Chapter Text
Hermione didn’t lurk, and it certainly wasn’t in her nature to lurk in the shadows like an opportunist. Yet here she was, ducked out of sight behind a couch as her former classmate and present co-worker Draco Malfoy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement freed himself of his vestments, ripped the little red panties from his paramour, and sank none-too-gently into her inviting body. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut at the witch’s tremulous moan. It was a spacious library full of deliciously dusty books, deep mahogany shelving and velvet-bound chaises but there the wonders ceased. Obviously this was her punishment for trying to escape the ass-kissing and brown-nosing in the Main Hall. There was one entrance, one exit, and now she was stuck in a room while these two shagged behind the scenes of a Ministry dinner party.
She should be horrified at this blatant desecration of the holy grounds of academia.
The unknown witch was a vocal one, with a low sultry voice that probably made her quite popular as a companion. Her cadence and pitch rose incrementally as she encouraged him on. Perverse curiosity getting the better of her, she turned just a fraction to see. Even from her low vantage point, she’d know that platinum hair anywhere. He now kept it swept back and longer at the base of his neck, but she’d glared at that head often enough during her schoolgirl years.
As a colleague, he was a quiet and occasionally sarcastic one. There was something untouchable about him, something cold and bored in his gaze. Other than the florid fanaticism of his colourful adolescence, it really looked like he was born fully clothed in a brand new set of dress robes, polished shoes and all. So while some witches found this to be an exciting challenge, she’d essentially dismissed him for the eye candy he was. There was one time where she found herself staring as he nibbled the feather of his quill, and he’d looked up and stared right back, motionless and annoyed, with an unfathomable regard that made her shift in her seat.
Well, this was certainly not the passionless man from the DMLE. Prostrate in the plush carpet, she watched transfixed as he held his partner’s wrists over her head with one hand, and braced himself firmly against the bookshelves with the other. That pale, skinny git from her schoolgirl days really had filled out. Lean muscles rolled under the skin of his back, scars gleaming in the soft firelight as his hips pumped insistently into the splayed cradle of soft thighs. She never thought she would be privy to this side of him, the unrestrained fervour and virility beneath his mask of cool indifference. Arousal bloomed sudden and deep in Hermione’s belly. Her heart hammered in her ears. Her mouth was dry as she watched the faceless witch arch, wailing, eyes rolling as she contorted at his attentions.
She watched as he dragged her down and flipped her none-too-carefully onto her hands and knees, pumping his glistening cock back into her as she cried out into the skin of her arm. His silver hair fell over his forehead, and clung at his sweat-slicked neck. Blood pounding, she watched as he worked himself leisurely, then determinedly, deliberately, hands urging her slim hips. He was rough with her, and very demanding, and she writhed, whimpering as he laid her buttock pink with punishment. The noises they made were utterly obscene.
Hermione had to remind herself to draw in a shuddering breath.
She watched his muscles strain, his arms tensing, fingers tightening, staring in fascination as he stuttered, rigid in orgasm. She shrunk back into her hiding place, shutting her eyes tightly against their deep breathing, as they no-doubt petted each other in the aftermath, cleaning and dressing. The female voice was throaty with satisfaction, but Hermione was surprised to hear not a word from him as they straightened the books they’d offended and left.
Her body thrumming, she counted to one hundred, then again, then once more before she emerged. That… did not happen, did it? She did not just hear Malfoy come in the library, apparently wrecking his partner with his shapely manhood. There was no way that paragon of buttoned aristocracy had any sensitivity or prowess to speak of, much less the impulsivity that leads to public sex. She’d had some kind of off-the-charts fever dream, and it was the kind that left her soaking, dripping wet.
--
Rolling out a crick in his neck, Draco Malfoy stood silently as the Minister’s droning voice bounced off the walls. Being politically well-versed from a young age did not shield him from the distaste of such events. In fact, he harboured the not-so-irrational fear that all these ass-kissing politi-majs may actually rub off on him one of these days. Another stone holding up the pile of rubble. His father would have said better atop the rubble than being crushed by the weight of it, but there was little left of that illustrious wizard save a few portraits in a silent Manor. The Malfoys had never been in a position to be crushed by anything, except perhaps the late Lucius Malfoy’s own hubris. The topic in its entirely always left him with a bad taste in his mouth.
But the evening hadn’t been a complete bust. The flirtatious witch with the come-on-me tits had been wet and responsive and had made delicious noises, but it was the distant little gasp, muffled by a hand or a sleeve, that had his ears pricked. His watcher. A bolder witch might have made herself known or crept off Disillusioned, but not her. The minx had stayed for the whole thing. He could feel her gaze like a caress over his back. So being the consummate overachiever, he gave her a show: rolling his hips, striking deeper, riding higher instead of the quickie he’d intended.
His partner hadn’t appreciated the teasing and the waiting, but a little discipline had calmed her right down. He smirked into his firewhiskey. His rough hand at the end had been entirely for her benefit, after all. Now the only question was that of her identity.
A smattering of applause brought him out of sweet thoughts, and as the crowd folded into itself for glad-handing and mingling, he caught a smudge of red out of the corner of his eye. From behind Longbottom and Engelsen, he saw Granger emerge from a doorway. He’d seen her earlier in Potter’s circle, sheathed in a crimson slip, and he’d let himself have an appreciative glance from afar. She’d put her hair up, exposing her pale unadorned neck, champagne flute held to her clean little mouth. The pristinely untouchable Golden Girl.
She didn’t look quite so untouchable now. She had the corner of her dress gathered in a tight fist, probably to accommodate her long strides, and the skin of her leg flashed briefly in and out of sight as she weaved around their colleagues. Her hair was loose around her face, and her colour was up, red at the highpoints like she’d been out in a snowstorm. He preferred this look for her.
She paused awkwardly when a navy-robed Unspeakable stepped into her path with a proffered greeting. She seemed uncharacteristically short with him, offering an odd smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Not that he was paying any attention. Her single-minded focus thing, that tunnel-vision thing that reeked of Gryffindor impulsivity and tactlessness had always been one of her most annoying traits. When she was released from social niceties, her face set immediately back into a frown as she continued on, ending her beeline with Potter. Of course.
He refilled his tumbler. A delegate from Beauxbatons clasped him warmly by the arm, and he managed to hold a quick exchange in French, admittedly rusty on the topic of the Lacewing shortage and habitats on the continent. Granger had grabbed her little handbag and produced a long, light cardigan, and he was almost disappointed to see her swathing herself up. Potter was trying to get her to answer something, grasping her elbow as she wrapped herself away, but she was clearly ducking him with a tight smile that was neither convincing nor reassuring.
Suddenly, she looked up right at him, and he forgot to avert his gaze.
Her high colour made her great brown eyes appear even darker. He watched fascinated as her hands fluttered to her throat, to her mane of hair. Her rosy lipstick had smeared in the middle, as if she had bitten down on her lip then licked it. Those swollen lips that she abused when she was nervous, or was giving a tongue lashing, or in hot verbal pursuit of Merlin knows what else, he mused to himself. He tipped his head, raising his firewhiskey in her direction, but she flinched back with a quick draw of breath like a cornered Abraxan. His brow furrowed in confusion. Tearing her eyes away, she pecked Potter on the cheek mid-sentence and apparated from the non-designated location of the ballroom without so much as a backwards glance. Very bad form, and noted by several nearby dignitaries.
Potter stood there, just as confused as he was. He half-turned towards him, shoulders in the universal expression of bewilderment as if he, Draco, would have any answers. He shrugged back in response. Hermione Granger hadn’t been skittish around him since the moment in high school when she punched him in the face.
Unless…
He downed the contents of his glass in one go.
How curious.