The bar of the Leaky Cauldron

“What do you want, Granger?”

Malfoy’s greeting’s hardly an invitation, but Hermione sits down anyway. In her mind, she’s automatically correcting her name to Weasley—though, fortunately, she doesn’t say it out loud.

Wouldn’t that be ironic?

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asks.

“Do what?” His surprise is genuine.

“A Firewhisky,” she explains.

“All right,” he says, at last.

She waves to Hannah Abbott, and the landlady levitates the tray of drinks Hermione’s already ordered, and delivers it to their table.

Malfoy picks up his glass and raises it in a mock toast. “To you, Granger,” he says, and takes a healthy swig. “So,”—he looks at her curiously—“what do you want?”

Malfoy’s never been conventionally handsome—not like, say, Cormac McLaggen—but he’s always had that special something that marks out a man with a strong sex drive. A man, Hermione thinks, who’s only interested in real women—women who are sensual and uninhibited...

Sexy women.

She hesitates.

To be honest, she hasn’t planned this part, and that’s not like her. But she’d been too upset, too emotional, to think of much beyond finding Malfoy, the well-known philanderer, a man she hasn’t seen in years, and persuading him to have a drink with her.

And then...

She decides to tell him a partial truth: “I want to find out what I’m missing.”

She says it so lightly, so candidly, only the fact that she’s blushing like a virgin on her wedding night must make it clear what she means, and it’s obvious that Malfoy can’t quite believe it. “So,” he says, “you’re asking me to...?”

“You have a reputation,” she replies.

“For shagging anything in a skirt. Yes. But reporters make things up, Granger. You know that. To sell papers.” He knocks back the rest of his Firewhisky—“Thanks for the drink, though,”—and he goes to stand up.

Hermione grabs his wrist. She knows that not all of the stories are false; she works with one of his conquests. “Why won’t you?”

He shakes off her hand. “You’re married.”

“Most of your—your women are married, too.”

“Not like you are, Granger.” He nods her a curt goodbye, and turns to leave.

“Is it because I’m a Mudblood?”

He stops dead; turns back. He’s angry. She’s hit a raw nerve. “What?”

“Is it that you won’t have sex with a Mudblood?” She lifts her chin, and her eyes meet his defiantly.

For a long moment, the busy Leaky Cauldron seems empty; Hermione’s aware of nothing but her and Malfoy, and the sudden sexual tension that’s started drawing them together, like a rope...

Then, “Hannah,” he calls, over the hubbub, “I’ll use my room, please.” A key rises from its hook behind the bar, sails over the sea of heads, and lands lightly in his waiting hand.

Malfoy still hasn’t taken his eyes off Hermione. “You’d better not back out of this, Granger,” he warns.

...

‘Malfoy’s room’ is opulent.

The huge, canopied bed is hung with green silk damask and covered with thick, silvery furs. To the right, an antique sideboard is well-stocked with various Firewhiskys, brandies, and a magnum of champagne in a silver cooler. To the right, a tall, black, Indian cabinet, painted with tiny figures that, on closer inspection, seem to be enacting positions from the Karma Sutra, stands with its doors slightly ajar. Beside the crackling fire, an ancient, adult-sized rocking horse hints at more whimsical pleasures.

Hermione presumes that Hannah’s let Malfoy furnish the room himself.

She sits down on the edge of the bed.

She won’t back out—that’s not in her nature, once she’s decided on a course of action—but she can’t help feeling guilty at the thought of breaking her marriage vows.

“He’s a fool,” says Malfoy, and Hermione wonders if he’s using Legilimency on her. “She can’t hold a candle to you, Granger.”

She watches him remove his tie pin. “Does everyone know about them?” she asks.

“It’s not common gossip.” His cuff links join the tie pin on the sideboard. “But I can’t be the only one who’s noticed the way two people who used to be close colleagues are suddenly pretending they hardly know each other.”

Hermione chews her lip. The feeling of betrayal’s almost unendurable.

Malfoy removes his wedding ring. Then he draws his wand from his sleeve and sets it down next to his jewellery.

“Last chance to say no,” he says, briskly. He’s looming over her now, and there’s a hint of—of—of dominance about him that has nothing to do with real life, and everything to do with the roles they’re going to play in the sex they’re about to have. Hermione’s never felt anything quite like it before, and she finds it disturbingly exciting.

“No,” she says, breathlessly. “I mean, no, I want this.”

He holds out his hands, she takes them, and he raises her to her feet.

He could undress her with magic, of course, but Hermione can see that he enjoys doing it himself—his long, sensitive fingers linger on the buttons of her blouse, then caress aside the fabric, and ghost over her breasts, tracing her cleavage...

And, suddenly, this isn’t about Ron and revenge any more.

Suddenly, it’s about her, and what she wants—what she needs to learn about herself.

Suddenly, her head’s less important than her body.

She closes her eyes, and immerses herself in her other senses, surprised at how the mere brush of Malfoy’s fingertips can send a jolt of electricity through her body and make her vitals clench, can affect her so powerfully down there, that—that—that—oh god, she doesn’t even know how to describe these sensations, she just knows she’s grateful she’s feeling them, at last.

She opens her eyes and gazes up at him.

He’s too experienced not to recognise that most of this is new to her, but he doesn’t humiliate her by pointing out what a failure her marriage bed must be. “You’re a beautiful woman, Granger,” he murmurs, leaning in and nuzzling her neck, “and, Merlin knows, you deserve better;”—he cups her breasts—“you deserve silk,”—his teeth graze her skin,—“perfumes,”—his hands slide down to her waist and draw her closer—“furs...”

He lifts his head, and studies her face as though it’s a valuable objet d’art. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, Granger.”

Hermione’s innards melt and pool between her legs; it seems she’s always wanted to fuck him, too.

“Draco...” she croaks.

The next few moments are a blur of sensation—somehow, she’s lying on her back on the soft, fur coverlet. Malfoy’s arms are braced either side of her, his thighs are parting her legs, and his—his—his cock—oh, yes, his cock—is there, pushing inside her, filling her, and oh—ohhh—oh god, it feels good!

She reacts instinctively, doing things she’s never had the nerve—or the desire—to do before, wrapping her arms and her legs around him, pulling him into her, meeting his thrusts—so deep and hard.

And her body—her—her—her pussy—yes, her pussy—oh, her pussy was made for this!

How in Merlin’s name has she lived so long without it?

She hears someone moaning—sobbing—crying out—cursing—and she realises it’s her, and she can’t control the words that come tumbling from her mouth, nor the spasms that wrack her body; she moans and she writhes; it’s wonderful, but she knows she’s striving for something more...

And then she feels it—feels its promise, its precious, elusive promise—and she begs Malfoy—strains to reach it, begging him—and her last thought, before she dies, is that she’s filled with sex; she’s nothing but sex.

...

She comes round suddenly; she has no idea how long she’s been unconscious.

“I’d heard there were women who passed out when they had an orgasm,” says Malfoy. He’s summoned a damp sponge from somewhere and he’s sponging her forehead with it. “But I’ve never actually had one before.” He seems proud to have added her to his portfolio. “Better?” He reaches over, and tosses the sponge into a basin on the bedside cabinet.

Hermione knows he means more than ‘Have you recovered?’ He means, ‘Have you found what you were looking for?’

And she realises she’s made a mistake.

She’d thought that having sex with Malfoy would make things even with Ron, and that that would be an end to it. Instead, she finds that Malfoy’s love-making has not only shown her what’s been missing in her life, it’s also shown her how much she likes—no—no, not likes—how much she loves sex.

“That depends,” she answers him, truthfully, “on whether you’re willing to do this on a regular basis.”

Malfoy’s face is a picture, and it feels good to have shocked the Slytherin Sex God. “In fact,” Hermione continues, realising that she doesn’t want to have to wait, “can we do it again now?”

“It seems I’ve set you free,” says Malfoy.

“Yes,” says Hermione, “I think you have.”

He reaches down and, with a fingertip, brushes a lock of hair from her forehead. “And you’ve got seven years of pent-up frustration to release,” he says. “No wonder you passed out.” Then he takes her hand, raises it to his lips, and adds, very formally, “I shall be happy to service you whenever and wherever you require it, Granger.”

“Shall I set up a regular banker’s draft?”

He laughs, and Hermione realises it’s the first time she’s ever seen him genuinely amused—at school, his laughter had always been tainted by cruelty and contempt.

“Show me what you like,” she says, eagerly. “I want to know everything; I want to try it all;”—she waves her hand towards the little figures on the painted cabinet, endlessly making love—“all of those different ways.”

“We’d be here a long time.”

“I’m game.”

Malfoy smiles. “There’s no rush, Granger,” he says, leaning down and kissing her. “Not if we’re going to meet regularly. Merlin,”—kiss—“you’re a sexy woman...”

...

Malfoy’s room, seven days later

Hermione’s fingers bite into Malfoy’s shoulders. “Oh god,” she cries, “I’m there again!”

Moments earlier, he’d proved to her that the G-spot really did exist. Now they’re in her new favourite position—Malfoy’s kneeling, Hermione’s straddling his thighs—and he’s grasping her hips, pulling her onto his vigorous thrusts.

She’s going to come hard.

...

“Why do you do it?” she asks later, when they’re taking a brief rest, lying side-by-side on the bed. She knows she doesn’t need to explain she means, ‘Why do you feel the need to sleep with so many women?’ She’s found that she and Malfoy are always on the same page.

“I like sex,” he says, and she smiles at the understatement.

“How often do you need it?” She turns onto her side to look at him.

Malfoy sighs. “How long’s a piece of string?” he says. “I can survive on once a day, if I have to. I masturbate, of course, but...” He shrugs. “That’s just a stop-gap.”

“And what happens if you have to go without?”

“Is this research?”

“I’m just curious.”

“If I don’t get it,”—he turns to face her—“I’m like a Veela who can’t find its mate—I’m a danger to everyone—I’m on edge; I can’t focus; I have a permanent erection; my balls ache like rotten teeth. The slightest touch of my underwear’s unbearable.” He stretches out a hand, and strokes her tangled hair from her face. “I think I’m going to die. I get to the point where I have to do it—anywhere with anyone.” He sighs again. “I must get through a dozen secretaries a year.”

Hermione’s taken aback.

He sees her shock, and adds, “They leave me because they think they’re in love with me and I can’t return their feelings, Granger, not because I abuse them, or exploit them in any way. I’ve never had a woman who wasn’t one hundred per cent willing.”

“You must end up masturbating a lot,” she says, drily.

She’s surprised when he laughs. “You’re brilliant, Granger—you know that? No, you’d be surprised how many women throw themselves at me—make up some excuse to get me alone, and pounce—or they come to me shyly, like you did, and ask. It’s the advantage of having, as you put it, a reputation.”

“You give out all the right signals,” says Hermione. Then she frowns. “But you refused me, to start with.”

“We had a difficult history.”

“I’m so glad you changed your mind,” she says, and lets her eyes travel over his pale, lean body, admiring his long, graceful limbs packed with hard, well-defined muscle, and his cock, lying—soft, but swollen—on his thigh... She feels the newly-familiar tug of desire—god, how she wants to take him in her mouth, or smother him between her breasts, until he’s rock hard, and then fuck him!—but she lets herself savour it, wondering what it would be like to be married to a man like Malfoy, and have sex every day, several times a day.

It sounds like paradise.

“What about your wife?” she asks. “Does she enjoy it?”

“Astoria finds sex demeaning—she sleeps with me because she’s obliged to give me an heir; once she’s done that, her bedroom door will be locked. But it doesn’t matter,” he adds, without a trace of shame, “because I like variety, Granger. I like the feel of different bodies—the way a small woman makes me feel powerful, and a big woman can make me feel like a teenager again. I love coaxing shy women, and educating innocent women, and learning new tricks from experienced women. Every woman’s different, and I love all of them.” He looks up at her, thoughtfully. “You must be the only woman in the world a man could say this to, Hermione Know-it-all Granger. The human Remembrall.”

Hermione’s not at all sure she likes storing his confession.

But then he stretches up, and kisses her mouth, and his hand slips between her thighs, and things quickly lead to another round of strenuous love-making, and—later, when he’s drifted off to sleep, and she’s lying beside him, spent and deliciously satisfied, listening to his regular breathing—she realises she has something else to think about, because there’d been a tenderness to Malfoy’s kisses that had seemed...

Real.

...

Malfoy’s room, seven weeks later

“You wanted more than that, though, didn’t you?” he gasps, sliding from her damp body and settling beside her. Recently, they’ve discovered that Hermione likes to be dominated during sex. “No wonder Weasley left you—”

“I left him, Draco,” she interrupts, crisply. “And it was amicable, thank you. He’s moved in with her.”

“I just meant that you must have intimidated him, Granger.” With an effort, he pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down at her. “Suddenly, after all those years of lying back, thinking of Wizarding England, and letting him do whatever he wanted to you, you were howling, and passing out, and having multiple orgasms... You must have had him shitting it!” He reaches out and, very gently, begins drawing circles on her belly. “You’re getting to know your own body, Hermione Granger, and your body’s adventurous—Merlin, you’re even starting to intimidate me. And, the thing is... I can’t take you any further than this, Granger. Discipline’s not my thing. But I can introduce you to someone who’ll be happy to initiate you—if that’s what you want.”

“How do you know someone like that?” asks Hermione, fascinated by this sudden insight into male bonding.

Draco shrugs. “I’ve known him since we were all at Hogwarts.”

Hermione’s sincerely hoping it isn’t Goyle, when the full implications of Draco’s offer occur to her: “Do you want to be rid of me?”

“Rid of you? Whatever gave you that idea?” His hand comes up to stroke her cheek. “It’s just that I think you need to find out who you really are—find your ultimate limits—that’s all. Maybe you’ll discover that discipline’s a step too far, and come back to me. But I don’t think you’ll ever be truly happy until you’ve tried it.”

“You’re so—so—so matter of fact about sex,” says Hermione. Everything about the situation’s making her uncomfortable. “You’d think a man who needs it so much would be nothing but instinct, but you’re just the opposite. You’re cool and calculating. Sex is your career.”

Malfoy smiles.

“Do you still see other women, Draco?” She knows it’s a foolish question, but they’re meeting almost every day now, and spending hours together, and she realises that she’s been hoping...

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“That means ‘Yes.’”

“No, that means, ‘Does it matter?’”

Hermione lets her head sink back into the pillow. She tries to imagine Malfoy with another woman—imagine the other woman feeling him thrusting inside her...

And it hurts. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Oh, Granger...” Suddenly his arms are round her and he’s kissing her in that tender way he has with her when he’s at his least guarded, and her heart’s torn between joy and misery. “How did I ever let this happen?” he whispers.

“I don’t want to see another man,” says Hermione, miserably. “I only want you.”

“I can’t give you what you need, sweetheart.”

“I don’t care.”

“I can’t promise to be faithful.”

“I—I—I’ll have to live with that...”

“I care for you, Hermione. I do. You’re my equal—the only woman I’ve ever felt I’d be happy to live with, the only woman I can imagine growing old with. But you know what I’m like—I’m just not built to be faithful to one woman.”

Hermione panics. She can’t risk losing Malfoy, can’t risk going back to being the mousy little woman she used to be! Maybe if she does as he suggested? Maybe she can explore her need for domination, and outgrow it? “Who is he,” she asks, “this man you know?”

“Blaise.”

Blaise. Wrapped in Malfoy’s arms, with her head on his shoulder, Hermione closes her eyes and tries to visualise Blaise.

He’s handsome—yes, better looking than Draco, if she’s honest—and she doesn’t think it would be hard to have sex with him, if he were willing.

She conjures up an image of them together, and sees herself, naked, with her wrists chained above her head, and Blaise, standing behind her, holding a cane—

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices that there’s someone else in the room—

Blaise’s cane slices through the air and cuts into her arse like a knife, and she writhes; the pain is unbearable... Then relief follows in a marvellous, glowing wave, turning her sobs into a moan of pleasure and, proudly, she turns her head, wanting to see if the third person is watching her—

It’s Draco, of course. But he’s far too busy fucking another woman to spare a thought for her. Hermione sees his muscles ripple as he thrusts, sees the thick root of his cock disappear and reappear—

Blaise canes her again and she cries out, enduring the pain, and waiting for the pleasure—

Draco’s in a position that, Hermione knows from experience, will allow him last forever, and she can hear the faceless woman babbling, telling him—telling her Draco—that he’s the best—he’s the best ever—

“Aaagggh!” Hermione screams as Blaise brings the cane down again. Then the pleasure fills her, and she’s wet, and swollen, and throbbing and, with her hands chained, and with Blaise refusing to touch her, there’s no way to ease her need—

But she can watch Draco—her Draco—her glorious Draco—watch him fucking—

“Oh!” she cries and, on the brink of a fantasy-orgasm, she pushes Malfoy down onto the bed.

“Granger?”

“An Unbreakable Vow,” she gasps, trying desperately to impale herself upon him, “you and I—oh, god!”—Malfoy takes pity on her, and guides her onto his cock—“you and I, Draco,”—oh, he feels good!—“you and I would swear always to keep a part of our hearts exclusively for the other, and then we’d—we’d—we’d be free to seek variety, or to explore our other needs but, deep down, we’d always belong to each other.”

Malfoy grabs her hips, breaking her rhythm. “You’re playing with fire, Granger,” he growls, through clenched teeth. He holds her still for several long moments, until she’s sure he must have made a decision, but all he says is: “Ride me hard.”

She does.

It’s wonderful.

“All right,” he gasps, suddenly, “I’ll make it—your Unbreakable Vow—I’ll—I’ll—”

His voice is strangled, and Hermione’s surprised because, for the first time since they’ve been lovers, she can see that she’s made him lose it—that he’s coming too soon. She watches him, letting him do what he must, loving the look of sheer amazement that crosses his face as his climax possesses him—and she’s happy, because she knows she owed him that.

When his body relaxes, he lets out a sigh of profound satisfaction. Then, “Merlin’s balls, Granger,” he says, “one way or the other, you’ll be the death of me!”

THE END