Chapter Text
Hermione was never going to escape Draco sodding Malfoy.
She rolled her eyes before focusing back down on the blade in the box she had just opened, having spied the Malfoy insignia clearly plated onto the bronze handle. Hermione scanned her eyes over the blade, taking in the glinting silver edges, the delicate cross guard and all the way up to the hilt.
It was quite a stunning design, she had to begrudgingly admit, with the shimmering emerald pommel surrounded by a coiled dragon, devouring its own tail—the ouroboros of the Malfoy family. There was an inscription on the side, too. The words in Latin were intricately carved across the glossy metal.
Hermione sighed as she pulled her paperwork towards her and started to list the details of the item, scrawling Draco Lucius Malfoy, as the likely current owner. It had already been a long day—cataloguing was always egregiously taxing—but it became all the worse when she was reminded of the man who seemed to haunt her every footstep since leaving Hogwarts.
Hermione carefully scrawled a detailed note of the blade’s visual aspects, before she laid her quill down and pulled her wand from her pocket. She cast several diagnostics on the blade, and then determined there were no magical properties. Hermione noted it and then sat back in her chair, letting out a deep breath.
She couldn’t wait to go home. Or rather, she was ready to leave work.
Because home—which was currently living with Harry and Theo in a shared apartment—meant seeing Malfoy, who always joined them for a Monday night dinner every week. An unfortunate consequence of Hermione’s best friend being married to Malfoy’s best friend. It irked her to no end.
Glancing at her watch, she saw she had thirty minutes left of her day. So, she leaned back towards the Malfoy blade and carefully picked it up, readying to label it so she could send it to the redistribution team, who would research the ownership of the item before returning it to the rightful owner.
“Granger!” came a voice from behind her, and she jumped at the sudden noise in her usually quiet section of the Archives, which were buried deep in the lower levels of the Ministry.
“Fuck,” Hermione hissed as the blade slipped in her fright, the sharp edge slicing a little at her palm.
“Oooh, sorry, Granger—are you alright?”
She set her jaw to look up at Cormac McLaggen, who didn’t look sorry at all as he leaned over her desk with one hand and smiled down at her.
“I’m fine,” she said brusquely before she settled her gaze back to the blade and returned it, now labelled, into the box. She closed the lid with a finger and then looked down into her palm, where a small pool of blood welled. “What do you need, McLaggen?”
Hermione only half-listened as she used her wand to clean the wound and then healed it in one easy flourish.
“—bunch of my friends heading to the pub down the road, would you like to join us?”
Hermione raised her eyes to him. Once up a time, she had been polite to the man. She would have responded with an easy smile and a quiet, but kind refusal. Now, after three years of them both working at the Ministry, with monthly attempts at asking her out, Hermione was over it.
“No.”
McLaggen’s smile didn’t slip, the smugness stayed on his face—like this was some kind of game to him, one that he intended on winning.
Hermione, at this point, would rather date a blast-ended-skrewt, than Cormac.
“Alright, no troubles… one of these days, you’re going to say yes.”
She pursed her lips and slid the box with the Malfoy heirloom away from her, before she set her blazing eyes on Cormac.
“I’d say I’m sorry to have to disappoint you—because I will not—but I’m not interested in dating you. Now, I’ve told you before: only bother me if it’s work related, otherwise I’m not interested.”
Some of the smugness slipped away a little, and something dangerous crossed his face, but then it was gone, and he smiled once more.
“No matter,” he said and leaned away from her desk again, taking a few steps backwards while still watching her, “I’ll be seeing you around, Granger.”
Hermione turned away from him before he was out of sight, her irritation falling away from her slowly as she focused back on her job.
At least today couldn’t get any worse, she grumbled to herself.
**
Draco’s view as the green flames died around him and he stepped from the fireplace, was Hermione Granger wearing a frilly pink apron in front of him.
“Merlin, Granger—that… is terrifyingly pink.”
She was standing at the kitchen bench, a large knife in her hands as she cut carrots. Hermione raised her eyes and looked over to him coolly, before she blew a gust of air from her mouth, making a piece of hair fly out of her face.
“Don’t diss the apron, Malfoy,” she said, turning back to her carrots and then held the knife up in the air, waving it for a moment, “I have a knife, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Hmm…” he said, considering her as he walked closer, “you would never mar my pretty skin.”
She scoffed, before cutting, rather forcefully, at the carrots in front of her. Then she leaned her head back and shook her curls, clearly trying to tame the strands that had been sitting across her eyeline.
Draco reached for the cabinet to her right, taking out wine glasses automatically, part of his ritual every Monday.
“Shouldn’t you have to wear a hairnet or something?” he asked as the glasses clinked where he set them down, “I mean, I can’t speak for Potter or Nott, but I don’t fancy coughing up hair balls later tonight.”
Hermione huffed but didn’t answer, while Draco opened the refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of wine.
“While I’m certain Potter and Nott are rather used to choking on balls—I am not.”
The knife clattered to the bench as she snorted, then turned around to fix him with a semi-humored glare. “God, Malfoy… do you have to be so crude?”
He pulled the cork from the bottle in one fluid motion, smirking at her. “Yes, and you love it.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back away from him, busying her hands with something he couldn’t see as he poured wine.
“You are always welcome to eat somewhere else, you know, at your own house,” she said in a teasing tone.
Draco’s smirk deepened, pouring into another glass. “Well, you could always find your own apartment, you know, stop living with married people.”
Hermione laughed, or rather, huffed out a gust of air that could have been a laugh. She turned back towards him and leaned her back against the bench and then held out her hand towards him as she said, “that’s a bit rich, Malfoy… don’t you still live with your mummy?”
His eyes narrowed over at her, his jaw jutting a little as he swiped up a glass of wine and passed it to her, her fingers curling around the stem and taking it carefully without touching him.
“No, Granger, my mummy lives with me.”
Hermione took a careful sip, her lips curved up at the corners before she turned away from him once more.
Sighing through his nose, Draco lifted his own glass and took a drink. He grimaced a little, not a huge fan of wine, but he would make do.
“Malfoy!” came Theo’s voice from behind him, and Draco glanced over his shoulder to see him, and Harry entering the living area from the hallway.
It was still just as bizarre to him today, as it had been three years ago, that Draco’s best friend had married Harry Potter. His childhood nemesis, of all people. But, after working with Potter, both of them Aurors, since leaving Hogwarts, had caused Draco to build a grudging respect for old Scarhead. He wasn’t… so bad.
And of course, there was Hermione. The proximity of Hermione to Potter meant that Draco wound up spending an inordinate amount of time with her for the past three years. It had certainly not been an easy road… starting with open hostility and slinging insults, until it slowly morphed into a mildly uneasy truce where all they seemed capable of doing was teasing each other and each trying to gain the upper hand.
While Draco still thought of her as an irritating know-it-all, he had to admit he didn’t mind their usual verbal sparring. There was a fire in Hermione, and a gleam in her hazel eyes that was oddly… fascinating to him.
“Nott,” Draco said in greeting and then nodded at Potter, who simply nodded back.
Theo bound straight over to the kitchen and plucked up a glass of wine, taking a sip and humming appreciatively.
“Did you hear about Pansy?” Theo asked, the interminable gossip.
Draco raised his brows, half his attention on Hermione as she started sautéing the carrots. He found himself rather fascinated at watching her cook in the muggle fashion, without magic. The cooktop was still an anomaly to him, no matter how many times Hermione tried to explain it to him.
“No, I don’t really keep in touch with her,” he said, lifting his wine glass to his lips as Potter joined them in the kitchen, making it feel suddenly crowded.
“I heard she started dating Longbottom,” Theo said, his arm casually wrapping around Potter’s waist and pulling him closer until their hips touched, “and her parents have apparently flung her out on her ass over it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione said over the crackling sounds of her cooking, turning towards them with a scowl on her face, “Neville is one of the best people I know.”
“And he’s a pureblood,” Theo said, and when Hermione shot him a look, he quickly added, “not that that matters, I’m just saying… for her parents to throw her out is a bit heavy, considering.”
“What’s their problem with him, then?” Hermione asked, hands on her hips, the picture of haughty righteousness.
Theo shrugged and looked to Potter. “I don’t know—did you hear why?”
Potter shook his head. “Neville wasn’t very forthcoming; he was a bit… distraught over the whole thing. Feels like he’s ruining Pansy’s life.”
“Hmph,” was the only sound Hermione made as she turned away from them again. She clearly had a lot to say, like she always did, but was holding her tongue, which she rarely did.
**
Even though it happened every Monday, Hermione was still entirely unamused by the seating arrangements at the table. There were only four seats, and since Harry and Theo always sat together, Hermione ended up seated next to Draco.
She would constantly send him a perplexed expression at the way his table manners still portrayed that of an exhausting aristocrat. The looks Draco would give her in return were filled with simpering condescension. Because heaven forbid Hermione only utilized ONE fork while she ate her dinner. The horror.
His dinner manner entirely negated the dangerous energy that buffeted from him within the DMLE. His reputation as an Auror was known across all of wizarding England, particularly notorious for his ruthlessness and for being a whip as a curse specialist.
So, it was equally surprising as it was unsurprising when Draco would send a smirk or a sharp silvery look her way, that she would feel stupid flutters in her stomach, which would only fuel her irritation to greater limits. Hermione, knowing herself rather intimately, acknowledged that her fascination with him came from Draco being shockingly competent, something she had always found wildly attractive. It could also be the element of danger he exuded, though that thought needed to be stored away for future analysis, likely not touched again until Hermione was very drunk.
But there were butterflies.
But he was Draco Malfoy.
So, the butterflies needed be killed, at all costs. The insufferable ass should not, by any means, cause butterflies. The horror.
If that weren’t irritating enough, the silent looks that Theo and Harry exchanged as Hermione and Draco bickered were enough for her to want to start flinging mashed potatoes across the room in protest.
By the time Hermione was clearing the dishes, her hackles were standing on end, her teeth constantly gnashing together.
Hermione was rinsing the dishes in the sink when she sensed his presence behind her, his scent of pine and sea breeze washing over her. She pulled in a deep breath, readying herself for a round of verbal sparring.
“You know,” Draco said, his tone light and teasing, “it would take me all of ten seconds to clean those dishes. Even that’s too long, in my opinion.”
Hermione ran a brush across the plate as he placed the empty wine glasses next to the sink. “And while I’m sure ten seconds feels like a long time to you,” she said, sending him a simpering look while his eyes narrowed at her implication, “I, myself, like to savor the small things in life. Cleaning after a meal allows me to appreciate the food, the company, and everything involved. I don’t need to rush through life using magic in order to enjoy it. I enjoy it just as it is.”
“Do you really enjoy cleaning dishes?” he asked, leaning his hip against the counter, facing her, “I thought all you enjoyed to do was act superior to everyone around you.”
She snorted as she plucked up a wine glass and dunked it into the soapy water. “You only think that because when we’re in the same room together, I am superior.”
“Oh, you are a witty little thing, Granger,” he said in a low voice laced with humor, “don’t make me spank you.”
She had been reaching for the next wine glass, but his words had her hand faltering around the stem, and she almost knocked it over. Draco’s hand shot forward with the reflexes of a trained Auror, and they both grabbed it at the same time. The moment their fingers brushed, a sharp sensation on the inside of her palm struck her and Hermione withdrew her hand with a gasp.
Draco looked to her with a shocked expression as she cradled her hand to her chest, his face then morphing into confusion mixed with irritation. “Oh, come now, Granger. That’s an over-reaction if I’ve ever seen one.”
“No, I…” she unfurled her fingers and stared down at her palm, bewildered to find the slice across her skin, welling with fresh blood.
“Oh, fuck,” Draco muttered, seeing her blood, “how did that happen?”
Hermione glanced up at Draco to see him look over at the wine glass, which wasn’t broken, not a sharp edge to be seen.
“I… it was…” her brain muddled through the cut she had sustained earlier in the day, by the Malfoy heirloom. But she had healed it. She met his stare, feeling confounded in every way. “…this happened earlier, the very same cut… but I’d healed it…”
Draco’s brows pulled together as he took in her words and stared down at the blood, a trail of it now sliding down the side of her palm. He met her gaze.
“What do you mean?”
Hermione huffed, gathering her wits once more. She moved for her wand, and vanished the blood, cleaned at the cut, and then with heavy concentration, she cast a healing spell. The slice in her skin knitted together, just as perfectly as before.
When she was done, Draco was still staring at her.
Hermione leaned against the bench and crossed her arms over her chest, meeting his gaze. “I was cataloguing some miscalleneous items at work today. I came across a small blade, one with the Malfoy insignia and ouroboros on it.” Draco’s eyes flared in surprise, but then they settled back to normal quickly. “I was… taken by surprise for a moment, and accidentally cut my hand on it,” she explained and held up her hand, palm facing him, “right there, same place.”
“That’s… odd,” he said, his eyes scanning over her hand until Hermione let it fall to her side, which drew his gaze back to hers, “what kind of blade?”
Hermione shrugged. “My best guess from the details of it is that it might have been some sort of ceremonial blade. Once it goes through the redistribution team, it should be sent back to the Malfoy family—to you.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Any magical properties?”
Hermione shook her head. “Not that my diagnostics picked up on, but I suppose some magic runs deep enough to be undetected unless you know what you’re looking for.”
Draco nodded slowly, a dark, pensive look on his face.
“…and was it… when I touched you, that the cut appeared again?”
Hermione swallowed and then nodded. “Yes, I think so. Do you think it would happen again?” she asked cautiously.
His eyes darkened a little further as he considered her question. “I can’t say I’m eager to find out.”
Hermione had been looking questioningly down at her palm as his words registered and she swung her gaze back up to his. She tried not to misinterpret his words; sure that it had nothing to do with not wanting to cause her pain. Though, Hermione couldn’t think of another reason why he wouldn’t want to test it out.
Flutters.
Hermione inwardly cringed as she mentally stomped on the butterflies.
“Alright,” she said, “well it’s healed now. And perhaps I’ll have another look at the heirloom tomorrow, maybe dig deeper into a possible magical background.”
Draco nodded. “Yes, do. And if you can’t find anything, bring it up to my office. I’ll get the curse breakers to have a look.”
Shocked, she stared at him. “Do you think it’s a curse?”
He shrugged, a little too nonchalantly for the topic. “Who knows with anything that came from the Malfoy family. We have a rather… nasty history of hoarding a multitude of dark and cursed objects.”
Hermione licked her lips, a measure of apprehension filling her at the thought she had potentially cut herself with a cursed blade.
“Don’t worry, Granger,” Draco said, regaining her attention, to find him smirking a little at her, “I’m sure the worst possible outcome is that you can never touch me or any of my descendants ever again.”
Hermione felt a smile tug at her lips. “What a shame,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm, “I might have to end it all at the very thought.”
His smirk deepened. They looked at each other. A throat cleared.
Draco looked over towards Harry, who had entered the living area, unbeknownst to either of them. Hermione turned back to the dishes and continued to wash as though nothing had ever interrupted the task.
“Malfoy,” Harry said, in a mildly droll tone, “I wanted to talk to you quickly about the Tattersall case, if you could spare a minute.”
“Sure,” Draco said casually, and then he was gone from the kitchen, taking his pine and sea breeze scent with him.
**
True to Hermione’s nature, she had excused herself not long after Draco left their apartment to hunker down in her bed in her oversized shirt and pulled a number of textbooks in front of her, immediately starting to research cursed objects and cuts.
It took three hours for her to give up on her research, sure that none of the books at her disposal had anything useful inside.
Hermione sighed, resigned to waiting until the next day to pull the Malfoy blade back from the redistribution team in order to test it further.
It didn’t take her long to fall asleep after turning off her lights, her eyes closing, and her mind drifting away with exhaustion.
A sharp, cracking sound roused her an indeterminate amount of time later.
Something bounced underneath her, her mattress moving oddly, jostling her unpleasantly. Hermione groaned, scrunching her eyes tightly shut as she rolled over.
She felt cold all of a sudden, and Hermione reached out for her blankets, fingers scrabbling across unfamiliar feeling sheets. Confusion clouded her drowsy brain.
“Granger?” came a gravelly voice from beside her, “what the fuck?”
Hermione’s eyes flew open at the sound of the male voice, her pulse skyrocketing with panic. In the blackness she could see the dark shape of a person in the bed next to her, and she screamed, scrambling to the side to reach for her wand, but nothing was where it was supposed to be, and in the next moment, she was falling in a wild flail of her limbs, to the ground.
“Oof,” she grunted as she hit the ground, hard, on her tailbone.
A light erupted quickly from somewhere in the room, and Hermione squinted against it from her position on the floor, and then someone appeared from around the side of the bed. Hermione looked up at Draco Malfoy as he towered above her, wearing pajama bottoms and nothing else.
Her chest hitched with her sharp breaths as she stared at him. “What are you doing in my bed!” she demanded, voice slightly hysterical.
“Your bed?” Draco demanded roughly, “you just appeared in my bed!”
“Wha—” Hermione stuttered and then her gaze left Draco’s heaving bare chest to look past him, noting the dark timber of the walls behind him. Then she looked around, her eyes widening as she took in the plush red carpeting, the large expanse of the room, the unfamiliar portraits on the walls. Her breaths escalated as she realized she was not in her own room anymore. “How… what am I doing here?”
“Fuck if I know,” Draco said exasperatedly.
Shakily, Hermione pushed herself to her feet, and it was then that she looked down at herself. She was still only wearing her oversized shirt, with only her knickers on underneath. Her face reddened as she tugged on the edge of her shirt, which only just covered her private bits.
“I… must have apparated?” Hermione said, perfectly addled, and then her brain caught up with her words, “… except I don’t have my wand…”
They looked at each other, and something dawned on Draco’s face, just a moment before her own brain ejected a thought.
“The heirloom.”
“That fucking blade.”
They had spoken at the same time, and then their words floated around Draco’s room as they both stayed silent for several heartbeats.
“Alright,” Hermione said, trying to regain her composure, despite them both being in woefully undressed states in front of one another, “so… the heirloom definitely has some kind of imbued magic, if it sent me here.”
“You think?” Draco spat, before he reached up with both hands and rubbed over his face. He dropped them and fixed her with a glare. “I about hexed you within an inch of your life, appearing in my bed like that.”
Hermione glared right back. “It’s not like I did it on purpose!” she spat back, “I fell asleep in my own bed, never in a million years did I think this was going to happen!”
Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Okay… alright…” he loosed a hoarse breath before he looked at her again, “was there anything else about this blade of note, that you can recall?”
“It had an emerald in the pommel, a dragon coiled around it, tail in its mouth…” Hermione trailed off and thought back, the images flashing across her brain, and then the inscription came back to her. “It was inscribed in Latin,” she said slowly, trying to remember the exact wording, “erm… inter se amamus et vitam communem.”
She watched with a growing dread as Draco’s face hardened, his eyes darkening with each word.
Hermione swallowed her apprehension. “…what?”
“The translation is… roughly… together or with each other we will love and live jointly, or live joint lives. Something… like that.”
Hermione searched his eyes. “Okay… and why do I feel like you know what that means? About why the magic brought me here?”
“I have a theory,” he muttered darkly.
Irritation swamped her. “Well do fucking share, Malfoy, consider me waiting with bated breath!”
He exhaled roughly through his nose, his eyes flashing dangerously at her.
“The heirloom is likely a matrimonial blade, used for marriage ceremonies,” he said slowly, folding his arms across his toned chest, “from what I can recall, the old Malfoy traditions called for blood-sharing to bond two people together for eternity.”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open a little as she took in the information. She cast around for a coherent thought while the implications struck her on all sides.
“What… what does that mean exactly?”
“Well,” Draco said, the hint of a smirk on his face, though it held none of his usual mirth, “it would appear that, because you were cut by it, the blade thinks you have married the last Malfoy heir… which would be me… and has… uh… brought you to me.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Brought me to you?”
“Well, yes,” he said, as though it were obvious, “to consummate the marriage,” Draco looked over to the clock on the wall, “at midnight, it would seem.”
Hermione almost choked on the gasp that flew from her mouth.
“That… that’s just…” Hermione covered her face with her hands, “fucking ridiculous.”
“Agreed,” Draco said.
She dropped her hands and scowled at him. “Right, I’m out of here. And tomorrow, I’m going to throw that fucking heirloom into the fire and watch it burn.”
Hermione stalked over to his bedroom door and wrenched it open.
“The floo’s down the hall,” Draco said a little gruffly, “it’s already connected to yours.”
She just nodded once and then was out the door, pulling it shut a little too hard behind her. Hermione had only taken a single step, when her body was wrenched through time and space with a snapping sound, and suddenly, she landed in a slump back on Draco’s bed.
She made a small squeaking noise out of surprise, which had Draco looking over his shoulder at her, his eyes having been cast on the door Hermione had just left through.
He turned fully towards her, sprawled on his bed. His eyes narrowed.
“Well… fuck,” he said.
**
Hermione had been dumped, quite unceremoniously, across his sheets five times over now. It seemed that if she tried to leave his bedroom, whatever ancient magic was at play here, brought her right on back.
“Ugh!” Hermione grumbled, slamming her fists into his mattress when she landed again, thighs on full display under whatever bizarre sleep shirt she was wearing.
Draco just watched her temper tantrum, slight amusement clouding his puzzlement over the situation.
Hermione slid herself to the edge of the bed, and he half expected her to try again, out of sheer idiotic determination. But she just sat there and let her head fall into her hands for a moment before she looked up to him, grasping at the sides of her neck.
“Any ideas, here?” she said.
He shrugged one shoulder, a thousand ideas running through his head, but he banished most of them. Draco started to pace as he thought.
“Part of the issue here is that the magic will be expecting us to…” he shot her a quick look, finding her eyes tracking his movements, “you know… and there was something in the old marriage ceremonies about having a binding contract for the female, bound in their shared blood brought forth by the blade.”
Hermione’s brows creased. “A contract for the female?”
He stopped pacing to regard her. “Yes—the inscription says something along the lines of joint lives, joint love, joint pleasure—it makes it necessary for the wife to experience as much pleasure as the husband during consummation.”
Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. “How magnanimous of you Malfoy men,” she said with thick sarcasm, “because it’s far too hard to just give your wife an orgasm without a magical contract. Bleeding fucking christ.”
Draco just sighed as he watched her shake her head, curls flying about her head.
Finally, Hermione’s sanctimonious moment ceased, and she looked back to him, eyes narrowing a little. “So… what is that supposed to mean? You said you had an idea—what does… that… have to do with anything?”
Draco smirked at her. “Finally caught on, did you?” She huffed, her nose wrinkling in her irritation, which Draco found… a little too distracting. “I guess my theory is that since only you were cut with the blade, not both of us, that if you… uh… how to put this delicately…?”
“Have an orgasm,” she said bluntly, face suddenly impassive.
His gaze swung to hers sharply, not entirely expecting her to have said it.
He just a raised a brow before nodding. “Yes, that could possibly trigger the magic to fade away, thinking the ceremony was complete.”
Hermione’s jaw worked as she pondered, her eyes glazing a little, clearly sinking into her thoughts for a moment.
“Of course,” Draco said, “that’s only a theory, and we can explore other options in the first instance. Get more information on the blade tomorrow, cast more detection spells.”
Her eyes shot back to his. “And what… I wait here, stuck in your room, unable to leave?”
Draco raised his arms and let them fall back his sides. “I don’t know, Granger—I’m guessing here.”
She stared at him for a moment, and something sparked in her hazel eyes that Draco found intimidating… something he would never admit to another soul as long as he lived. Hermione Granger was probably the only person in the entire world who could ever hope to intimidate him.
Finally, after several beats of silence, she spoke, “could always try your first suggestion, see if it frees me from the magic.”
Draco felt his jaw clench at her words, felt his stomach flip stupidly. He kept his face stony as he stared at her.
“I’m not going to fuck you, Granger.”
**
Hermione’s eyes rolled at his reaction. She could have guessed he would say exactly that. It was a very good reminder for her to squish every single one of those pesky butterflies.
She stood from the edge of the bed to bring them on a more even playing field. Although, to her supreme chagrin, Draco still managed to tower over her with his tall frame.
When she said nothing, Draco seemed to think he needed to say more.
“You’re not my type,” he said, his silver eyes moving over her body, and she was far too aware of her bare legs at the perusal.
Hermione scoffed. “And what is your type, Malfoy? Leggy, blonde and with blue eyes?”
His brows twitched, a smirk starting. “Are you just describing the opposite of yourself?”
She set her hands on her hips. “Well, if I’m not your type, I could only assume.”
Draco laughed then, and the sound sent shivers down her spine. He pierced her with his silvery gaze. “I never said I found you physically unappealing, you’re a pretty girl, Granger,” something pathetic swooped in her stomach at those words, then immediately died at his next ones, “it’s the know-it-all swotty attitude that I find particularly detestable.”
She exhaled roughly and glared at him. “Well, count your lucky stars, Malfoy—” Hermione took a few steps towards him until they stood close enough to touch and she smiled coyly up at him, “—because I never said you had to give me the orgasm.”
Hermione watched with satisfaction as his eyes flared open. His mouth opened, and then closed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and her smile widened just a bit.
Then, he said, “Or, you could just wait until morning, see if it wears off.”
Hermione pouted up at him teasingly, enjoying it a little too much to see him squirm. “What is it Malfoy, are you afraid of a bit of female sexuality?”
Draco’s mouth twisted as he looked down at her. Then his own small smirk appeared, and he leaned in towards her, eyes flashing dangerously.
“Don’t make me call your bluff, Granger, I’ll let you do it.” Her heart suddenly started to hammer, and her lips parted as his silver eyes flicked between hers. “And you’ll live the rest of your life knowing you touched yourself in my bedroom.”
Something squeezed in her abdomen, a coil tightening somewhere, making Hermione feel like she wanted to rub her thighs together. She sucked in a shallow breath as they watched each other.
After a moment’s pause, Hermione stepped away, removing her gaze from him and sighing. “Fine, I’ll wait it out till morning,” she started walking over to his bed and whipped back the covers on the side that he hadn’t been sleeping on. Hermione paused to look over at him. “You better not snore.”
He chuckled darkly as he moved himself over to the other side of the bed. “I’m a gentleman in all things, including the way I sleep.”
Hermione laughed a little as she climbed into his large bed. “Gentleman? There’s nothing gentle about you.”
The bed dipped and shifted as his large frame moved in under the covers. His eyes floated over to her, and then he whispered a quiet spell, and all the lights went out suddenly, before he said, “you don’t know how right you are, Granger.”
**
Hermione was surprised that she had managed to fall asleep at all, but she had.
When she awoke, warm and comfortable in the plush bed that belonged to Draco Malfoy, she slowly opened her eyes.
Her brain was still foggy with sleep as she took in how close he was to her. They had fallen asleep in the small hours of the morning; both facing away from one another and had each basically hugged the edges of the mattress. Now, they were both nearly in the center, facing one another.
Hermione stifled a yawn and rolled onto her back, staring up at the canopy of the bed.
Draco stirred next to her, and after a few moments of silence, he shifted away from her, rolling to his back also.
“Merlin…” he said in a gruff, sleepy voice, “I hoped that had all been a nightmare.”
Hermione looked over to the clock on the wall. It was just past seven in the morning. “Sorry to disappoint, Malfoy.” She slid from the bed and padded softly over the carpeting towards the door of his room. “Now to test it out.”
She heard Malfoy sit up in his bed as she turned the handle and opened the door. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, he was watching intently, before she faced out into the hallway and then took a step.
“Oomph,” Hermione uttered as she landed with a flump right next to Draco on his bed. She sat herself up slowly and turned to face him. “Well, that didn’t work.”
Draco’s head fell into his hands, and he groaned.
“What now, smartass?” Hermione asked, taking her frustration out on him, even though none of this was actually his fault.
He turned his head to glower at her. Then he flounced from the bed and moved over to his armoire, pulling the doors open. “I’ll tell you what now. You sit tight, and I’ll head to the Ministry.”
Hermione jumped from the bed. “Like hell, Malfoy—you are not going to leave me stuck here!”
He threw a shirt on, buttoning it quickly, before he stripped off his pajama bottoms—Hermione cutting her gaze away quickly but not before seeing the long lines of his muscled legs—and changed into trousers.
“We don’t have much of a choice,” he said, turning back to face her and pulling a robe across his shoulders, “I need to get my hands on the heirloom, figure out what’s going on.”
Draco began striding for the door and Hermione raced after him.
“Malfoy, wait—you can’t—”
He had gone one step beyond the threshold of his room when a sharp popping sound echoed through the room and Draco disappeared. Hermione heard him land on the bed behind her as she turned to see his stunned form lying back on the messy sheets.
Hermione couldn’t help it.
She laughed.
Hysterically.
“Well…” she said in between fits of giggles, “… perhaps we should have seen that coming.”
Draco sat up slowly on the bed, then he pulled himself to standing and just… stood there. After a moment, he cut his gaze back to hers.
“Fine, Granger,” he said a little darkly, “you get your wish… time for you to walk the walk.”
Her heart descended to the floor. “Wh-what do you mean?”
He strode towards her and came to a stop directly in front of her. “Time for you to trick the ancient magic into thinking we’ve consummated,” his eyes searched hers as the color drained from her face, then the corner of his lips lifted, “and don’t take too long, I’d like to make it to work on time.”
She scowled up at him. “But I… you can’t even leave! I’m not doing that with you in the room!”
Draco just smirked. “Where’s your bravado from last night, huh? Where’s all your pious soliloquies about female sexuality?”
Hermione swallowed uncomfortably, and her hands came together, fingers fidgeting with nerves. Draco seemed to sense something shift in her, and he took a step back, his face softening just a bit.
He sighed. “Don’t worry, Granger. I’ll send a patronus and request some assistance.”
Draco pulled out his wand.
“No,” she said, and she shook her head when he looked over at her, “no… don’t, I—I can fix this. We don’t need to tell anyone about this.”
His eyes narrowed on hers. “That’s not necessary, we can ask Potter to—”
Hermione cut him off quickly. “Absolutely not! I don’t want him knowing a single thing about this whole mess. This is my fault—I’m the one who got cut, so I’ll… I’ll fix this.”
Draco’s jaw flexed, and he seemed to be considering her, then finally his face smoothed out to his usual default, stony exterior.
“Fine, do as you please—” he smirked, “—pun intended.”
Hermione pulled in a deep breath, her pulse pounding in her fingertips. Her eyes cast around the room for a moment, feeling anxious and awkward.
“Um… go stand over by the window and face that way.”
Draco stayed still for one moment more, before he acquiesced and moved with long-limbed strides to the window and faced out into the white light of the early morning. His arms reached up to brace himself on the windowsill and he leaned there, looking stiff and tense.
Hermione swallowed, looking around uncertainly and then slowly made her way over to the bed. She laid herself down and stared up at the canopy. Then she closed her eyes.
She wasn’t a stranger to touching herself, bringing herself to climax. Hermione would usually picture foreign hands, mouths and tongues in order to get her body hot and ready before using her fingers to get her over the edge.
It was entirely different to be in an unfamiliar environment, with a literal audience, one who essentially finds her repulsive.
Hermione was breathing a little roughly, her chest rising and falling quickly as she felt herself starting to panic, unsure she could actually do this.
“Calm down, Granger,” came Draco’s low voice from over by the window. She turned her head to look at him. He was looking out the window, his fingers gripping onto the windowsill. “The whole point of this is to relax, and it really sounds like you’re not doing that.”
The low tones of his voice washed over her body, making goosebumps sprinkle the bare skin of her legs. She cringed and looked away from him, back up to the canopy of the bed.
“Relaxing… is a little hard, right now.”
“Yes… I imagine so… you don’t have to do this, you know.”
Hermione bit at her lip, then rested her hands over her stomach. “I know, but I don’t see another way right now.”
“Then just… try taking a deep breath and do what you need to do.”
Hermione nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. She closed her eyes again and tried to picture a different environment.
Her usual fantasy roamed into her mind. Being in a club, surrounded by numerous dancing, sweaty bodies. Hermione writhing in time to the music with another man, their bodies brushing against each other in beautiful friction, their eyes meeting with a heated gaze. Finding their way to a quiet corner to touch each other, before she was pulled into a secluded area, mouths finding each other in a passionate embrace. It was her favorite fantasy, one born of heat and need and wild, frenetic desire.
Hermione’s hands drifted to the edge of her oversized shirt and pulled it up to expose her knickers, and then she breathed in a shaky lungful of air before she pushed her hand into them.
She ran a finger softly through her folds, but there was no real heat there and she was… dry. There was the smallest pulse of arousal, but nothing like what she needed. Hermione bit at the edge of her lip, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to concentrate, to remove herself from where she truly was, and imagine something erotic… something that would get her hot.
Her finger moved through her folds, dipping into herself for a moment to try and gather some wetness, before coming back up to her clitoris, but there was hardly a spark. Her eyes opened with frustration.
This wasn’t going to work.
**
Her next sigh was not a happy one. At least not the kind that would insinuate this was going to work.
Draco gritted his teeth, his fingers biting into the wooden frame of the windowsill. He was trying very hard not to think about what was happening behind him. He certainly did not have Hermione Granger in his bed, touching herself. Not at all.
Suddenly, her voice floated over to him, sounding smaller than he had ever heard before, “Malfoy, I…”
His eyes fell shut, his voice coming out deeper than usual, “what is it?”
“I… I can’t concentrate, I need…” her voice trailed off, something like desperation and humiliation mingling together.
Draco swallowed roughly. “What do you need?”
A long stretch of silence accompanied his question. Then finally—
“T-talk to me?”
Draco’s shoulders tensed, his brain short-circuiting as he processed her words.
“What?”
A quiet sigh from behind him. “Just talk… say something to me.”
Draco pulled in a few, quickened breaths. His default response was on the tip of his tongue: that this wasn’t his problem, that she should figure it out on her own… but then he found himself saying, “alright… like what?”
An indignant huff, a sound that went straight to Draco’s groin. “I don’t bloody know, Malfoy, use your imagination!”
“Merlin,” he gritted out, bowing his head low between his arms, his brain going at a mile a minute. He was usually very good at this… at seducing women, at talking them through the finer points of foreplay and sex. Draco prided himself on it, in fact. But… this was not an ordinary sexual situation. The finer point of his hesitation being that this was Hermione Granger, on his bed, asking for his help to… get off. A small shiver skated down his spine. “Fine then,” he ground out before he pulled in a deep breath, trying to remember what he would usually do to turn a woman on. “Tell me then, Granger… do you have your hand between your legs?”
A pause, in which he wondered if she had even meant for him to talk dirty to her. Then, a quiet, “yes.”
Fuck, Draco thought roughly.
“A-and you’re touching yourself?”
“Yes.”
Draco took just a second to recognize that his cock was already hard in his trousers, and he swallowed against the sudden onslaught of his own arousal. He shook his head, gathering his sense.
“Okay, love… you’re going to imagine that it’s not your tiny, nimble fingers touching you, but… mine.” He almost growled at the visual he was painting for her. “You’re going to picture it’s my fingers that are spreading your pretty thighs and parting your folds so I can see every bit of you.”
He heard Hermione let out a quick, sharp breath. This time, he didn’t think it was a frustrated breath. His heart sped up infinitely.
“…It’s my fingers that’s smoothing slow circles over your clit, making you writhe all over my bed sheets. And you’d be so wet for me… are you wet, Granger?”
A little, feminine moan floated to his ears, and his fingers tightened even further around the edges of the windowsill.
“Yes…”
“Fuck… are you—are you touching your breasts?
“N-no”
“Do it,” Draco commanded through clenched teeth, his eyes falling shut as he pictured it. “Use your other hand and play with those gorgeous tits, but imagine that it’s my hand touching you in a place you’d never have let me touch before… it’s my fingers pinching those pretty nipples. Are they hard, Granger? Your nipples?”
Another soft, breathy moan. Fuck, his cock was so hard in his trousers.
“Mmm…” came her soft assent, “yes… they oh are…”
“Good, love… how I’d love to close my mouth around them, one at a time. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Hermione didn’t answer this time, but he heard her quickened breathing, imagined her fingers moving quicker around her wetness, her desperation increasing.
Draco groaned himself, before saying, “you’re not a prude at all, are you? You fucking love this… love the way I’m talking to you, don’t you?”
Another sharp breath, following by a small whine in the back of her throat. “God,” Hermione breathed, “don’t stop…”
“Fucking hell, Granger…” and then Draco lost all sense and control of the situation, “I used to think about this sometimes, what you would look like spread open for me, what you would feel like under my hands… what you would sound like.”
Sharp breaths, soft moans, bed sheets shifting as Draco pictured her back arching.
“I… I want to walk over there, wrench your hand away and use my finger to fill you… because you’d be so tight, wouldn’t you? I’d get a second finger in, but you’d be swallowing me so tight I would feel every inch of your wet cunt around my fingers. Fuck, I want to watch my fingers sinking inside of you… you’d be so warm and wet and fucking delicious…”
Draco sensed the moment it changed, as she started to chase the climax down. Her breathing was wild, her moans shorter and closer together. Realizing she was close had his own breaths coming in pants, his trousers feeling uncomfortably tight, his hands turning white as he gripped the wood.
“God, Malfoy…” Hermione said breathily.
Fuck fuck fuck. “That’s it love,” Draco urged, “you’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
“Fuck… yes…”
“Just for me?”
“Mm… yes!”
He gritted his teeth, using every ounce of his willpower not to turn and watch what she looked like when she orgasmed, when bliss riddled her body. The sounds she was making was enough to cause Draco to feel like he was coming undone himself, like a single pump of his own fist over his cock would have him spurting everywhere like a horny teenager having his first wank.
“You sound fucking amazing, Granger. I want to sink myself inside of you just to feel your walls flutter around my cock while you come. That’s it… show me what a good girl you are…”
Her sounds crested, a loud, lingering moan emitting from her. It hit Draco like a freight train, the sound washing over him until he almost couldn’t take it anymore. It was the most delectable sound, and he fucking wished she would make it against his mouth, while he was buried deep inside of her.
They were both quiet for a long time, only their joint sounds of their panting could be heard through the room.
Draco didn’t move a muscle, letting Hermione tell him when he could turn back around.
He waited, as patiently as he could, until she said, “I… I’m decent.”
Draco turned around slowly. Hermione was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from him. He didn’t move away from the window while she stood up and took a few steps, before she finally looked over to him.
Hermione’s cheeks were flushed a deep red. There was a brightness, a wildness behind her eyes that Draco found wholly attractive. He swallowed as he watched her fidget with her fingers in front of the hem of her shirt.
Then her eyes flicked down, and a small smirk lit up her lips. “Feeling a little… frustrated there, Malfoy?”
Draco didn’t need to look down to know she referred to the rock-hard evidence that he found that ridiculously arousing. He just met her gaze unabashedly. “I wouldn’t be so smug, Granger. I now know what you sound like when you come.”
Her mouth fell open, before her eyes narrowed on him. “Well… touché,” Hermione said begrudgingly, “aaand now I’m leaving,” she whirled around and headed for the bedroom door, muttering as she went, “God, please let me leave…”
She held the door handle, gripping onto it for a long moment. Then she pulled it open and took a tentative step. Then another. Then one more… and Hermione turned around to face him.
Draco strolled over, too, and stepped over the threshold, until they were both in the hallway. There didn’t seem to be any magic which was pulling them back to his bed.
“Huh,” Hermione said, casting him a sly glance, “the power of the female orgasm.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“Now… I’m getting the fuck out of here, and we—” Hermione sent him a pointed stare, “—will never speak of this again.”
Draco's answering smirk seemed to make her falter. “Whatever you say, Granger.”