Five Days ago

“Why not?”

Hermione looked anxiously round the Leaky Cauldron. “Please, Cormac, not so loud.”

“Why not?” he repeated.

“Because,” she said, softly, “this is only our second date, not counting Slughorn’s Christmas party, and—”

“And?”

“And we hardly know each other.”

“So, let me get this straight.” Cormac leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest like a patriarch about to chastise one of his womenfolk. The pose was meant to be intimidating and, although Hermione knew that they were in a public place, and that—with her wand—she was more than his equal, something about his abrupt, unexpected change of mood had shaken her. “You’re perfectly willing,” he said, “to let me buy you dinner, and pay for your theatre ticket—”

“I did offer to go Dutch—”

“—but when the time comes to show a bit of gratitude, you cross your legs?”

Hermione drew herself up straight. “I will not go to bed with you Cormac,” she said, firmly. “I will never go to bed with a man who expects sex as payment for dinner.” She reached for her handbag. “I should be going.”

“No you don’t.”

“Let go of my arm, Cormac.”

He tightened his grip.

“I’d do as she says if I were you, McLaggen,” said a voice Hermione hadn’t heard since the day she left Hogwarts. “She has twice the magic you have, and she knows a very nasty slicing curse...”

Draco Malfoy turned to Hermione. “I’ll be over there if anyone should need me.” He crossed to the bar, and she heard him order a Firewhisky. “Make it a double,” he drawled.

Hermione turned back to Cormac.

“Aw, who wants a frigid woman, anyway?” he said, with a poor imitation of the Malfoy sneer. “I’ll just have to chalk up my losses to experience.” He got up, and made for the door.

“I am not frigid,” said Hermione, to his back.

But no one was listening.

...

She gathered up her things and, sliding out from the booth, took a few steps—

“Hold on a minute, Granger.” Malfoy downed the remainder of his Firewhisky and deposited his glass on the bar. “You can’t go yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re shaking like a leaf, woman. Come back over here.” He offered her his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman, and Hermione found herself taking it and letting him lead her back to the booth.

She sat down.

Malfoy slid into the seat opposite. “Do you smoke?” he asked, patting his breast pocket.

“No.”

“Well, you could do with something for those nerves.” He waved to one of the waiters. “A shot of Calming Draught and a Firewhisky—a double.”

“I’m not usually so... So silly,” said Hermione.

“I know.”

“It’s just...”

The waiter set two glasses on the table.

“Here,” said Malfoy, pushing the Calming Draught towards her. “Get this down you.”

“I don’t usually take potions,” said Hermione. But Malfoy’s eyes—pale and intense—spoke of personal experience, of past trauma, and of tried and trusted remedies. She picked up the glass.

“In one,” he said.

She knocked it back, shuddered, and—covering her mouth with her hand—swore.

“Puts hairs on your chest,” he said, taking a sip of whisky.

Malfoy was the last person she could imagine having a hairy chest.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised to find that it was true. “Much.”

“Good.” He leaned back in his seat, but—unlike Cormac’s had been—his posture was open and relaxed, and it occurred to Hermione that her new-found calm had as much to do with feeling safe in his company as with the effects of the potion.

“Draco...” She leaned forward, and spoke softly. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

He seemed surprised. “Kind? Really?—Do you want another, by the way?”

“Let me get the next round.”

“If you insist.” He signalled to the waiter. “Another Firewhisky. And...”

“A white wine, please.”

“What made you go out with an arse hole like McLaggen anyway?” he asked.

He’d laid a napkin on the table and he began folding it, and Hermione couldn’t help noticing how long and sensitive his fingers were... And, suddenly, the situation seemed so terribly funny, and she began to laugh, clutching her stomach and shaking helplessly until, after what seemed like an embarrassingly long time, she was completely spent.

“Well, that’s the nerves sorted,” said Malfoy. He lifted the folded napkin, and launched it into the air, and the fabric became a white butterfly, which—fluttering down—settled on Hermione’s hand.

“What’s happened to you, Draco?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve... You’ve become nice.”

Now it was Malfoy’s turn to laugh. “No, Granger,” he said. “I don’t think so. I may have grown up a bit, but I’m still the same self-centred little prick I always was—according to Astoria Greengrass, at any rate. But I’ve never been the sort of douche bag McLaggen is, Granger. Not with girls. My best friend’s a woman.”

“My best friends are all boys—men now,” said Hermione.

He nodded, thoughtfully. “Does it help you with relationships?”

Surprised by the question, Hermione considered it for a moment. “No... I don’t think it does.”

“Nor do I. I wonder why?”

“I think a lot of people find it hard to combine sex and friendship,” said Hermione. “Women like their men to be men. They expect to natter with their girlfriends; they want their men to be different.”

“Cavemen, like McLaggen, you mean?”

“Oh, God, no! Though I suppose some must want that...”

“But you prefer a friend with benefits?”

“I’d prefer a lover—a husband—who was also my best friend.”

“In my world,” said Malfoy, “if the husband wants friendship and affection he generally has to find himself a mistress. His wife.... Well, all she has to be is good breeding stock.” He murmured a wandless spell, transforming the butterfly back into a napkin; Hermione watched him closely, intrigued by his wistfulness, and he must have sensed her gaze upon him, because he suddenly looked up at her. “How did we get onto this topic, anyway?” he asked.

“I’m not sure...”

Their eyes lingered, and Hermione felt a chemistry growing between them, something warm and exciting, awakening her body with the sort of desire it would be all too easy to act upon foolishly.

Malfoy was the first to break away. “I should—er—” He jerked his head towards the door.

“Yes,” said Hermione, “I should be getting home, too.”

...

Four days ago

Hermione had no intention of ever seeing Draco Malfoy again.

She had absolutely no interest in him.

She didn’t care whom he was seeing, nor how serious his relationship with the woman might be, and she made no attempt to find out.

She certainly didn’t ask her workmates about him, nor deliberately glance at his Ministry records, nor doggedly hunt through several months’ back numbers of Witch Weekly looking for gossip about him...

But, despite her total lack of interest, by the end of the day she had learned that Malfoy ran a successful potions business, that he was the patron of several worthy charities, and that his engagement to Astoria Greengrass had been announced, with a huge fanfare, only five months earlier.

...

Three days ago

It had been such a strange day.

At lunchtime in the canteen, and now in the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione had the distinct impression that people were talking about her but, whenever she caught anyone’s eye and nodded, they returned her greeting as usual—Though don’t those greetings seem a little strained? Embarrassed, even?

“Granger...”

“Draco!”

He slid into the booth with her. “I was hoping to catch you last night,” he said, “but you weren’t here.”

“No...”

The chemistry she had felt before was still there between them but, tonight, it seemed less comfortable. Hermione waited for Malfoy to explain what he wanted.

“The thing is,” he said, at last, “a copy of Le sommaire philosophique has just come onto the market.”

“By Nicholas Flamel?” She leaned forward, all awkwardness forgotten.

“Yes, the rare 1589 Lyon edition. We—my father and I—have been trying to acquire a copy for the Manor library for years, and... Well, I’m going to Paris, tomorrow, to view it and, if it’s in good condition, I’ll buy it—and I wondered if you’d like to come along with me. We could have lunch afterwards, and then wander past the Bouquinistes.”

Hermione felt herself blushing. If the devil himself had devised a plan to lead her astray, it could not have been better than this. To browse the magical bookstalls of Paris in the company of a man she—unexpectedly—found intellectually stimulating and sexually exciting, and easy to be with...

What woman wouldn’t be tempted by the promise of one perfect day in Paris?

“Of course,” he said, misreading her hesitation, “if you already have plans...”

It would be wicked to say yes. Malfoy couldn’t be offering her anything more than friendship, since he was already engaged to be married, but he must—surely—be aware of the desire lurking between them? Yes, she was certain she’d seen it in his eyes! But maybe he had somehow cured himself—with a cold shower or, perhaps, with one of his potions; she, on the other hand, was still simmering...

No, it would be shameful to accept his invitation.

“I’d love to come,” she heard herself say.

“Great! I have to rush,”—he finished his drink—“Mother’s throwing a dinner party and she’s roped me in to make the numbers even.” He reached out, and gently touched her hand. “But I’ll collect you at ten-thirty tomorrow. Okay?”

“Um, okay...” said Hermione, watching him rush away.

...

Two days ago

“Oh, you slut!” said Hermione to the scarlet woman in the mirror.

As scarlet women went, this one was pale and haggard, probably because she hadn’t slept a wink all night. Hermione considered using some remedial magic on the dark circles around her eyes, but her Puritan streak drew the line at piling dishonesty on top of scarletry.

It would only serve her right if Malfoy took one look at her, decided that he couldn’t possibly be seen with her, and called it off.

...

Oblivious to her panda-eyes, however, Malfoy Apparated her to the premises of Zacaire et filles, antiquarian booksellers, and introduced her to one of the Mesdemoiselles Zacaire as ‘a fellow book lover’.

Hermione waited until he’d satisfied himself as to the book’s authenticity before she asked whether she might examine it herself. It had been bound with several other alchemical treatises in a tiny sextodecimo volume. The precious text itself was set in a fine, French italic, and decorated with floral Initials, and someone—some ancient alchemist!—had meticulously annotated selected passages, illuminating the more abstruse points of theory with the fruits of his own labour—

“...Granger? Hermione!”

“Oh! Draco! Oh, I’m sorry...”

She quickly handed the book back, but he was laughing—actually beaming at her, as though she’d just done something absolutely wonderful.

“Be so good as to wrap it for us,” he said to the bookseller. “We’ll collect it later this afternoon.”

As they left the bookshop, he took Hermione’s hand.

...

They found a delightful little restaurant and, over the meal, they talked, and Malfoy was charming, and then they walked along the Left Bank, browsing the second hand bookstalls. “They say that the Seine,” he said, “is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.”

By the time they reached the Quai Voltaire, Hermione knew that she’d fallen in love.

...

One day ago

The following day, the proverbial shit hit the fan, but only Hermione got covered.

Cormac McLaggen, it seemed, had sold his ‘story’ to Witch Weekly:

MY SEX-STARVED LIFE
WITH HERMIONE GRANGER

Spotting the headline as she passed a newspaper stand, Hermione pulled up her scarf and, trying to keep her face hidden, bought every copy.

The moment she reached the Ministry, she scurried into the Ladies’ loos and, locking herself in a cubicle, sat down to assess the damage.

The story ran to six pages, illustrated with pictures of Cormac in tight Quidditch leathers and of herself in an old cardigan and lumpy tweed skirt, suffering from a bad cold.

And, Merlin’s beard, the text was even worse!

Cormac’s lies, skilfully worked into a racy narrative, made her sound like a psychotic prick-tease.

She sat on the loo seat with her head in her hands. Draco was already spoken for—she knew that. Her pathetic infatuation with him could go nowhere.

But it still mattered what he thought of her.

...

When she finally got to her office, an even bigger shock awaited her.

Draco.

“I came as soon as I saw it,” he said, propelling her inside and shutting the door behind them. “Oh Merlin, Granger, are you all right?”

“I... You know...” She shrugged.

“The bastards!” he said. “It was the same when my father was sent to Azkaban.” He clenched his fists. “Everyone just assumed that it was true!”

“Draco...” She didn’t know what to say—didn’t know how to deal with her own misery, nor with the knowledge that she had played a part in having Lucius Malfoy put away—didn’t know how to handle the miserable feeling that, when Draco remembered, it would drive a wedge between them—didn’t know how she would bear that, because she loved him—loved him more than could possibly be good for her, and—

Suddenly, his arms were round her, and he was cradling her against his chest, and patting her back, and saying, “I know, Granger; I know; I know how you feel...”

And she realised that she was crying—sobbing into his immaculate shirt front.

“Look,” he said, “let me take you home. We can lock the door, and close the curtains, and watch one of those dee-vee-dees you were telling me about. I make a mean spicy pumpkin soup—just the thing to make you feel better...”

God, was she tempted!

“No,” she said. This time she had to resist. “I must face them sooner or later, Draco, and the longer I leave it, the harder it will be.”

She felt him kiss the top of her head, the way a parent might reward a child for good behaviour. “You’re a braver man than I am, Hermione Granger,” he said. “Let me take you down to the Dining Room then. We’ll have coffee and cakes, and you can hold your head up high. And if we happen to bump into McLaggen... I’ll be more than happy to hold your handbag whilst you punch the toe-rag’s lights out.”

Laughter bubbled out of her, and she clung to him, shaking helplessly.

“That’s more like it,” he whispered.

...

They didn’t bump into McLaggen.

But, after a brief, uncomfortable silence, most of her friends and many of her acquaintances—including Pansy Parkinson—came over to tell her that they’d always known that Cormac McLaggen was a fool—a prat—a tosser—and that they didn’t believe a word of what he’d said about her.

Pansy even added that, in two weeks’ time, all anyone would remember about the article was that Hermione had had her own double-page spread in Witch Weekly...

When, at length, they left the Dining Room, Hermione took Draco’s arm. “Thank you, Draco,” she said. “Having you there, in my corner... It made everything so much easier.”

...

Today

Standing before the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, as the bars contorted themselves into a glowering face that demanded to know why she was trying to enter, Hermione wondered how coming to ‘have it out with Draco’ could possibly have seemed like a good idea.

But things always looked simpler in the early hours of the morning.

“I would like to speak to Draco Malfoy,” she said, politely, and the words had hardly left her lips when, in a swirl of grey, Draco appeared before her.

“Granger!” He was smiling. “I knew that something good was going to happen today! Just walk towards me. The gates won’t stop you.”

Hermione took a deep breath, and stepped forwards, gasping at the fleeting sensation of being vaporised as she passed through the bars. “We need to talk,” she said.

Draco’s smile slipped, but he nodded. “The rose garden...”

He led Hermione down the gravel driveway, through a gateway in the yew hedge, and into a courtyard filled with a maze of stone-walled beds overflowing with fragrant blooms. Hermione took a seat on one of the walls. Draco sat down beside her, his thigh lightly touching hers.

There was no easy way to say what needed to be said. Hermione jumped in at the deep end: “Astoria Greengrass,” she said.

“What about her?”

“She’s your fiancée, Draco.”

“Was,” said Draco.

Hermione frowned. “Was?” She turned towards him. “I don’t understand.”

“She liked to keep me on my toes by breaking off the engagement every so often,” he said. “Usually, I’d leave it a few days, then go to her on my knees and beg her forgiveness—though the confession was always a bit vague, because I never quite knew what it was I was supposed to have done...”

“Draco...!” Hermione had to bite her lip to hold back a giggle.

“This time, though, I have a better option.” He turned to face her. “I do have a better option, don’t I...?”

Hermione’s heart lurched.

“Look, Granger,” he said, not waiting for an answer, “I was planning to do something more romantic than this—roses, yes, but in a restaurant, and with a decent bottle of champagne. Still...” He slid down from the wall, and knelt before her. “Hermione Granger, will you do my the honour of dating me, with a view to getting to know me better, and then—with a bit of luck—taking things further?”

“How much further?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.

“Marriage, maybe?”

“Oh...” YES! she was thinking. “But... But what will Astoria say?”

“‘Bugger’, I should think.” He smirked. “Or the girlie equivalent. Not that she cares for me, Granger—no more than I’ve ever cared for her—but, from a financial point of view, I’m a catch, and will be from a social point of view, too, if Mother’s fund-raising and Father’s machinations ever get results. But you and I, Granger, you and I...” He patted her knee. “Actually, do you think you could give me an answer, so I can get up off the ground?”

Hermione found herself smiling. “You and I what, Draco?” she asked.

“You and I have a shot at living happily ever after, Granger.”

“Oh, Draco...” He made it sound so simple. “I’m not exactly good breeding stock.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I’m sure that what you lack in pure-blood refinement, you’ll more than make up for in Muggle-born vigour.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“But your parents—”

“Will come around.”

“What if they don’t?”

“They will. Mother’s not going to let Father’s stupidity keep her away from her grandchildren.”

Hermione’s heart was pounding. “Children?”

“Am I getting ahead of myself?”

She grasped his hands. “I love you,” she said, simply.

“Oh, Hermione Granger.” He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. Then he lifted his head, and their eyes met, and the chemistry between them—the desire—deep, and sweet, and aching—transfixed them.

“Can we, um...?” murmured Hermione.

...

He Apparated them to his bedroom.

Hermione could feel his erection, pressing against her belly, and she looked down, and couldn’t look away—though confined by his trousers, it was jutting out from his body, tenting the fabric, big and potent, tantalising...

She slid down to her knees and, hands trembling, unbuttoned his fly and freed it. “Oh,” she whispered, “ohhh, Draco...” She leaned in, and kissed it.

“Granger...” Draco had spread his legs, and he planted his hands on his hips and braced himself, which tilted his pelvis, lifting his cock higher and thrusting it out further...

Hermione moaned.

She wrapped both hands around it and, taking it into her mouth, she sucked it, and tongued it, loving the way it stiffened in response, revelling in the sense of accomplishment it gave her. Her own body was burning with desire, her core yearning to be filled, her breasts aching to be touched—

“Wait!” croaked Draco. His hands grasped her head. “You’d better stop—Granger!—if you want me—to make love to you—stop...”

Reluctantly, Hermione released his cock and, still kneeling, smiled up at him. He was a wreck—his normally perfect hair wild, his normally pale face flushed, his normally cool eyes dark with passion—and she grinned with something like triumph.

“Oh, fucking hell, Granger! You’re lethal!” Clumsily, he gathered her up, and—disposing of his half-mast trousers with a wandless “Evanesco,”—he carried her to the bed and laid her down, scrambling up beside her.

“Lovely, lovely Granger...” He turned her onto her stomach.

“What are you...?”

“Shhh,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. “Trust me...”

She heard him pick up something from the bedside table, and pull out the stopper, and felt his hand slip between her legs and stroke something cool and slick onto her skin—felt his fingers brush her inner thighs, part her lips, and gently probe her slit, making her squirm against the bed, and moan impatiently.

His hands kneaded her buttocks.

“Draco,” she whispered, “oh, please—please, Draco...”

“Keep your legs together...”

He straddled her, and lowered himself down upon her, and she felt his cock nudge itself between her legs, and she shifted her hips, and—“Ah!”

He pushed himself deep inside her, filling her.

Then his chest was against her back, and his mouth against her cheek, and he began to move, his thighs flexing beside hers as he thrust, his big cock driving her out of her mind—he was over her, around her, inside her, his weight pressing down upon her, his rhythm dominating her...

Hermione grasped two handfuls of coverlet and, holding on tight, matched his strokes, her entire world filled with nothing but relentless fucking. “Oh, Draco,” she gasped, “Draco... Draco...”

“Nnnn,” he groaned, rearing up on his hands and grinding—thrusting and grinding, thrusting and grinding—until, suddenly, his pace quickened, and his strokes became sharp, and fast, and frantic.

And Hermione cried out in gratitude, her sobs growing wilder and wilder until at last they merged together, pouring out of her in one, long, ecstatic wail of release.

...

“So,” she said, leaning over her exhausted lover, “is this still the ‘dating’ phase, or am I in the ‘getting to know you’ phase now?”

Draco groaned. “Does sex always make you this lively?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had fantastic sex before. I do hope so... I feel like I could go five rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion!”

Draco’s head fell back against the pillow. “Merlin, I’ll need to get into training to satisfy you... Or start abusing Malfoy’s Potent Potion for Men.” He looked up at her. “You’re a revelation, Granger—you know that? All those years I thought you were so sweet, a little Miss Goody Two-shoes! At least I’ll have a good story to sell to Witch Weekly. ‘Insatiable war hero turns tricks like a hooker’.”

“Have you ever actually had hooker?” asked Hermione, curiously.

“As a matter of fact—”

“It’s a sure sign of lying when someone says ‘As a matter of fact’—”

“As a matter of fact, Granger, I have. On my sixteenth birthday, courtesy of my father. One thousand Galleons-worth of very high class hooker, to be precise. Or so he claimed.”

Hermione’s hand, which had been hesitating over his soft penis, suddenly made up its mind. “One thousand Galleons?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, in a slightly strangled falsetto. “And—and—oh, shit—oh, Granger—oh, oh, fuck. Ing. HELL...”

“Was the hooker worth all that money?”

Draco took a deep breath, and let it out slowly before he replied, at closer to his normal pitch, “Nah. Father was—ripped off. She did know—how to go slow, though...”

Hermione curled her fist around his sturdy shaft. “Well, if you want me to learn that,” she said, “you’ll have to let me practise. God, your... Your penis is so... So...” She leaned in, and kissed it, murmuring against its hardness: “Mmmm, it’s lovely... What do you call it, Draco? Hm? Your cock? Your dick? Your prick? Your beef bayonet?” She raised her head. “That’s a popular term amongst the armed forces, I believe—your rod? Your pole... Your knob... Your—wait! I know the perfect name for it! Your middle leg.” She licked it from root to tip, almost finishing him off with a quick, wet, suck. “You’re a well-endowed man, Draco Malfoy. ”

“And you’re a minx! And we,” he added, “are way past ‘getting to know each other’ now. We’re ready to ‘take things further’.”

Hermione sat back on her heels, suddenly serious. “Are you sure?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well...”

“Why not?”

“The truth?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Hermione settled herself more comfortably. “I love you—I’ve no doubts about that, Draco. But sometimes, when I look at you, I see the boy who wanted Buckbeak killed...”

Draco nodded, and replied, very quietly, “I’m not that person any more, Granger.”

She could see that she’d hurt him terribly—and, dear God, how she wanted to believe him! But that was only half of the problem. “I’m still the person who tried to stop you, Draco.”

“I know we were on different sides. And I thank Merlin for it.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It was hard for you Granger, I know that, but at least you knew you were on the right side. I...” He brought his hand to his face, and covered his eyes. “I followed my father, and served a madman. I saw things... I did things....” He sighed. “And, when it was over, I got off scot-free—the Wizengamot ruled that I was too young to be held accountable; the Committee for Rebuilding granted me a potions licence... People buy from me, sell to me, work for me... And I’m good at what I do.” He lifted his hand, and looked up at her. “You grow up. Life changes you. It’s like a kind of alchemy—”

Hermione could bear it no longer. She leaned down, and kissed him, letting him feel just how much she loved him, and wanted to be with him.

When, at last, she pulled away, Draco drew her back again and, slowly and thoroughly, returned the kiss.

“Wow,” she said, softly. Then she grinned. “Can we have some more fantastic sex now?”

“That depends,” said Draco, pretending to think about it. “How much do you charge?”

“A thousand Galleons a night,” she replied, without missing a beat. “But breakfast is included.”

THE END