesitant exploration. Actually, Draco was going to have to throw the word hesitant right out. Had she just bit him? He hoped that she did it again, because that had felt good. He deepened the kiss and held her close. She felt even better than he'd imagined. She flicked her tongue just inside his mouth and he groaned. She slowly broke the kiss, and he realized that his hands had gone from being lightly placed on her waist to grabbing her arse. He let go with a blush.
It was reassuring that she looked as reluctant to let go of him as he felt. Not that he had any idea how he looked right now, but horny and desperate were good guesses. And she still wanted to shag him. What an excellent day. What an excellent week.
Friday. He could work with Friday. It wasn't as good as tomorrow, or tonight, or right now would have sounded, but that was just his prick thinking. Friday gave him time to make sure that he was completely prepared for whatever she might want to do. Not to mention that he was more than a bit nervous about the entire thing. Between him and her, he was sure that everything would work out. After all of their conversations over the past few months, he knew what Hermione would be like about something like this. Yes, they disagreed on more things than he could ever list, and they'd never be without something to fight over, but she'd never intentionally do something that might hurt him. He could trust her, and there was quite a lot to be said for that.
“I'll see you later,” she said, with more than a hint of promise. He nodded, probably wearing an utterly stupid expression on his face, but he couldn't bring himself to care. She stepped away from him and unlocked his door with a twist of her wand. She gave him a parting smile. He leaned against his desk and watched her saunter out of his office, not caring who saw him. Come Friday, he'd finally get to strip her out of one of her little tailored skirts, and he was pretty sure that it would be even better than he'd imagined. As long as he didn't die of sexual frustration before then, he was sure that it would all be worth it in the end.
Besides, he had an utterly brilliant idea for this week's column that was just begging to be set to paper. He'd throw out that dragon dung he'd given Blaise and start over. He was pretty sure that he could have it done before noon, as this particular idea just seemed inspired. Draco sat down at his desk and started writing.
EPILOGUE
He was shuffling papers on his desk, trying to assemble material for his next column, when he was interrupted by a shout.
“Draco!”
Hermione came into his study with one hand on her hip, a clear sign of irritation—most likely aimed at him—but it also meant she wasn't upset. If she was truly upset, she'd either recite the entire list of his various colourful personal faults or become terrifyingly calm. She leaned on the doorframe and attempted to look stern, but he could see that she was trying not to smile. She liked watching him sit behind his desk and work. His view was equally delightful, because she'd just got back from work. He'd never quite got over his little fixation with her and tailored skirts.
“Where are the handcuffs? I hope they haven't been left at Pansy's. They aren't cheap, and they were my favourite set,” she said with a slight frown.
He raised an eyebrow and looked at her over the top of his glasses. He knew that it drove her wild when he looked professorial. “I did look for them, but seeing as your Weasley was still wearing them, I figured I'd let the chap have his fun,” he responded calmly.
“I suppose that's a good reason,” she said, and finally broke into a smile. “Also, he's not my Weasley. Hasn't been for years.” She walked across the room and stood behind his chair. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his head before draping her arms around his shoulders. “What have you got there?” she asked.
She tilted her head and he took the opportunity to nibble her neck. She leaned into his kisses and her hands rubbed his shoulders in satisfaction. Alas, she pulled away.
“Later. First, answer my question,” she said with mock seriousness. He decided to pout, which never failed to make her laugh. He pulled some of the papers to the top of the pile: old newspaper clippings, a stack of hand-written notes, and a set of old letters.
“The end of the month marks the twentieth anniversary of the column. I thought I'd write something special.”
She snuggled closer as she peered at the papers. “Oh, I remember that one.” She reached out and tapped on a sheet of paper. “Wasn't that the witch who wanted to know about charms for mutual masturbation?”
He made a noise of agreement. “I also remember that question coming up during my final exam,” he purred and nipped at her ear. She shivered and nipped at his in return, sending delightful sparks up and down his spine.
“Trust you to remember the exam.”
“I studied harder for that exam than anything else I'd studied for in my life, I'll have you know. Couldn't let my teacher down. Besides, it all paid off in the end.”
He fished under the pile of paper and produced a square picture frame. It was solid oak and finished with a dark stain; it looked expensive, hand-crafted and custom-made. Which put it at odds with what it framed: a rumpled, faded bit of scrap paper with a tea stain on a corner and some hastily scribbled words written in ball-point pen.
“If I'd known you were going to keep it, I'd have taken my time and done a much better job,” she sighed, “but you insisted on getting your marks right there and then.”
“I'd have thought that Hogwarts' resident bookworm would understand.” He turned his attention back to her neck and murmured against her pulse. “I was a very diligent student, I'll have you know.”
Draco frowned when she pulled away, but was quick to smirk when she stepped around his chair and perched on his lap. To hell with feeling self-conscious about hitting middle age; he could still make his wife slink up to him with a heated look in her eyes.
“A diligent student?” Hermione purred. She slid her hands up his chest and started fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “Perhaps I should re-test you and see how much more you've learned?”
In Draco's opinion, there was no better inspiration for his column than a little quality time with his wife. However, he was still careful to place the picture frame back onto his desk before giving his full attention to Hermione. That frame held one of his prize possessions. How many other wizards or witches possessed something which said:
Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests Results
Draco Malfoy has achieved:
Sexual Intercourse O
License for sexual congress approved post-haste by Hermione Jean Granger
THE END