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Hermione Granger stepped out of the floo, her dangerously high heels armed with an anti-slipping charm. Resisting the powerful urge to crinkle her nose as the stench of muggle cigarette smoke, firewhiskey, and sweat overwhelmed her, she waved her wand to remove any floo ash from her wild curls and tight, white dress. Elixir, as this wizarding nightclub was so eye-rollingly called, certainly lived up to Hermione’s low expectations.
While she had never been to a club before, Hermione had known enough about them to keep an aloof, cool confidence about her. Even so, the flashing lights, thumping music, and sweat-slick writhing bodies on the dance floor, mixed with the offensive smells, nearly had her turning right back around, but she couldn’t—she had a plan. It was a very good plan, and just as she spotted a shock of white-blond hair by the bar, Hermione resolved to follow through with it.
Hermione made her way to the opposite side of the bar, deliberately positioning herself far enough away from her target that her intentions wouldn’t be obvious but well with his view. She stood there, watching Draco Malfoy out of the corner of her eye and waiting for the elf behind the bar to take her order.
Malfoy would come to her. She was absolutely positive that he would. Hermione had seen the way his eyes would find her in the family room after every match that his team would play Ronald’s in quidditch.
To be fair, she’d glance his way as well. Malfoy was beautiful. He’d grown, really grown—out of his sharp pointiness and into chiseled perfection. His hair, longer than it had been in school falling just over his ears in soft blonde waves, made her stomach flutter.
Perhaps her small crush on her ex-fiance’s quidditch rival should’ve been a clue that their relationship had been doomed from the start, but Hermione had thought it rather innocent at the time. She was allowed to think other men were attractive, and she had thought Malfoy was good looking back in their Hogwarts days, although she never would’ve admitted it then, so it hadn’t occurred to her that it was anything but admiring a pretty thing—like art in a museum. She knew she couldn’t have it, but she liked to look.
Hermione smiled to herself. If everything went according to plan tonight, she would have it now.
By the time the bartender elf apparated in front of her, bringing her out of her thoughts, Hermione realized she’d lost sight of Malfoy in the crowd. Confidence momentarily wavering, she ordered a Gimlet and decided to just enjoy a few drinks and return home if her plan didn’t work out.
“Would Miss be liking to start a tab?” The elf snapped her fingers, and the drink appeared before Hermione.
“Put it on mine,” a familiar voice drawled from directly behind her. Hermione couldn’t resist allowing herself a small, triumphant smile before turning around. She wasn’t sure how she could have doubted herself. She was brilliant.
“Malfoy,” she said, feigning surprise.
“Granger,” he replied, sidling up to her with a smirk. Something about the slow, deep way he said her name almost had her toes curling. He eyed her while he took a sip of dark liquid from a short tumbler—likely firewhiskey—eyes lingering on her ringless fingers. “No weasel tonight, then?”
Hermione sighed and took a sip of her own drink. It was for the best that this came up sooner rather than later. “Surely you read The Prophet, Malfoy.”
He rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do that half the stuff that rag prints isn’t true.”
“Well,” Hermione scoffed, “in this case, it was.”
Malfoy’s eyes widened, just a little, and he silently sipped his drink. Hermione couldn’t blame him. There wasn’t much to say on the matter. Two weeks ago, Ronald Weasley—the man she’d thought she’d loved for over a decade—had left her, quite literally, at the altar when Pansy Parkinson interrupted their wedding, professing her love for Hermione’s fucking fiance and begging him to run away with her.
Hermione had been so shocked that she’d just stood there with her mouth hanging open, in her dream dress in front of all of her closest friends and family, as Ron ran down the aisle, lifted Pansy Parkinson off her feet, and snogged the life out of her . Pansy Parkinson! Hermione had been under the impression that Ron hated Pansy Parkinson. She worked as a Healer for the Chudley Cannons, Ron’s quidditch team, and Ron spent nearly every evening complaining about her to Hermione over dinner. He could go on and on for hours about Pansy Parkinson.
In retrospect, that should’ve been a sign, but Hermione had trusted Ron. He’d been her best friend—her first everything. She’d had no reason not to trust Ron.
She’d been wrong. Hermione Granger had been wrong .
“Do you come here often?” Hermione asked, just to change the subject and end the silence. It was cliche and silly, but she tried to say it in her sexiest, most confident voice.
Malfoy huffed a laugh. “Only with the team when we win,” he replied, gesturing to the quidditch jersey that he wore, as if mildly embarrassed. “Appleby Arrows" was written in white writing above a large number 27, stylized to look like arrows. Hermione looked around and saw a few others in the same light blue jersey dispersed throughout the crowd. “We wear our practice jerseys out after, as well. It's a ‘team bonding’ thing the Captain enforces.”
Hermione knew this already. It was why she came to this very club tonight, after all. “Congratulations on the win.” He nodded his thanks, and she smiled at him then sipped her drink coyly. “All thanks to you, I’m sure. You’re quite good. Why didn’t you play chaser at Hogwarts?”
Malfoy shrugged, but there was a glint in his eyes that seemed skeptical of her, untrusting. Perhaps she was laying it on a bit too thick? “The position was never open.”
“Oh, come on. I think we both know it was so that you could compete directly with Harry,” Hermione said, hoping the gentle teasing would help him relax again.
It worked. He chuckled then gave a secret sort of smile, as if reminiscing. “Maybe. How is old Scarhead? I heard he’s got a little weasel with bad hair and poor eyesight of his own on the way—may Merlin have mercy on that child.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, voice sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t just let him insult Harry, Ginny, and their unborn child like that. They were her family. “They’re ridiculously happy. Ginny is pregnant, and the baby is due next week. It’s the only thing that kept her out of a ministry holding cell, actually.”
“Pardon?” Malfoy asked, leaning in, gray eyes dancing over her face with interest.
Hermione gave him a knowing smile. “Ginny Weasley is not to be underestimated. She sent a curse at Ronald while he was sucking Pansy Parkinson’s lips off her face during our wedding ceremony. It was so dark that she had to be interrogated by the DMLE and everything. Ron was in St. Mungo’s burn ward for three days, apparently.”
“ That was not in The Prophet.”
“I believe Harry pulled some strings.”
“Merlin, who knew the Weaslette had it in her?”
“Me, Harry, her parents, all of her siblings, every single person who’s ever held a conversation with her, likely.”
“Alright, alright, I get it, but still—it’s just a bit of a surprise to me that the wife of the paragon of light magic would know the incantation, let alone cast it.”
“Mmm,” Hermione hummed in agreement. “I can see where you might have gotten the idea, but I’ve found that putting people into light or dark boxes like that is naïve.”
Malfoy’s lip twitched into a smile, making a little dimple appear on his cheek. She’d seen that dimple before. Of course she had—gracing the cover of Quidditch Weekly, across the Great Hall while he chatted with his friends, when he beat her score in potions fourth year—but she’d never been so close.
“Oh, please, wisest witch to ever live,” he said, gesturing to her with his drink-free hand, “enlighten me on my naivety.”
She tensed, suddenly feeling like he was making fun of her. That reminded her of something Ronald would do and say, and Hermione feared she’d lost control of this situation. “I was just—I just thought we were having a serious discussion.”
“What?” he asked, standing straighter, a confused expression on his face. “I actually do want you to, Granger. Sorry—did I do something wrong?”
Hermione sighed, embarrassed, but she wasn’t sure why. “No, please, don’t apologize. I think I’ve gotten used to being…ridiculed…about some of my opinions, and I was being overly sensitive.”
Malfoy leaned back in toward her. His eyes were so expressive, the color so light blue that they were nearly grey. They bore into hers, so serious and genuine that it made her stop breathing for a moment. “I wasn’t ridiculing you, Granger.”
“I know, I know.” Hermione gave him a sheepish smile. “It was silly of me.”
He took a drink, still watching her. “Go on then. Tell me about it.”
Hermione drank as well, stalling. “I only wanted to point out that most people are gray; very few are only light or dark, if any at all.”
“You included?” Malfoy smirked like he knew some secret.
“Of course.”
Again, he leaned in so close to her that she could smell the firewhiskey on his breath mixed with his expensive cologne. His eyes roamed over her from her head to her feet. “And that’s why you’re here in this nightclub, wearing those ‘fuck-me-now’ heels?”
Hermione’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t expected him to say something like that, to look at her like that . Sure, she’d come here expecting to take him home with her, but she hadn’t expected it to feel so real, so good ? Oh, Merlin, she was in trouble.
“I—” she started, but he snorted a laugh, interrupting her.
“Come on, Granger. I’m not an imbecile like that weasel of yours—”
“He’s not my weasel.”
“Right, but he was, and he lost you. He’s a fucking idiot.” Malfoy placed his empty glass on the bar along with a few galleons. “I’m not.”
Malfoy pointed at her drink and raised his brows. Taking the hint, Hermione downed it. The sour lime mixed with biting alcohol made her scrunch her nose and purse her lips as she placed her empty glass next to his.
He looked at her expectantly. “What are you waiting for, Granger? Lead the way.”
Cheeks warm from either the alcohol or the way Malfoy was smirking at her, Hermione did as she was told. Keeping her walk confident, as sexy as she could manage, she made her way back to the public floos.
“My wards will allow you entry as long as you floo with me,” she said, holding her hand out for Malfoy to grab it. When his hand clasped hers, long quaffle-calloused fingers threading through her own, Hermione was excited to feel how well they fit together. She pulled him into the floo, calling out the address of the townhome she once shared with Ron.
“Nice place you got here, Granger,” Malfoy said, looking around the living room they’d just walked into curiously.
Hermione loved this townhome. It was such a shame Ronald’s infidelity had tainted it. Putting it up for sale was almost more upsetting than the breakup if she was being honest. Luckily, most of the furnishings were hers, and Ron had often complained about the clean lines and modern designs she favored. When she decorated her new place, she could do it without his annoying voice in her ears, criticizing her every design choice.
“Thank you, Malfoy,” she said, still holding his hand.
“Please, Granger, call me Draco,” he said, taking his gaze off the stack of boxes by the front door to look at her for the first time since they floo’d in.
“Hermione, then.”
Malfoy—Draco—shook his head, that secret smile on his lips again. “I strongly prefer Granger.”
“Okay,” Hermione breathed, not sure what to say to that.
They stood there, close together in the dim light of her living room, hands clasped. The only sound was their slow, quiet breathing. After giving her another assessing look, Malfoy finally asked, “Why am I here, Granger?”
Blinking rapidly, Hermione’s brain raced for an answer. “Er—I just thought that…maybe you and I could—I thought you might like to have sex with me.”
A slow smile graced his chiseled face which turned into low laughter. “Forward.”
“Yes, well, I should’ve thought it rather obvious.”
“It was.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because,” he drawled, pulling her hand so that she stood directly in front of him, “I like to see you blush.” His free hand reached up and softly grazed her cheek. “So beautiful.”
Hermione cleared her throat. The room suddenly felt far too hot.
“Ah,” he said, hand now drifting toward her neck, the Malfoy signet ring leaving a cool trail in its wake, “there it is.”
He leaned down, and his lips met hers, so soft against her own. When they started moving, she had no choice but to follow his lead, opening her mouth and allowing him in. He tasted like firewhiskey and smelled divine—a clean, masculine mixture of tart fruit, expensive cologne, and musk. Hermione was dizzy with it. She’d never been kissed like this, ever. Malfoy was fully in control, and right at this moment, she’d do anything he asked of her.
Right then, he pulled away, panting. “Get on your knees.”
Hermione lost her breath; her lungs just seemed to cease functioning. Yes, she’d thought she’d do anything he asked, but she hadn’t thought he’d ask for anything, much less command her, but the dark look in his eyes had her wanting to do what he said.
She fell to her knees.
“Good girl,” he purred, hand pushing her hair out of her face. “Look at me.”
She did.
Draco loomed over her with an expectant arch to his pale brows, and she knew what he wanted her to do. Hermione wanted to hear him praise her again,
so she reached for his belt buckle and looked up to check. He was smiling down at her.
It took some nerve to keep her hands from trembling. Sex acts with Ron hadn’t been like this, and he was the only other person Hermione had ever been with. Of course she’d given a blow job before, but it just hadn’t been like this—right in front of the still-open floo where anyone could just walk in.
She pulled his belt off and started on the button of his trousers, followed by the zipper. She pulled them down with his pants, and his cock spring free.
Long and thick, Draco was already hard, and a drop of precum leaked on the top. Hermione’s tongue flicked out of her mouth, needing to taste.
“Fuck,” Draco hissed from above, as she parted her lips and took him in. He was larger than Ron had been, so it took a moment for her to adjust, but soon she found a rhythm. Judging by the hand that tangled itself into her hair and Draco’s labored breathing, she was doing well.
“So good,” he said when she relaxed her jaw and his cock hit the back of her throat. Tears formed in her eyes, but she kept moving, bobbing her head and following the direction of the hand gripping her hair. “Look at you, so pretty gagging on me. Do you like that, Granger? Do you enjoy choking on my cock?”
Hermione made a strangled noise of confirmation. She’d never been so turned on in her life, and when Malfoy pulled himself out of her mouth with the filthiest pop she had ever heard in her life, Hermione would’ve been shocked by the pathetic sound of disappointment that left her lips if she’d been cognizant enough to be embarrassed.
“I don’t want to come yet,” Draco said, tilting her head up to look at him. “Stand up. You were perfect, better than anything I ever imagined.”
Hermione wasn’t ready to unpack that, so she stood.
Draco buttoned his trousers back up then grabbed her hand. “Show me the bedroom.”
She did, weaving around the white sofa Ron had hated. Draco followed her up the staircase and down the hall. The spots where picture frames once hung could be seen even in the dim light. Draco didn’t mention the lack of wall decor, and Hermione was glad of it.
Once in the bedroom, Malfoy went straight to the bed. He sat at the bottom, and her fluffy duvet puffed around him. He stared at her, eyes intense. “Strip.”
Tossing her curls over one bare shoulder, Hermione twisted her arms to the zipper at the back of her dress and pulled. It fell to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra, not with that dress, and Draco sucked in a breath through his teeth. Hermione smirked to herself, and faced away from him, bending over as she pulled her knickers down.
“Merlin, have mercy on me,” Draco gasped, and Hermione decided to really tease him by taking off her heels, but when she reached down to unbuckle the clasp, Draco tsked. “Keep them on.”
If Hermione hadn’t already been insanely wet, she would’ve been after that.
“Come here,” Draco said, patting the bed beside him. “Climb into the middle, and make yourself comfortable.”
Ordinarily, Hermione did not enjoy being ordered around like this. She was on the fast track to becoming Minister of Magic. She was generally the one that did the bossing, but there was something about relinquishing control to Draco that had her soaked. Crawling into her bed in heels felt strange at first, but Draco’s heated stare made her feel so unbelievably sexy.
After she laid down, Draco made his way up to her. He moved more gracefully than she could imagine anyone else crawling into bed could, his hungry eyes roaming over her legs, her stomach, breasts, and body like she was his next meal. When his mouth came back down to hers in a searing kiss, Hermione felt like she was being devoured.
His hand found her breast, the cool metal of the Malfoy signet ring striking her nipple every few seconds, making her moan into his mouth. Taking the hint, he used the back of his hand to run the ring up and down her body, coming back up to her breasts and grazing her nipples, and going lower and lower with each journey up and down her body.
Finally, his hand slipped down where she really wanted it. When the ring brushed over her clit, Hermione gasped into Draco’s mouth.
“Is this just from sucking my cock? Fuck! You’re so fucking wet for me, Granger,” he said, dipping his middle finger into her, and dragging the wetness over her clit. She needed to come.
“More,” Hermione breathed, arching her back to give him better access, which drew his eyes to her chest. He took a pink nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking while rubbing her clit harder and faster.
Hermione’s whole body was trembling, rocking against his hand, so close to the precipice. It was all-encompassing, the need to cum. When the ringed finger slipped back inside her, while Draco’s thumb stayed on her clit, she finally fell. For a moment, she saw stars, coming so hard that she felt like she stopped existing.
“ That was the most exquisite thing I’ve even seen,” Draco said, eyes scanning her body, watching as she floated back to herself. Merlin, if that’s what he could do with his fingers, she was almost scared for the rest of the night, almost.
Draco rolled off the bed and stood, and Hermione gave him a questioning look. He just smirked and pulled his jersey over his head. Before tossing it onto the floor, he seemed to have a thought, and a wide grin grew on his face. He threw the jersey to Hermione.
“You look cold,” he said. She wasn’t. “Put it on.”
Oh, Draco Malfoy was a dirty, dirty man.
She made quick work of it, and his scent surrounded her—a mixture of sweet sweat and that distinct cologne. It was so rich and masculine, this smell. She loved it.
The jersey was large on her but comfortable, and when Hermione propped herself onto her elbows to model it for Draco, he gave a low whistle. His hands went to the button of his trousers.
“Turn over and get on your knees,” he commanded. She scrambled to follow instructions, arse in the air, heels very much still on, then heard him murmur a contraception charm. Fuck that was hot for some reason, too. Maybe everything Draco Malfoy did was just hot?
She couldn’t see him, but felt the bed dip as he crawled toward her. His hand, so soft, first grabbed her arse then ran over the letters of his last name on her back.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Granger,” he announced, spreading her legs further apart.
Hermione groaned as he entered her, slowly, as if he was savoring every sweet inch.
“You’re so tight, so perfect.” Once he was fully in, he didn’t move. This position allowed him to fully bottom out inside her, and Hermione felt impossibly full. Ronald could never.
Then he started moving, just a bit at first, but soon he was hammering into her, and Hermione thought he was trying to split her in two. Still, she met him thrust for thrust, chasing another high.
“You feel amazing, Granger,” he said, voice lusty and deep. His hand traveled up her body, ending up tangled in her hair. He pulled slightly, forcing her head to turn so she could look at him.
“Tell me how my cock feels,” Draco said, staring directly into her eyes.
Her neck hurt a bit, being pounded into like this, and it was difficult to speak. “It’s good,” she slurred.
“How good? Tell me about my cock. How does it feel inside of you?”
“Very good, so full.” It wasn’t the most eloquent she’d ever been, but she felt the answer sufficed given the circumstances.
He bit his lip, pulling her hair again and making her back arch. After a moment, he pulled out and flipped her body back onto her back. Ron had never handled her so confidently. She’d never view sex the same way again after this.
Draco took his attention to the clasps of her high heels. He removed each shoe with deliberate reverence, caressing her legs with his long fingers, then wandlessy banished the heels to the floor by the bed. Staring up at him as he pumped his hand over his cock a few times, preparing to re-enter her, Hermione wondered if all one-night stands were this intense.
Leaning down, Draco slid back in with his body all over hers. This position was so much more intimate, more intimate than she’d prepared for being with him tonight.
“I want to see your face when you come again,” he said, by way of explanation, grinding far slower than before. Still, he was hitting all the right places with each thrust, and the intensity in his eyes was all-consuming. When he leaned further down and captured her mouth, another orgasm began to build. His kiss was tender this time—less like an explosion and more like slow burning embers, smoldering and so hot.
She moaned into it, and he ground onto her clit at a near-punishing pace. Draco pulled away from the kiss just as she felt the beginning pulsations of another high. He brought his hand up and put it in the mouth. She could taste the metallic of his signet ring as her second orgasm hit with force.
This sent him over the edge as well, and started speaking deliriously as he rode out his old orgasm, cumming inside her. Each jerky thrust sent another wave of pleasure through her, until she became too sensitive, and it started to hurt.
When he was done, he collapsed on top of her, all heaving breaths and hot sweaty skin.
Exhausted and fucked out, he finally pulled out and laid beside her. When his arms wrapped around her, bringing her over to lay her head on his chest, Hermione was vaguely surprised. Having never had a one-night stand before, she wasn’t sure if this was normal or not, and in her post-orgasm clarity, she felt like it perhaps wasn’t. It just felt too real, too intimate. But maybe sex was always intimate? This would need some experimenting on her part.
Draco pulled the duvet up over them, and Hermione felt so lovely and warm for the first time in weeks. She fell asleep to the sound of his breathing as he stroked her back. She hadn’t meant to actually, but she was so comfortable. It was bliss, really.
~*~ • ~*~ & ~*~ • ~*~
The following morning, Hermione floated softly into wakefulness, cocooned in warmth.
A crack of apparation from just outside had her fully awake, sitting up and searching the room for danger. None presented itself, and her heart rate fell as she saw Draco was still in bed beside her, awake but scowling, and remembered the plan.
He threw an arm over his head, an air of drama about the movement that had Hermione smiling. “Have you ever heard of blackout curtains, Granger? It’s too early for this.”
“Of course I have, but there’s no need. I’m usually up before the sun.”
“Mad woman,” he muttered then groaned when he felt her get out of bed. “Come back. I’ve not finished with you yet—”
A knock on the door cut Draco off.
“Oh, dear. I wonder who that could be,” Hermione said, cringing at the sound of her feigned surprise. She really wasn’t the best actress, but everything had gone so well so far. “Would you mind answering the door? I need to—use the toilet.” She felt herself blushing at his calculating stare, mortified that she’d said that, and wishing he’d just do it without question.
Then another knock came, followed by a muffled angry yell in Ron’s voice. “Mione, I know you’re in there. Open up. It’s bloody cold out here!”
A cheshire cat grin broke over Draco’s face as he put all the pieces together, and Hermione sighed.
“Oh, Granger,” he drawled, standing and wrapping the duvet around his waist. “You really ought to have been in Slytherin.”
Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. “He’s come to collect his things.”
Draco shook his head in disbelief, but the proud glint in his eye had her preening. More pounding came from the door.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Draco said, walking out of the room wearing nothing but the duvet. “Let’s give him a good show.”
Hermione followed, knowing she herself looked thoroughly fucked and wild with messy curls and Draco’s quidditch jersey, which fell scandalously to mid-thigh.
Draco stopped on the stairs and turned to look at her. “But when we’re done, we’re going back to bed.”
He didn’t even wait for her to confirm before turning back around and jogging down the rest of the stairs.
Did one-night stands usually turn into one-night-and-the-following-morning stands? She would have to ask Ginny, but in the meantime, Ronald’s sputtering, purple face when he perceived Draco standing in her open doorway took her mind off anything else.
Revenge had never felt so sweet.