|
—I—
It starts with a look.
Hermione’s standing in the Foyer of the Ministry of Magic,
waiting impatiently for the lift, and—when the doors open
at last—she finds herself face to face with Draco Malfoy.
Their eyes meet, and she’s speared through the vitals by
something hot and sharp.
Afterwards, she spends hours—many, many hours—eyes
closed, trying to recapture and analyse that feeling, trying to
put a name to it.
Is it fear?
No.
Is it hatred?
No.
Could it be...
Merlin, she thinks, could it really be desire?
...
Following that first encounter, Malfoy seems to be everywhere—in
the Foyer, in the Dining Hall, striding down the corridors—his
pale grey eyes fixed on her, his face wearing that harsh, sneering
mask he’d so often affected at school.
After weeks of torture, Hermione cracks, and goes to Harry. “What’s
Draco Malfoy doing here?”
“Depends who you ask,” he says, leaning closer and
speaking more quietly. “I had heard rumours that he
was doing something,”—he taps the side of his nose—“hush-hush
for Kingsley.”
“You mean undercover work?”
Harry nods. “But when I dropped a few hints to Robards,
he said that Malfoy was just here to have counselling as
part of his rehabilitation. Ron, of course, thinks that Malfoy’s
back to his old Death Eater tricks, and they’re using Legilimency
to suck his brain dry before they spring the trap and lock him
up in Azkaban for good.”
“Ronald would think that,” says Hermione, smiling
fondly. “Still... Whatever Draco’s doing, he’s
being very conspicuous about it.”
“Is he? I hadn’t really noticed.”
...
Matters come to a head late one Friday afternoon.
Hermione’s sitting at her desk, making a few last minute
improvements to her report on werewolf welfare, when she suddenly
realises that someone’s knocking at the door.
“Come in.”
The office door opens, and the object of far too many of her
thoughts and speculations steps inside.
“Malfoy... What can I do for you?”
He closes the door, and turns to face her—tall, and rather
intimidating. “How are you?”
How am I? Hermione shrugs. “I... Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good. And your parents?”
Parents? “They’re still happy in Australia.”
He nods, though Hermione isn’t sure he’s even heard
her reply. “And your work,” he says, “is it going
well?”
“Malfoy... I am quite busy. Was there something you
wanted?”
He begins to pace. “You’re not romantic, any more than
I am...” He clears his throat, and starts again. “The
fact is, Granger, I’ve tried to ignore you, tried telling
myself that you’re beneath me, tried making myself remember
that even to consider tainting a centuries old bloodline
is grounds for committal, but none of it has worked. I find myself...”
He sighs. “Wherever I look, Granger, you’re there, with
your hair, and your eyes, and that smile of yours; and, when you’re
not there, you’re filling my head, like sunshine—”
“Draco,” she begins, panic squeezing her heart—
“I’ll suffer for this, Granger. My friends will shun
me—Astoria Greengrass will probably sue me for breach of
promise—and my father will cut me off without a sickle, but
I can’t help myself—just say that you’ll marry
me.”
...
Later, she pleads illness and goes home early.
Her refusal had devastated him, but he hadn’t lashed out
at her, as she’d half-feared he would. Instead, he’d
muttered a few bitter words, mostly aimed at himself and his own
foolishness, and then, with a curt “Goodbye,” he’d
left.
...
—II—
Draco dons his mask, and lifts the hood of his cloak, taking
care to hide his long, pale hair. Every member of the Circle knows
exactly who the other members are, but at the meetings—especially
during the ritual itself—it’s best to remain anonymous.
He opens the small box, takes out the Ring of Fidelity, and
slides it onto his finger, feeling a deep pang of misery as a
certain face appears, unbidden, before his eyes and, with the
vision, comes a welter of raw emotions that almost overwhelms
him.
He swallows hard, and concentrates, carefully repairing his
mental defences.
Now is not the time to let anyone get inside his head.
...
—III—
It’s been weeks—six weeks, two days, fourteen hours
and thirty minutes, to be precise—since the events of ‘Dark
Friday’ and, although Hermione hasn’t seen Malfoy once
in all that time, she’s still scurrying through the Foyer
of the Ministry like a startled rabbit, still anxiously scanning
the crowds for a tall, blond wizard, still praying that the lift
will come quickly, and carry her away to safety.
Today—Thank Merlin—when the doors open, the
lift is empty.
Hermione steps inside with about a dozen other witches and wizards,
none of whom she recognises, and is just about to breathe a sigh
of relief, when—“Hold the doors!”—he
strides in, forcing everyone else to draw back and make room for
him.
Hermione isn’t sure whether he’s seen her, squeezed
between an elderly witch and some obscure wizard in a dark cloak
but, from the way he’s keeping his elegant back to her, she
suspects that he has.
She stares at his head, noticing the way his hair curls slightly,
where it brushes his shoulders...
Of course, she’d been right to refuse him; she knows that.
How could she possibly live with an insufferable prat who’d
prefaced his proposal with ‘You’re beneath me, Granger’?
Physical attraction—if that was what she’d been
feeling beforehand—was no basis for a long-lasting relationship.
No basis for marriage.
She’d done the right thing; she knows that.
So why, she wonders, does everything feel so broken?
She sighs, more loudly than she’d intended, and the elderly
witch on her right gives her a sympathetic smile.
Hermione smiles back.
But the wizard on her left is mumbling something under his breath,
and Hermione wonders whether she’s offended him. Maybe
he’s one of those people, she thinks, who believes
that showing any sort of emotion in public’s the ultimate
in bad manners...
She takes a deep, centring breath, holds it, and releases it
slowly (and silently) and, surprisingly, it seems to work—a
sense of optimism comes over her, and everything seems to shift
into perspective, making all her worries pale into insignificance.
The only thing that still seems important—essential, in
fact—is to find out exactly what Draco’s doing.
What if he really is consorting with other Death Eaters?
she thinks, her eyes glued to a gorgeous little curl at the nape
of his neck. Maybe if I were to apologise to him, admit that
I was too hasty turning him down, and butter him up a bit... Maybe
I could get him to talk—get him to give something away...
When the lift stops at her own floor, and several people get
out, Hermione stays where she is; three floors later, when Malfoy
steps into the corridor, she follows him.
He stops immediately and, still with his back to her, asks, “What
do you want, Granger?”
“To apologise.”
He turns, scowling. “What?”
It’s hard to tell how well her plan will work—Draco’s
eyes have hardened, and his mouth’s twisted into a sneer—and
Hermione feels a sudden pang, which might be conscience. “Would
you like a cup of tea?” she asks. “I have some Earl
Grey in my off—”
“Have you gone mad, Granger?”
“No...”
“Then perhaps you’ve lost your memory?”
“I... I don’t think so...”
“You’re cold and arrogant,” he recites,
hoarsely. “Remember that, Granger? Hmm? The only thing
you have to offer a wife is money. Remember that? Oh,
and let me see, yes: Nothing—nothing—you could
say or do would ever induce me to marry you.”
Hermione swallows hard.
He’s more upset than she’d expected, but something
tells her she can still talk him round.
“I was harsh,” she says, “but you had insulted
me, Draco, with all that talk of my inferior blood, and... And
you were always insulting me, at Hogwarts, mocking my hair, and
my teeth, and calling me names—vile names. You even
wished me dead—”
“I didn’t mean that, you silly woman! I saved
you!” He moves suddenly, backing her into the wall. “I
stuck my neck out for you, Granger! I saved you at the Quidditch
World Cup, and I risked my fucking life, pretending that I didn’t
know you and those bloody chuckle brothers—”
“Draco—”
He cuts her off with a sweep of his hand. “You hate
me. You’ve made that perfectly clear. So, just take your
bloody tea, and,”—his expression changes, and Hermione
glimpses a moment of pain before the sneer returns—“go
and fuck yourself.”
He turns his back on her, and marches away.
...
Hermione slides down the wall, and settles in a heap on the floor.
She’s not sure what’s just happened.
For some reason, she’d thought it would be easy to talk
him round, but she can see now that the idea had been stupid—though
a little voice in her head keeps telling her that Draco’s
angry because he still wants her and that, if she persists, she
can still have him.
Have him.
That’s another strange thing.
When she thinks about Draco—really makes an effort, and
thinks about him—she knows that he’s spoiled,
self-centred, bigoted, often casually cruel—perhaps even
genuinely evil—and she knows that she doesn’t
like him.
And yet...
Admit it, says the little voice. You fancy him. You’ve
always fancied him. He’s beautiful and he’s bad, and
that intrigues you.
She presses her cheek against the cool marble of the wall and,
suddenly, her mind’s filled with Draco—Draco, crushing
her in his arms; Draco, kissing her with that sneering mouth;
Draco, thrusting hard—
Oh, Merlin, NO! She squeezes herself up tight. Where
did that come from?
“Granger?”
Hermione opens her eyes.
Malfoy’s standing over her, frowning. “What the fuck
are you doing on the floor?”
He reaches down and, grasping her chin, he tilts her head, and
peers into her eyes. “How long have you been like this?”
he demands.
“Like... Like what?”
What does he mean? Does he know what she’s just imagined
him doing to her? Is he using Legilimency on her? She tries to
jerk herself free, to turn away and hide from him, but his grip’s
too strong.
“That look in your eyes...” he says.
He releases her, but he’s still bending over her and, suddenly,
she sees her chance and, urged on by the little voice, she seizes
it, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him fiercely.
“Take me, Draco,” she whispers against his lips. “Please,
take me.”
“Fucking hell!” He pulls away.
“No!” She drags him back. “Please, Draco!”
She feels his resistance weaken—she knows he’s got
an erection—and she thinks she has him, but then he grabs
her wrists and, wrenching her arms apart, he shoves her away.
“Get your bloody hands off me,” he says.
...
—IV—
“You can’t ask me—”
“Those are your orders, Mr Malfoy.”
...
—V—
Hermione’s not sure how long she’s been sitting in
the corridor, waiting for Draco.
Several people have tried to help her—wanted to get her
to her feet, escort her back to her office, send for Harry—but
she’s politely refused all assistance.
She lifts her hand to her lips. Her fingertips can still feel
Draco’s erection, hard and vital. She smiles. She’s
more determined than ever to seduce him.
And to find out what he’s doing.
“Granger...”
She jerks her head up.
“We need to get you sorted,” he says, crouching down
beside her. “Let’s go to my place.”
...
He Apparates them to his home, so she arrives like a bride, cradled
in his arms, and she scarcely has time to register the fact that
his ‘place’ isn’t Malfoy Manor before he’s
carrying her up the twisting staircase, muttering, “The real
irony of all this, Granger, is that I’ve never stopped bloody
wanting you.”
Hermione snuggles against his shoulder. “And I want you
too, Draco.”
“You said I disgusted you.” He carries her down the
oak-panelled passageway, and through a door.
“I... I must have been lying.”
The room’s lovely, with its dark wood and its dusky pink
damask—In my Lady’s chamber, she thinks, as Draco
manoeuvres her round the antique furniture, upstairs and downstairs...
He lays her on the bed, and she feels the mattress give as he
climbs on beside her, and straddles her hips. And she doesn’t
need the little voice’s prompting to reach for his fly and
fumble the buttons open, slip her hand inside, and stroke him.
He’s already rock-hard, and certainly doesn’t need
any help, but he seems to like what she’s doing, because
he growls and, sliding his hands under her, he lifts her up in
his arms.
“Tell me you’re absolutely sure you want this,”
he says.
“Yes,” she sighs, laying her head on his shoulder,
because his sheer vitality’s making her feel like a rag doll.
“Take me, Draco. Please.”
“Just remember, afterwards, that you asked for it.”
One of his hands moves, and she hears him cast an unfamiliar
spell that makes her pussy heat up and throb with anticipation,
and she moans against his throat, closing her eyes and reaching
down, trying to ease herself—
“Ready?” he murmurs.
“Oh, yes.”
“Guide me.”
She grasps him and, when she has him where she needs him, she
whispers, “There,” and he enters her with a single,
powerful thrust.
“Draco!” she cries.
He isn’t gentle.
He’s strong, and fiercely demanding, pounding into her until
she thinks her limbs will combust and her hair ignite.
And when she comes, she’s howling like a she-wolf.
It’s perfect.
...
—VI—
Draco takes up a handful of Floo powder and, casting it into
the flames, calls his superior.
“It’s done.”
“Then you know what to do next.”
“It’s too risky. Anything could happen—”
“Do I need to remind you, Mr Malfoy, how precarious your
position is?”
Draco sighs. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, you don’t,” —he draws out the pause
as long as he dares—“sir.”
...
—VII—
Hermione wakes with a start.
She’s alone, lying in an antique four-poster bed, and it
takes her a moment to work out exactly where she is, and why.
Draco...
You’ve seduced him, says the little voice in her
head. But you still have to get him talking...
Yes, she thinks. I do. But where is he?
She throws back the bedclothes, and climbs out of bed.
She’s naked—and has some rather interesting bruises
around her waist and on her hips—but she finds an exquisite
silken dressing robe lying on the bedside chair, and puts it on,
and pads over to the window.
There’s a bowl of huge pink cabbage roses sitting on the
sill, scenting the air with sweetness, and something about their
fragrance seems to fill her with regret...
She peers through the ancient, diamond-leaded glass.
Draco’s house is a rambling, half-timbered mansion with
a crooked, slate-tiled roof, draped in ivy and in mauve wisteria.
Oh, she thinks, it’s delightful! From the architecture
surrounding it, she guesses it’s hidden somewhere in Muggle
Bloomsbury, concealed from the occupants of the Georgian terraces
by strong Disillusionment charms.
She decides it’s time to search for Draco, and turns back
into the room. There are three oaken doors to choose from and,
feeling rather like Alice in Wonderland, she opens the first.
It connects to another bedroom; she steps inside.
This chamber’s masculine, its furnishings heavier, its dominant
colour a dark, ivy green.
Draco’s room.
“Separate bedrooms for husband and wife,” she murmurs,
wondering whether that’s the normal pure-blood practice.
“Perhaps the wife’s allowed to decide when she wants
her husband’s attentions.” She sits down on the bed.
“But wouldn’t you rather sleep with your wife,
Draco? Wake up beside her—”
“What are you doing in here?”
Hermione gasps; Draco’s standing in the doorway, and her
heart flutters at the sight of him—he’s so tall and,
though his impeccably tailored suit hides it, she knows his body’s
hard, and muscular. “I was looking for you,”
she says, holding out her arms.
“I would,” he sighs, sitting down beside her.
“Want to sleep with my wife, that is. But you and I are not
married.” He avoids her grasping hands. “Don’t
look at me like that, Granger.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.” He sighs again. “Why
couldn’t you have looked at me like that before?”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t, do you?” He turns towards her.
“And, I have to say, I’m disappointed. I really thought
that you were stronger than this.”
Hermione frowns. “Stronger than what?”
“You hate me, Granger, and yet—”
“No, I don—”
“Shhhhhh.” At last, he takes her in his arms,
and holds her against his chest. “If anyone had told me,”
he says, and she feels him press his lips to the top of her head,
“that I’d feel like this—that I wouldn’t leap
at the chance to have sex with you, Granger—I’d have
called him a liar. Well, the joke’s on me. Because it doesn’t
matter what I want. I have my orders.”
Hermione almost laughs. She has the strangest feeling—that
if she were a Kneazle, her ears would be pricking—because
she knows that this is what she’s been waiting for. And,
right on cue, the little voice prompts her: “What orders,
Draco?” she asks, as innocently as she can.
She hears him chuckle, but it’s not a happy sound. Then
he says, “Once more, Granger. Just let me make love to you
once more, and then I’ll tell you everything.”
...
—VIII—
“I’ve told her,” says Draco. He knows he couldn’t
keep the anger from his voice even if he cared enough to try.
“These scruples are dangerous, Mr Malfoy!” His superior’s
face is distorted by the flames, but there’s no mistaking
his irritation. “Have you forgotten that it was you who asked
me for this deal? And you swore to me that you would be equal
to the task, whatever it might entail—”
“I was! I am! But she—”
“She is a valuable asset, Mr Malfoy. A gift from Merlin.
And, if you proceed as planned—”
Draco grabs a handful of ash and hurls it into the fire, dowsing
the flames and breaking the Floo connection.
Then, with a furious swipe, he shoves over the fire irons,
upturns the coal scuttle and, scrambling to his feet, sweeps the
delftware from the mantle piece; he rips the tapestries from the
walls, overturns the china cabinet, and throws a chair into the
fire... And he doesn’t stop his orgy of destruction until
his knuckles are torn open, and his blood’s dripping on the
floor.
...
—IX—
“How’s your day been?” he asks.
“My day? Nothing special.” Hermione looks up
from her work.
Draco’s entered her office without knocking, and her mind’s
still deep in the intricacies of werewolf lore but, the moment
she sees him, in his immaculate black suit and his black silk
shirt, and with his pale hair hanging loose about his shoulders,
all that’s forgotten.
She sets down her quill and, rising from her desk, she goes to
him, smiling.
She knows that since the first wonderful time he made
love to her, her feelings have changed radically, and that—whereas
before she’d thought him arrogant, cold and cruel—now
she can see that he’s sensitive, loving, and loyal. And though
she does, occasionally, wonder how she could have been so wrong
about him, the little voice keeps telling her to trust her instincts,
to follow her heart, and to forget everything but the joy he gives
her whenever they’re in bed together.
She smiles up at Draco, and he gathers her into his arms, and
holds her close, and she snuggles, enjoying the feel of his steel-hard
muscles almost biting into her softer flesh—it’s
as though Draco doesn’t quite know his own strength, and
it excites her.
No other man has ever made her body come alive the way he
does.
“Any strange encounters?” he asks.
Hermione inhales the wonderful scent of him. “No...”
“I see....” He sighs. “Are you ready to come home?”
“Home,” she repeats, liking the feel of the word in
her mouth. “Yes.” Her smile broadens. “Yes, Draco.
I’m ready to come home.”
...
He Apparates them back to the house and, whilst Hermione changes
into something more comfortable, he arranges dinner. They eat
outside, in the courtyard, sitting beneath the wisteria and, afterwards,
they linger in the twilight, talking, until they’re forced
to light the candles, which glitter like stars against the darkness
of the house. And Hermione doesn’t think it’s possible
for a woman to be any happier, until Draco declares that it’s
time for bed, and carries her upstairs, to the Rose Room.
She wraps her arms around his neck, and kisses him hungrily.
“Granger,” he murmurs, unlacing her robes, “have
you always been this passionate, or is it just him?”
The sadness in his voice surprises her, and she pulls away from
him, frowning. She knows he’s said something very strange.
“Him? Who do you mean, Draco?”
“Me,” he says, quickly. “I mean me. Is
it just me?” He slides the silken fabric off her shoulders.
Hermione considers the question seriously. “Yes,” she
says, watching him lean in and nuzzle her breasts. “It’s
you Draco,”—she cradles his head against her chest—“it’s
just you.”
...
He makes love to her gently, leading her by the hand to a calm
and sighing climax, and—though Hermione usually prefers it
fast and rough—tonight, after the evening they’ve
just spent together, she can’t imagine anything more wonderful.
...
Later, she wakes and reaches for Draco, but he isn’t there,
and his pillow’s cold.
She gets up, and looks in the Ivy Room, but that bed hasn’t
been slept in.
What is he doing?
She wraps herself in her shawl, steps out into the passageway
and, hearing quiet voices, she goes downstairs, following the
sounds until they bring her to the Aster Room.
She pushes the door open.
Draco’s crouching in the hearth, talking to someone over
the Floo connection.
Hermione moves closer, hoping to find out who the other person
is, and steps on something sharp. “Ow!”
Draco turns, yelling, “Mind your feet,” and Hermione
gets the briefest glimpse of a familiar twisted face before the
man in the fireplace takes flight.
“Oh, Granger!” Draco’s up, and coming towards
her, crunching over broken glass and potsherds. “You’ve
cut yourself...” He scoops her into his arms.
“That was Antonin Dolohov, wasn’t it?” she demands,
as he carries her back upstairs. “You know where he’s
hiding, don’t you?”
“Granger—”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Draco? You said you were telling
me everything, but you never mentioned you were hiding a war criminal!
What if the Ministry finds out? Draco?”
He doesn’t reply, and he looks so hurt—and the
little voice tells her that she shouldn’t press him any further...
In the Rose Room he sits her in a chair and, bringing a candle
closer, he carefully lifts her foot onto his lap. He uses a delicate
Summoning Charm to draw out the splinters of glass, and then Scourgifies
the wound—“This will hurt,” he says, “but
it’s thorough,”—before he heals the cut. “Can
you walk on it?”
Hermione stands, cautiously. “You haven’t answered
my questions, Draco.”
She takes a few tentative steps, and she doesn’t notice
how he’s positioned himself behind her, nor how he’s
raised his wand, and she doesn’t hear him mutter the word,
“Obliviate.”
She gathers her shawl around her, and wonders what she’s
doing out of bed.
...
—X—
Draco waits.
When he’s sure that she’s fast asleep, he lifts
his wand from the bedside table and, gently touching its tip to
Granger’s temple, he mutters the spell his superior taught
him, and draws out a long, silver strand that’s not quite
liquid, and not quite gas.
He drops the substance into an empty drinking glass and, taking
care not to wake Granger, he climbs out of bed, and leaves the
bedroom.
...
He removes the Locking Charms from the cabinet, lifts out
the pensieve, and sets it on the table.
Granger’s memory sparkles in the candlelight, and something
makes him hesitate for a moment or two before he remembers why
he’s doing what he’s doing, pours it into the bowl,
and plunges his face into it, feeling the familiar sensation of
being lifted off his feet, and pulled downwards...
The edges of the memory are ragged and, here and there, there
are smooth, white, empty patches, the result of his Obliviation
Spell.
He watches Granger having breakfast with him (and can’t
help noticing how comfortable they seem together); he follows
her to a meeting with her colleagues, and to lunch with Potter
and the Weasley girl; and he’s just about to leave her, consulting
a pile of dusty records in the Ministry Archive, when he sees
the lift doors open, and a cloaked wizard emerge.
The man flits silently towards Granger, approaching her like
a panther stalking its prey. He draws level and, concealing himself
behind a book stack, he peers between the shelves, staring intently
at the back of Granger’s bushy head.
Draco sees Granger close her eyes and raise her hand to her
forehead, slumping forward slightly, as though in pain...
...
—XI—
“How’s your day been?”
Hermione looks up, smiling. “You ask me that every day.”
“Well, I’m interested.”
“Why?” She doesn’t mind telling him—she enjoys
discussing her work, and she likes to please him—but
the little voice is whispering, telling her that she should
be finding out what he’s been doing.
Draco perches on the edge of her desk, and folds his arms. “Any
strange encounters?”
He’s irresistible. She sets down her quill, and stands up
and, when he gathers her into his arms, she lays her head on his
shoulder, where it fits, just perfectly. “As it happens,”
she says, “yes, I think I did. In the lift.”
“Tell me.”
“Aren’t we going home?” She nuzzles his ear, because
she knows how much he likes it and, at the same time, she slips
her hand between his thighs.
Draco catches her wrist, and gently pulls her hand away. “Tell
me first.”
She frowns. The little voice is panicking, telling her to lie
to him, but Hermione can’t quite bring herself to do that.
“I... Well, actually, I’m not really sure...”
He leans back, and looks into her eyes. “Tell me.”
“It was just a wizard,” she says, “mumbling to
himself.”
“Casting a spell?”
“I don’t think so...” She looks away. Suddenly,
her head is splitting.
Draco gathers her against his chest and—as if he knows she’s
in pain—he gently strokes her neck, soothing away the tension.
“Did you speak to him?”
“No.”
“All right,” he says, and the headache melts away.
“We’ll go home.”
...
“What’s this?” she asks, taking a sip of wine.
“A one hundred and fifty-year old claret,” he says,
pouring himself a glass. “Comet vintage.”
“It tastes strange.”
“It’s what’s known as ‘an exceptional wine’,
Granger. You’ll get used to them.”
“No, it’s... It’s hot,” she says.
“Like chilli.” She takes another sip. “It makes
your lips tingle. It’s nice...” Very carefully, she
sets her glass down on the table—she’s not sure she’ll
ever get used to dining off monogrammed Worcester porcelain, or
drinking from crystal goblets. “What are we celebrating,
Draco?”
He smiles one of his rare genuine smiles. “I’ve made
a decision,” he says.
She waits, but he doesn’t elaborate. “And,”
she prompts. “What have you decided?”
“It’s a secret. For now.” He rises from the table
and, taking her by the hand, he leads her, across the courtyard,
to the bower where they like to sit and talk.
“An auspicious sky,” he says, looking up at the stars.
Hermione follows his gaze, and can’t help wondering about
the Muggle terraces that loom over them on all sides. “How
do you keep the house so well-hidden?” she asks.
Draco takes her hand. “With very ancient magic, Granger.
Junius Malfoy, who built it, performed certain—er—rites
that make the house invisible to anyone who isn’t a Malfoy.”
Hermione had been about to ask how many Muggles had died in those
‘rites’, but his final word diverts her attention. “Then
why can I see it?”
“Because I want you here. I want you safe.”
“So you’ve—what?—granted me permission to
see it?”
“In a manner of speaking. Now...”
He draws her into his arms, and kisses her.
And Hermione feels a strange sensation, down in that elusive
place, deep in her vitals, that seems to have been made just for
him to reach—something much more than the usual empty
ache—something warm and tingling, “Like chilli,”
she murmurs.
“Shhhhhhh,” he whispers, softly. “I know...”
His kisses grow harder and more passionate but, though her body’s
crying out for him, the need itself’s delicious, and Hermione
pulls away from him, freeing herself from his arms.
Draco watches her curiously.
She grasps his beautiful jacket by its perfect lapels, slides
it off his shoulders, and down his arms, marvelling at just how
sexy such stiff and formal clothing can be.
Draco grins—maybe he’s reading her mind.
Hermione grins back, deftly untying his tie and pulling it off
and, all the while, her desire’s growing, burning her up
inside, but she forces herself to slow down, undoing his shirt
buttons one by one, and gradually revealing his pale, muscular
chest.
And Draco, who’s usually so masterful, seems to be enjoying
letting her take the lead, enjoying letting her tease him.
Hermione lets his shirt fall to the ground and, still going slowly,
though she’s desperate to feel him plunge himself inside
her, she works her way down his chest, tormenting him with whisper-soft
kisses, imagining how his body must be burning, just like
hers.
She reaches the waistband of his trousers, moves lower, and nuzzles
his erection through the soft fabric.
“Granger...” His voice is husky. He grasps her head,
threading his fingers into her hair, and holds her close.
She rubs her cheek against his hard flesh.
His other hand moves to his fly, and he unfastens his buttons
and, working the fabric aside, frees himself.
Hermione’s seen him before—touched him, held him, felt
him deep inside her—but, still, she gasps.
Draco applies the tiniest amount of pressure with the hand that’s
holding her head, and gently encourages her to use her mouth.
In the two weeks they’ve been together, it’s the first
time he’s asked her to pleasure him like this—until
now, he’s always been the one in charge, and he’s
always made it about her—and Hermione sees this as
a step forward in their relationship—a step towards equality—and
she sucks him eagerly, bobbing her head, loving the feel of him,
hard yet velvety, and the taste of him, and the way her attention’s
making his cock grow stiffer, and more erect, until it’s
so...
It’s so...
Until she wants his cock more than she’s ever wanted anything
in her life; until she’s begging for it.
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