Written by- The Weaver Atropos
You can find them here! - http://www.fanfiction.net/u/157845/
Two Shot
When Hermione Granger awakens in a stranger's home after a presumed one night stand, she is surprised to discover that what was was lacking in her life may have always been just a few steps away. DracoHermione.
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Part One
Praeclarus Solum
The Weaver Atropos
Time Span: 5.22.04 ((6:40p.m— 1:22 a.m)); 6.22.05 (( 7:00— 1:37 a.m))
Comments: Originally a one-shot, but problems with lengthcut it into two chapters. Draco and Hermione pairings, no warnings. Maybe a little fluff.
Praeclarus Solum
She was with him. She knew it. Even before hazel eyes blinked open and consciousness edged into the young woman’s body, she was well aware that she was not alone. But it was a welcome feeling of company she felt; there was no feeling of intrusion, no discomfort—no regrets. Just warmth. Deep, smooth warmth that encompassed her entire being.
And then, the body shifted—minimally—and the warmth was gone. Vague realization seeped into her mind as the last bits of sleep were roughly teased from her and replaced by quick alertness.
He was gone!
Bringing satin sheets up quickly to cover her bosom, the young woman sat up abruptly, desperation tightening in her chest as chocolate eyes frantically scanned a room that—for all the world—seemed to her foreign and unforgiving. Emotions surging painfully within her, she fell back against the satin sheets, tears gathering involuntarily in her eyes.
What was she supposed to do? Did he expect her to leave?
Hermione very hesitantly sat up, bringing her right arm to wipe roughly at her eyes, and made to stand. The moment her feet alighted on the floor, however, and she pushed her full weight atop her feet, she drew in a sharp, pained breath and fell back down against bed. Blinking a bit to herself, and wondering exactly what was wrong with her body, Hermione glanced down and nearly screamed at what she found there.
Taking a steadying breath, the young woman shifted minutely and looked over her shoulder. She frowned. There, although the sheets were an obsolete black, she could very clearly make out a deep, dark red stain in the middle of the bed. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes. She tried to remember exactly what Lavender had said to do in that type of situation.
After nearly seven years of dorming with the blonde girl, Hermione had picked up on various conversations between her two other roommates…namely on conversations centered about boys—and, namely, on the many things one could do with them. They hadn’t ever, to her memory, however, mentioned what to do after you unwittingly had a one-night stand with a man you scarcely knew and then ended up staining his perfectly expensive silk sheets. Or satin. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what they were. All she knew was that they were expensive. Very expensive…
Actually, there were a lot of things Hermione didn’t know right then. Like, for instance, why she had ever bedded a stranger—and why that stranger had felt so familiar and comfortable to her. Honestly speaking, Hermione felt slightly remorseful by the amount of womanly sensuality that man had inspired in her. And…furthermore, she felt all the more guilty at having lost her virginity to him. Hermione groaned. Oh, what on this earth had possessed her to do that!
Not to mention that she didn’t entirely regret what she had done…
No, no, no!
That kind of thinking wouldn’t get her anywhere. She knew for a fact that she wasn’t in a hotel—Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Had she been in one, perhaps she might’ve felt less of an uncertainty in leaving—then again, if she hadn’t been, it left her with the task of leaving the place…which was the situation she was in now. She didn’t know what do to.
More so because she had soiled the man’s sheets…
God, did she feel bad about that…
Hermione bit her lip and hung her head. She hadn’t felt this insecure since she’d first entered Hogwarts and realized that friendship was rather hard to come by when you were a bossy, bucktoothed, bushy-haired eleven year old. Granted, a lot of time had passed since then and Hermione was now a learned woman of 25.
She scoffed.
Yeah, right. A learned woman of 25 who had just lost her virginity to a complete and total stranger.
She couldn’t help the sob that escaped her lips then. Bringing up both hands to her mouth, Hermione tried vainly to stifle the sounds of her crying. She took in a sudden breath. She had always dreamed—from the day that books could no longer stifle her longing—of the time in which she’d be in love…of the time when she’d meet a gallant, young wizard who’d sweep her off her feet…
They’d meet in a library, perhaps—or maybe somewhere in Diagon Alley, product of a fateful bump in the streets. She’d drop her belongings then, and he’d—rather courteously—help her pick them up. Then they’d fall in love, travel all over the muggle world, and have a simple, romantic wedding in a quaint chapel somewhere in London. Then, maybe, on her wedding night, he’d gently guide her towards their bedroom, whispering for her to trust him, and take her gently as the night turned to day.
Her reality was a sharp contrast to her fantasies.
For starters, she hadn’t met the man in library—they’d met in an elegant bar on the muggle-side of London. As far as she knew, he wasn’t a wizard of any kind, or he’d have inquired about the Ministry of Magic worker’s ID hanging intrepidly from her pink dress blouse. Either that, or he’d recognized her from somewhere and known she was a witch. Hermione’s heart momentarily stopped. No…she doubted that…
Regardless—
She wasn’t sure how gallant he was either; after all, gallantry wasn’t something he’d been out to prove the night before. If anything, he’d proved himself to be a rather observant individual. Hermione didn’t remember a time when someone had been so keenly concentrated on her needs. Sure, she’d gone out with Ron a few times—been his pronounced girlfriend for the greater part of two years—but she had never let him touch her quite like that. Which was intriguing, considering she hadn’t had any qualms about letting the young man seduce her into going home with him—much less touch her. Even if she had ever lost her virginity to Ron, however, Hermione doubted the young man would’ve been even remotely as tuned to her desires. Not that Ron was a selfish man. No. He wasn’t—but there was something about him that was genuinely and entirely naïve. And, Hermione ruefully noted, in that naïveté, he’d be quite liable to hurt her.
No…the reason why Hermione had felt so at ease with the man last night had been because he’d been so experienced—which only made her feel all the more at odds with her ingenuousness. Though, if his reaction had been evidence of anything, he’d quite enjoyed himself, too.
Hermione remembered a time, nearly ten years ago, back when she was a seventh year student at Hogwarts, when Lavender had barged in excitedly into their at nearly five in the morning. On her face she’d worn a smug look of satisfaction. Hermione recalled the jealously that had flooded through her veins at that look; she could only imagine how good something could feel to make a girl’s face brighten so.
“It was wonderful!” she’d said when Parvati had eagerly asked how everything had gone. Lavender had fallen backwards dramatically onto her bed, giggling all the way. “He’s…He’s so good at it!”
Hermione hadn’t wanted to ask who ‘he’ was. She had a pretty good idea, either way. There was only one boy who had—to his merit—nearly all the girls at Hogwarts swooning to be his. And that boy wasn’t Harry Potter. If it was only in that department that Draco Malfoy would outdo his rival, then so be it. Where Harry Potter was the gentle, sweet, and considerate boyfriend, Draco was the passionate, sexy, and inquiring lover. It was to be expected. It was in Draco’s nature, after all—striving to be the best. Unlike Harry who seemed to be innately good at nearly all he did—and who, as such, didn’t try particularly hard to accomplish something—Draco worked hard to be who he was. Granted, although being a selfish, egotistical, self-centered prat was hardly a remarkable achievement, being a sensuous, manipulative, and sharp-eyed bedmate certainly was. And, from what Hermione heard, Draco was certainly a gifted partner.
Again, that was something Hermione attributed to his personality. He was rather attentive to things—fact which, much to her chagrin, Harry and Ron had failed to note during their Hogwarts years. He never missed a beat. Sure, he sometimes played the part of the fool, allowing himself to be hit with Harry’s attacks for the sheer sake of show. Draco hated to disappoint Harry’s fanbase, after all. But above everything, he did it to be underestimated. Hermione wasn’t stupid. She knew the benefits of being thought slower, denser, and susceptible better than anyone. And it had been a long time since she’d known that Draco Malfoy was hardly a slow, dense, and vulnerable individual. It just wasn’t something she’d expect to find in a person with such sharp, overbearing eyes.
Which was how she’d known—ten years ago and in that cramped living space—that Draco Malfoy had been the boy that had made Lavender Brown see stars. “And—I’m not lying, Hermione—he was so gentle! Can you imagine? Draco Malfoy being anything but ruthless? It makes him so much more desirable! Not to mention that…”
Lavender trailed off and a thoughtful look crossed her eyes. “Not to mention that he seems totally indifferent to how he’s feeling. It’s almost as if he wants you to know how good he can be…” Lavender turned away from Parvati and glanced curiously at Hermione. She figured the studious brunette would understand better than anyone what she was trying to explain—Parvati would be too excited by the details to even pay much attention to her, anyway.
“Do you understand, Hermione? He…He forgets about himself. And—And I found that so…so uncharacteristic. It almost…it almost made me feel sad. Nostalgic, I guess. I mean—why would he have to prove himself? It almost as if he’s never had anyone want him in any way…and…and it’s as if he’s trying to draw them in, if by sex alone.”
Lavender focused confused periwinkle eyes in her direction. “Do you understand?”
Hermione shook her head no. It was hard to imagine her enemy as being anything but. And Malfoy? Being humane? Hell, even gentle! No…it was difficult to imagine. And perhaps, Lavender noticed the doubt in her eyes, because she remained silent after that, speaking only of the silver-haired boy’s prowess in bed. And she never brought up the other topic again…never.
Hermione frowned. It had been years since she’d had that conversation. She had forgotten up until that very moment. It was interesting, after all; that Lavender—of all people—find something even remotely compassionate in the tall, arrogant heir to the Malfoy fortune. Hermione shook her head. It was unlikely. Perhaps she might’ve believed it in a past time—in days when she believed in the potential good of humanity…but not now. Not after so many things had gone wrong already. Not now…
Sighing, Hermione rubbed at her forehead. That was another reason why she’d been so uninhibited. She’d been drunk. Hermione shook her head despite herself. She wasn’t and had never been the type to drink. As a matter of fact, as a seventh year at Hogwarts she had been one of the few who had never a) drank a single drop of alcohol and b) never partaken in any illicit activities.
Damn it. Why had she gotten drunk in the first place? Her memory was foggy; she couldn’t rightly recall much of last night, anyway. Other than the positively arousing sensations that had fluttered over her body, her mind was a blank. She knew she couldn’t blame everything on the alcohol, however. She knew better than that. Besides, she’d apparently been lucid enough to be asked—and consciously respond to—whether or not it was okay to go past a simple ‘makeout’ session. And Merlin how she’d wanted for him to continue!
She could dredge up a rather graphic image of the two of them, breathless and enveloped in sensation, as they clumsily ascended a wide, elegant, spiraling staircase to the awaiting master bedroom. Or, at least, it looked like a master bedroom. The entire room had to be bigger than her entire house. Or, apartment, rather.
Now that she thought of it…Hermione cast the room an inquisitive glance. She’d read somewhere that a room, its state, and its furnishings often denoted its owner’s personality. Settled on that note, the young girl looked curiously about. She remained sitting as she was, on the bed’s edge, but pulled sheets over her naked torso for good measure. Now…let’s see—
There was a deep, dark brown, mahogany bureau directly across from her, and on it, a large, gold encrusted mirror stood. Hermione’s eyes widened slightly as she realized that the decorative trim was neither gold paint, nor gold leaf. It was pure, unadultered gold. Her eyebrow quirked slightly in question. One had to be rather wealthy to afford that type of adornment.
Her eyes next landed on a desk that was a few feet to her right. There were a few papers littered here and there, but the area was almost impeccably organized. Just as she was about to move on, something caught her eye. In the corner of the desk, only slightly obscured by a large memo pad, was an ink-bottle, and right beside it, a large, elegantly feathered quill. Hermione’s insides wavered. She couldn’t rightly think of many muggle households who wrote business letters with quills and fine parchment.
Swallowing thickly, Hermione scanned the area about her frantically, trying to catch sight of anything that would indicate that she was, in fact, in a wizard’s house. If she was, it would certainly explain why the youth hadn’t laughed his head off when he’d seen her Ministry of Magic badge…and why he hadn’t inquired about her wand. Wand which was, at the moment, somewhere in the pockets of her coat. Which…if her memory served her right, was at the very base of the staircase. Hermione groaned at her lack of foresight. How could she have been so stupid as to not recognize another wizard? Especially when he had seemed so familiar to her!
Hermione buried her head in her palms. She genuinely hoped that he was, at the very least, a decent fellow. Hopefully, he wouldn’t speak of their little escapade any more than he absolutely had to.
Hermione was distracted from that train of thought at hearing a small squeal. Eyebrows furrowing, she raised curious chocolate eyes and locked them with wide, surprised, blue ones. If Hermione had had any doubts about whether or not she was in a wizard’s house, then laying eyes on a house elf certainly helped to assuage her uncertainties.
“Sorry, madam!” the house-elf wriggled uneasily about, “Ninny though Master was out of room…Ninny didn’t know Master had company. Master never has company…Ninny very very sorry. Please don’t tell Master what Ninny did, yes?”
Hermione remained silent. Being very much still on the Elfin side, Hermione had to stifle the urge to toss a handy sock in Ninny’s direction and free her from servitude to the household—but she knew such a thing would only be effective if the Master of the house so willed it. The Elf tried again, “Madam won’t tell Master, yes?”
Vaguely, Hermione shook her head no. Ninny made to leave, but Hermione called quickly to her. “Wait!”
Uncertainly, Ninny turned. She bowed her large head respectively—not daring to meet Hermione’s eyes anymore than she had to—and shifted her weight. Then, a thought occurred to her. “Ninny thinks you is a witch! This is true, yes?”
Hermione couldn’t help the smile that came to her lips then. Nodding, she gently motioned for the elf to come closer. Reassured by the sweet smile that was sent her way, Ninny shyly approached the young, curly-haired woman that was currently occupying her Master’s bed. “Ninny thinks you is a very pretty witch. Ninny thinks Master make good pick!”
Although blushing, Hermione managed a slight grin as she thanked Ninny for the compliment. Ninny nearly hyperventilated at being thanked. The house elf’s grin widened as far as her face would allow. “Ninny likes you!”
“Ninny? Can I ask you something?”
A large head bobbed emphatically up and down.
“Your Master…Is he nice to you?”
Ninny remained thoughtful. Then, “Yes. Master is considerate…a lot of people don’t like Master. But Ninny like Master. Ninny know Master since Master was young. But Ninny never saw anyone in Master’s room except you. Master never brings people here.”
Hermione noted that through the entire rant Ninny hadn’t referred to her master as anything but considerate. She hadn’t called him nice, per say, but she had said he was considerate. That counted for something.
Ninny’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Did Hermione have fun with Master last night?”
Hermione’s cheeks burned a dark scarlet. Ninny, unaware, continued, “Bolo say he hear Master with girl having fun. Ninny not believe Bolo. Ninny believe Bolo now.”
Waving away the thought of house-elves rejoicing at the idea of their master getting it on with someone, Hermione perked up at the knowledge of the fact that the wizard owned two house elves. He must have been a very wealthy man.
And then, “Is Hermione okay?”
Ninny approached Hermione curiously, eyeing the way she was sitting warily, “Does Hermione want Ninny to call Master?”
“No! No!”
Thick, wild curls flew left and right at the fervor with which the girl shook her head. “No…just—just tell me about your Master.”
Nodding, Ninny looked around and disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a tiny chair suitable for her body and dragging it towards Hermione. Climbing atop it in two smooth steps, Ninny smiled and folded her hands politely in her lap. “What does Hermione want to know about Master?”
Hermione was at a loss. She didn’t know exactly what information she wished to extract from Ninny about her Master. She felt rather guilty doing so, as well, considering she could receive considerable punishment should her Master find out and find the fact unacceptable. She figured she’d ask a harmless question first. “How old is your Master?”
Ninny remained thoughtful for a few seconds. “Master will be twenty-six in a few weeks.”
He was considerably young for having such a fortune, Hermione realized. And then, before she could ask anything else, “Does Hermione love Master?”
Had Hermione been drinking anything, she was sure she would’ve spit it all out. “What!”
Ninny seemed confused by the girl’s question. “Does Hermione love Master?”
Hermione didn’t quite know what to say. “Why…Why are you asking me?”
Ninny shrugged. “Ninny asks because Ninny wishes to know. Witches and Wizards are very different from house-elves, so Ninny was curious,” Ninny paused and glanced towards Hermione. Then, rather hesitantly, she continued, “House-elves only have fun with each other if they love each other. Ninny not have fun yet. Ninny not find someone Ninny loves yet. But Ninny will find someday. Just like Hermione have found. So Hermione loves Master, yes?”
The young witch shifted uncomfortably against the sheets. How exactly could she explained what had happened. “I…I don’t. I’m sorry, Ninny…but you’re right. Humans and elves are very different. Very, very different. But…I—I’ve always wanted to ‘have fun’ with someone I love. It’s what I always dreamt of.”
Ninny’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “So,” her face fell slightly, “Hermione not love Master?”
Hermione shook her head no. Ninny pouted. “Ninny like Hermione very, very much! Ninny sure Master liked Hermione very much, too. Bolo say Master sounded like he liked Hermione very much yesterday, too!”
Another flush flooded her pale cheeks.
“Ninny want to know if Hermione like Ninny.”
Grinning, Hermione leaned forwards, wincing only slightly, and playfully tousled the house-elf’s single tuft of hair. “Yes,” she began, “Hermione like Ninny very, very much.”
And then, Hermione became aware of something rather quickly. “But…how did you know my name, Ninny? I never told you.”
It was Ninny’s turn to look sheepish. “Ninny know because Bolo tell her. Bolo say he hear Master call Hermione last night. Master call Hermione very loud.”
Hermione was left speechless. “Ninny want to know another thing!”
Shaking her head to herself, Hermione focused her eyes on Ninny, “Yes?”
“Does Hermione at least like Master?”
“Well,” Hermione weighed the question. Did she like Ninny’s master? Well…speaking truthfully, she supposed she did. But that was purely in the bodily, and sexual sense…
“I guess…I guess I might—if I got to know him a little.”
“Know him? Ninny confused. Ninny think you already know Master?”
“No…” Hermione knitted her eyebrows, not entirely sure how to take the elf’s jumbled sentence. She wasn’t sure if Ninny had thought she had already known her Master, or if Ninny was telling her that she did, in fact, know her master. “I don’t know your Master. At least I don’t rightly think so—”
Ninny was thoughtful. “What school did Hermione go to?”
“Hogwarts.”
Ninny’s eyes grew ecstatically wide. “Really! Master go to Hogwarts, too! See, Ninny knew Hermione know Master!”
Hermione’s stomach tightened. Oh, Merlin—please no! If Ninny was right, then she must know—if only by face—whoever her Master was. For all she knew, he could’ve been the boy who sat three seats behind her in Potions or right beside her in Charms. The knot in her stomach twisted and turned.
There were a lot of wealthy families in the Magical world—half of which supported Voldemort, and half of which fought against him. This was hardly a good situation to be in.
“Say, Ninny—”
Just as Hermione was about to inquire as to who this ‘Master’ was, another house-elf, this one male, waddled into the room. He wore a solemn look and shook his head when he realized that Ninny was communicating with the Master’s guest. “Ninny—” he began, his voice soft, but warning. Ninny waved him away with an annoyed smile, but Hermione noticed the loving look that had flitted into the elf’s face. She turned happily towards Hermione. “Ninny think Hermione will like Bolo’s brother.”
She pointed towards the house-elf that had just entered, “That is Tolo.”
Tolo nearly had a spasm when he heard Ninny refer to Hermione by her name. He pulled her rather roughly by the arm and attempted to drag her away towards an exit somewhere to their left. “C’mon, Ninny! Master will be angry is he finds Ninny here!”
Ninny seemed to get the hint. Waving a quick goodbye to Hermione, she allowed Tolo to pull her away. “Bye Hermione! Ninny hope to see Hermione again soon!”
And she was gone. Hermione supposed that was a good enough thing, considering that the moment Ninny disappeared, she heard the steady, resonate steps of a confident gait just outside the door. She steeled herself for what was to come.
Quickly, Hermione repositioned herself at the middle of the bed, bringing the sheets all the way up to her chin, and fixed her gaze on the door. The steps had ceased. The knob turned slightly, and a body entered the room. She was no longer alone.
Funny how, instead of feeling frightened at the possibility of a stranger seeing totally nude, a slight shiver of anticipation ran through her spine. That was why she’d lost her mind the night before; the man she’d been with was positively infuriating. Even his stance radiated sexuality. Even now, she could still remember it.
Hermione found that, now that she was face to face with the young man, she couldn’t look him in the eye. His shoes were rather polished, though…
A deep, mellow chuckled echoed through the walls of the room at her silence. “Good Morning to you, too.”
Hermione let out the breath she’d been holding. Although not particularly what she’d been expecting, the soft laughter of the young man rather eased her troubles. Had he come in and glared at her, she might’ve broken into disconsolate tears…but he hadn’t, and that lifted her confidence, if only slightly.
“C’mon,” he began, frowning a bit to himself when he realized Hermione was making an effort to avoid his gaze, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
It was at that particular moment that the young girl’s eyes snapped upwards to meet his own. Her stare, defiant and rebellious at first, dissipated into one of near horror when she set eyes on his silky, white-blond hair. He cocked his head curiously to the side and admired the way her hair fell possessively over her full breasts. Almost instantly, Hermione gathered fistfuls of sheets and pulled them toward her naked body in an effort to shield herself. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. It was an all too amusing sight for him.
Impatiently, Draco ran dexterous fingertips through his hair. It was a habit he’d acquired in his fifteenth year—when he’d finally coaxed his father into letting him take care of his own hair. Thank Merlin. Draco doubted he could have lived any more than a few years with that alien casket Father had deemed appropriate for him.
Meanwhile, as trivial thoughts flitted through Draco’s brain, Hermione was having a near-aneurysm. That’s why he’d seemed so familiar! Hermione closed her eyes and forced herself to remember….just to remember—
“Hermione?”
Hermione…The mention of her name from a person who was supposed to call her something else—she wasn’t quite sure what—bubbled illicit emotions within her. Swaying slightly on her feet, Hermione extended a customary hand and allowed the young man to shake it. She couldn’t help but note how soft his hands were…
“You work in the Ministry of Magic, now?” Hermione vaguely nodded at the question, staring avidly at the man before her, feeling that—somehow—she should know him…that she should feel a certain sort of emotion towards him…but she didn’t remember…didn’t remember and didn’t quite care.
“You’re beautiful.”
She’d been the one to say it. Unlikely, yes…but Hermione had never one to beat around the bush. Being friends with Harry and Ron had taught her to be truthful at all times. Granted, had she been sober, she might’ve deliberated a bit more before admitting what she had. The blond young man seemed to realize the fact. A soft smile alighted on his pale, pink lips and he broke out in a laughter that was so inherently and inadvertedly sensual, that Hermione instinctively and unconsciously licked her lips.
It had been an absent move…an autonomous one, if anything, but the young man had caught sight of it, nonetheless. His eyes had snapped to her lips, and an awkward look had crossed his face. For a moment, he had seemed diffident…shy…so unlike himself. And how was he supposed to be? Hermione, once more, couldn’t help the nagging thought in the back of her mind that she should be cautious…more skeptic…
“What’ve you been doing?” There. She’d asked. At least she hadn’t right out said she didn’t remember. If anything, she’d hinted that she did know who he was—or, that she was supposed to, at any rate. The blond shrugged at her question. He narrowed his eyes, as if not sure she really wanted to know, and pressed an absent fingertip to her badge. She should’ve known then. She should’ve known who he was by the mocking way in which he’d pressed against the Ministry of Magic badge…And she should’ve known how things were going to turn out that night by how he’d touched her—even if it had almost gone unnoticed.
“Been working here and there. Nothing extensive. I see you’ve got your hands full, too.”
Hermione had nodded sleepily. Draco had eyed her oddly then. His stormy silver eyes had settled on the three shot glasses arranged in a pyramid shape before her and he’d thrown her another look. “Why are you drinking, if I may ask?”
Hermione shrugged. “I think…I think I’m supposed to be sad, is why—”
“Sad?” A pale eyebrow had quirked upwards in question.
“Yes. Someone’s getting married right now. Don’t really remember who, though.”
Oh. That’s right. It’d been in the papers. Potter was wedding Virginia Weasley that night. It was the news of the millennium. The bright, wealthy ‘Boy Who Lived’ was marrying the less-than-humble daughter of the Weasleys. Somehow, Draco had always thought Harry would end up marrying Hermione. It’d only seemed appropriate. Or…at least, she would marry Ron, or something equally predictable.
He’d never thought he’d find her getting drunk in a bar in the middle of London
He took a quick glance around the bar. It was a good enough crowd; there were some suspicious characters around, but none that could pose a substantial enough threat to the young witch. Especially considering they were in a muggle bar. Draco turned towards the bartender and motioned him over. “Do me a favor,” he began.
The bartender nodded curiously at him. “When and if she passes out, call this number and ask someone to bring her home. You can use this for the fare.”
Nodding, the olive-haired youth fisted the bundle of cash Draco had unceremoniously dumped into his hands and walked away. The pale heir of the Malfoy fortune turned back towards the young woman. She smiled at him. Merlin, but was she beautiful…
He hadn’t always thought of her as being beautiful…No. There had been a time when he’d found her arrogant—self-centered…and infinitely grotesque. She was a mudblood, his mind had told him, and mudbloods were scarcely beautiful. But that had changed. That had changed the moment he’d matured enough to think on his own—to disregard all the things his Father muttered under his breath about the muggle world. It had changed the moment he’d abandoned all that was dark and evil and turned towards the light.
He’d fallen in love with her slowly after that. It had been hard not to. He had admired her from the start, after all. Had he not known she was muggle-born, then perhaps he might’ve liked her even sooner…but he’d known, and he’d made her life impossible on account of it.
He’d been trying to get her attention for so long. In fourth year, when she’d attended the ball with Krum—she’d looked so pretty then…and, he supposed he was the only one who had ever known she could be so beautiful, as even Potter and Weasley had seemed astounded by the transformation. In fifth year, he’d tried to warn her several times—warned her to stay away from Potter for the time being…he’d tried to hint at her that anything that required being outside of school was a potential danger to her and her friends. But she hadn’t understood. She’d thought he was mocking her.
And now, there she was…smiling prettily at him with those crinkling brown eyes. There was something underlying in her as well…a certain longing—a desire. He could very clearly see it burning in the depths of her eyes. He could see it and it drove him wild. Swallowing thickly, he extended an uncharacteristic hand and asked if she’d care to dance. Her eyes had twinkled mischievously at him as she’d accepted. There had been an undertone of sexuality between them the entire night.
As they danced, a slow, rhythmless muggle song to which they swayed, Draco had very vaguely heard her sigh against his chest. It had been a contented sigh; one that told him she appreciated the company. He had smiled just minutely to himself.
Things had changed so much since he’d attended Hogwarts. After years of hard work and effort, he’d matured into a respectable young man. He’d softened his blunt persona to a fault and had even managed to tame his quick tongue. But underneath it all—beneath the polished surface—the playful, teasing Draco still lay. But, to the day, he hadn’t found anyone who seemed particularly interested in unearthing it.
A small kiss had been placed at the base of his neck. Startled, Draco had pulled away, more in surprise than in disgust. He was hardly intimidated by a kiss on the neck. He’d been through worse. He was, however, very much bewildered that this kiss be coming from Hermione Granger—the bookworm of Hogwarts, the shyest girl in all of his year, and the girl he’d long ago stopped referring to as ‘Granger’ in his dreams.
Well. He shouldn’t be that surprised, he’d argued with himself. After all, Hermione was a woman of twenty-five. She was liable to change. It’d been nearly eight years since she’d last seen him, after all. He couldn’t expect her to remain a shy, virginal student the rest of her life. He felt wistful by the realization, just as well.
Another kiss, this one bolder, placed near his collarbone.
His eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t quite remember having unbuttoned his dress shirt. The dress-code where he worked was rather strict: it required the wearing of ties and suits everyday. Not that Draco would’ve worn anything else even if there wasn’t a dress code. He’d been brought up that way.
Glancing downwards to himself, Draco was amused to note that Hermione had succeeded in undoing the first 3 buttons of his shirt. Currently, she was working on his fourth. Sighing, and cursing himself for his recently acquired gentlemanly perspective, he gently caught her hands and shook his head no when she raised her eyes at him. She seemed perplexed. “Why not?”
Well. It was a good enough question. Why not? Well, for starters, she was drunk. Secondly, they were in the middle of a bar. Finally, Draco was hardly the type to engage in public displays of affection. He doubted Hermione was either, when she was sober. “Because. They’re people around to see.”
Hermione didn’t seem bothered. “So let them see.”
Draco swallowed thickly. As much as he would’ve liked to give into that request, he shook his head in a firm ‘no.’ Disappointed, but not at all discouraged, Hermione dropped her hands and sighed. When the music changed, she grinned and stumbled back towards the bar, asking for two more shots. She turned towards him then, pushing one of the glasses in his direction and raising the other to her own lips. She locked eyes with him for a moment, then threw her head back and downed the shot. Opening her eyes, she licked her lips in satisfaction before letting the glass drop carelessly to the ground. The sound went unheard amidst the loud, echoing music. Draco followed suit. It was hard to resist that kind of proposal.
Draco couldn’t remember how long they’d danced. Well, not danced, per say. They’d just stood there, admiring one another, nodding at the good time had done both their bodies, until, suddenly, something had shattered. And then, they’d gone at each other simultaneously, locking lips and intertwining arms about each other without a second thought.
Somehow they’d exited the bar, Draco forgetting to reclaim his money from the bartender—and not particularly caring about it—and Hermione impulsively following him. Draco had blindly apparated to the Malfoy Manor then, thankful that Hermione was a witch and wouldn’t shriek and scream at their sudden appearance at the manor. From there, it had been a mad race to his bedroom, the two giggling as they tried to make it up the staircase in one piece, and failing drastically. Somewhere along the middle of the stairs, both Tolo and Ninny had appeared, asking whether the two needed any help. Draco had cursed in a manner that neither Tolo and Ninny had heard in a long time, and the two had promptly disappeared.
Upstairs, everything was different. Hermione was suddenly shy. Granted, the impetuous from earlier was still there, but it was coupled with coy hesitance. It only made him want her all the more. Unlike before—in the bar—when he’d kissed her with a fervor worthy of making the worst of people blush, his kisses became soft and slow. He was considerate of who she was—of who she’d been…he respected her.
And so, when the two had lain together, breathless, nearly nude except for their very last of clothes, he’d nudged soothingly, tenderly with his cheek and voiced the question. Was it okay? Could he? And, just as uncertainly as he’d asked, she’d responded. There had been no doubt in her voice—no fear. And she certainly wasn’t drunk anymore. She was too lucid.
And she’d surprised him. Because when he’d hesitated, she’d reacted. It seemed that, in his reluctance to hurt her, the passion in her had been unleashed. Focusing fiery brown eyes in his direction she’d pulled him down over her, kissing him wildly, breathlessly, but still timidly despite everything. And…and maybe he should’ve known she was still a virgin…maybe the timorous nature of her touches should’ve alerted him to it…but he hadn’t noticed. Not until the very end.
And his heart had nearly stopped on account of it.
For the first time, Draco Malfoy had found someone he loved, and in turn, someone who found him valuable enough to love him back…if only for one night.
>>>>>
Part Two
Praeclarus Solum
“Can you walk?”
Hermione, startled, glanced upwards once more, and stared into they icy gray depths of Draco’s eyes. She felt her breathing stop. He still had that effect on her. Hermione had thought—hoped—that her attraction for Draco last night had been product of the alcohol…of her insobriety. But it hadn’t. Even now, she could feel her skin goosebump as he raked his eyes unabashedly over her body. It made her feel strangely empowered. Then, she remembered his question. She shook her head slightly. “No—actually…but its—”
All sound was robbed from Hermione’s lips when Draco bent down easily, and, with all the grace of a cat, scooped her up in his arms. About to complain, Hermione was silenced by Draco’s warning glare, and, realizing talking would get her nowhere, she bit her lip and allowed the young man to take her to the adjoining bathroom.
Hermione supposed she should feel naked. Embarrassed. Uncomfortable, at least. But she didn’t. Not at all. A slight shiver ran through her as Draco momentarily straightened her, letting her toes alight on the cool, slippery surface of the tile. Quite aware of the tremble, and attributing it wholeheartedly to the floor, Draco didn’t realize how much of an effect he had on the young girl.
He held her possessively to his chest as he made to open the shower, letting the bath fill to an acceptable level before closing the tap. Still holding onto Hermione, and placing the young girl briefly in his lap as he squatted, he dipped a pale, white hand into the bath to check its temperature. He turned curiously towards Hermione. “How hot do you like it?”
Hermione darkened a shade as she thought of the many ways in which she could answer the question. Draco, however, didn’t seem to notice, so she simply shrugged, the feeling of sitting on his lap reminding her of the many times Ron would grab her from behind and pull her onto him. But this was different…So different…because—because Hermione knew Draco hadn’t placed her there so that he could feel her…Where Ron had done so years ago in order to experience the feel of her body atop his, Draco was doing it in order to accommodate her. “Here. Dip your hand in and tell me if it’s okay.”
Blushing as she felt Draco tip her forward ever-so-slightly, and feeling her breasts, by force of gravity, begin to fall away from her, Hermione let her hand fall into the murky, white water. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, just as Draco pulled her back into him, her back falling against his chest, “just perfect.”
“Would you like anything else in it?”
Hermione looked at him curiously then, leaning forwards to try and catch his gaze. Feeling the stare, Draco turned to her, and the two locked eyes. He pressed his lips into a strained smile. Funny…Hermione only just realized how he didn’t smirk much anymore…
Not wanting to disappoint him, and feeling strangely compelled to thank him for everything he’d done for her so far, Hermione shrugged. “What else is there?”
Draco didn’t seem prepared to answer the question. He remained quiet for a few seconds, simply looking at her uncertainly, before letting his eyes travel over the entire bathroom. It was a rather large room, and to the left was a large, marble closet. His eyes lingered on it. “ Bath salts. Bubbles. Milk…for soft skin,” he unwittingly shot her a longing glance, “and shampoo. Different kinds. Mint, Cocoa—Did you know Bernie Botts makes shampoos, too?”
Hermione smiled at Draco’s attempt to lessen the tension in the room. As it was, Hermione realized, the boy had changed a lot since their Hogwarts days. True, she doubted he was now a member of Harry’s fanclub, but she could see what Lavender had meant about him when she’d spoken of him…he was, indeed, rather vulnerable.
“No. I didn’t, actually. Bath salts sound nice. And Milk, too. I like Coconut shampoo.”
Again, Draco seemed bewildered at her having answered so pleasantly. Nodding slightly, he rose to his full height, taking her along with him and looked about him. “I left my wand out there.”
Hermione said nothing. At her silence, he continued, “You’d rather stand, I suppose, considering…”
Hermione managed a slight smile. “I can stand now. It’s okay.”
Nodding, but not seeming entirely convinced, Draco gently placed her on her feet, steadying her momentarily before heading over to retrieve his wand. He returned a few seconds later, waving a large, dark black wand in his right hand as he did so, so that the door closed behind him, the cabinet door opened, and a variety of bottles, jars, and baskets hovered about him. Hermione, who had pulled on a midnight colored robe she’d found hanging near a rack of towels, watched him. He had grown rather powerful since their graduation. As far as she knew, closing a door, opening another one, and levitating nearly twenty items took a great deal of magic. He didn’t seem to be at all perturbed.
Once he’d selected the items, he gave his wand another idle flick, and everything else returned to its place, the chosen objects floating instead towards Draco’s feet. Having assembled everything at his side, the young man shot her a wary glance. She half-expected him to ask whether or not she wanted to be left alone. Instead, he stood once more, having previously crouched, and crossed the entire expanse of the bathroom to get to her. Lifting her up effortlessly into his arms, he returned to his previous position and settled her at the edge of the bath. “Are you going to take off the robe, or should I?”
The very base of Hermione’s spine tingled at his tone. Granted, Draco Malfoy had changed…but his essence had remained the same…
Shaking her head faintly, Hermione undid the clasp of the robe and let it fall and gather about her waist. A few seconds later, Draco had pulled her up into a standing position atop the tub and used his wand to return his robe to where it’d originally been. Standing there, as the two were, Hermione now a good foot taller than he, product of standing on the marble edge of the tub, she let her eyes fall shut as she felt Draco’s cool, steady breath land in an area just above her belly button. It provoked a ticklish sensation within her. Draco hesitated then, fighting his body’s natural reaction to a woman’s naked body, and fighting the fact that, that same woman’s body was reacting rather positively to his touch.
Taking in a quick breath, he wrapped his arms about her waist, and gently set her in the tub. A pleased shudder shook her body. Another ran though his own. Turning away, he pulled open the bottles he’d laid beside him and explained what each was. With his wand, he levitated the first bottle, making it so that it poured small amounts of pink powder into the tub’s water as he spoke.
“It’s Goblin Ore. It’s supposed to make your skin glow. Mother used it quite frequently. This—this was actually for her…but I never had a chance to give it to her…”
Hermione nodded mildly at the explanation, sighing pleasurably to herself at the light tingle the Goblin Ore exacted on her skin as it worked its magic on her. “And this,” Draco shook his near-silver locks out of habit as he spoke, “this is Pixie Bubbles. No use for it, really. Just a blasted muggle-invented triviality that gained popularity in the Wizarding World.”
Years ago, if Hermione would’ve heard Draco mention the word ‘blasted’ before anything, she would’ve glared and screamed him a new tomorrow. Now…now it didn’t seem nearly as important.
Hermione blinked curious mocha eyes as pixies—blue, pink, jade, and white ones, began to fly playfully about her, splashing one another and giggling as they caught Hermione’s hair in their fingertips and sprinkled glitter atop it. Having used muggle bubbles for the larger part of her life—and having never come across bubbles used by wizards, Hermione was genuinely enthralled by the Pixie Bubbles. Draco simply watched her. Merlin, did he love to watch her.
After a good half hour of laughing alongside the pixies, Hermione became aware that two hands were, and had been for quite some time, gently rubbing a lathered sponge over her upper back. Sighing at the spoiling treatment, and having caught the last remaining pixie in her fist, Hermione relented to her body’s needs, and relaxed against the tub’s edge. That was as close as she could be to Draco, after all.
The young wizard, who’d rolled up his sleeves and waited until the girl was distracted enough before beginning to wash her, paused in his ministrations. “Don’t stop.”
At the request, Draco resumed his actions. It was hard, bathing her from where he was. It would be infinitely easier to enchant the sponge and let it do the work of its own accord, but that felt impersonal…and, despite himself, he knew he wanted to feel her. “Can I see your wand?”
Pausing once more, Draco hesitantly wagered the question. Then, figuring that if things were to go downhill, they might as well start then, he turned and picked up his wand. He placed it in her hands. It was the ultimate demonstration of trust. One’s weapon in the hands of another. In the hands of one who should’ve been the enemy.
Hermione inspected the wand. It was rather strong. Thick, too. Hermione, forgetting where she was, turned unexpectedly to face Draco. “Is its power from a unicorn hair?”
Draco shook his head no, “It’s from a serpent.”
Hermione seemed perplexed. “But how could that possibly match the power of a phoenix feather?”
Draco’s features tightened, if minutely. A reference to Potter. It seemed he would never rid himself of comparisons to the ‘Boy Who Lived.’
Draco shrugged. “The power lies in those who wield it. A powerful wand is useless in the hands of an inept wizard. The same is true inversely.”
Hermione smiled. “Mine is vinewood.”
Draco smirked—the first real smirk she’d seen from him the entire day. “It’s strangely fitting to you.”
“You haven’t bathed me appropriately.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed at the abrupt change in topic. He gave her a once over. “I didn’t think you’d let me bathe you ‘appropriately.’”
Hermione remained silent, choosing instead to let the young man make his own conclusions. He made up his mind quickly enough. “Do you mind if I get inside with you? It’s easier for me that way.”
The young girl shrugged. Studying her shortly, and deciding that, from the way her body reacted, she wasn’t opposed to the idea, Draco leisurely removed his shoes and his socks. From the corner of his eyes, he could see Hermione tighten at the absolute lassitude with which he was undressing. A smile twitched at his lips. She wanted to seem uncaring—unaffected…but he knew better.
Hermione had turned away after a few minutes of examining him. He supposed she didn’t feel entirely ready to see him nude. Not that he was planning on that anytime soon.
Turning around only when she felt the smooth action of the sponge resume, Hermione’s lips pursed for a few seconds. “You’re still dressed,” she noted absently, nevertheless admiring the way his wet clothes clung to his every curve.
Draco nodded. “I am.”
Hermione took in a breath and looked away. Draco sighed. He couldn’t quite understand Hermione at the moment. He was trying to be sympathetic. He was going out of his way to try and be considerate; he was restraining himself when we would’ve otherwise jumped at the opportunity of an affair. And then, when he finally thought he understood her, she’d do something that sent him off kilter. Just ten minutes ago, she’d been too shy to even allow him to look at her body, and now she was disappointed that he not be undressed when he entered the tub with her.
“Look, Hermione—”
Hermione blinked inquisitively towards Draco. He hesitated at the look in her eyes. “I can’t rightly tell what you want me to do. It’s either I do this or I do that. Please make up your mind. It’s not all that enticing being on the receiving end of mixed signals.”
And it was true. Draco hated that. It was one thing that she be confused, but it was another thing entirely that she expect him to tend to every stage of her confusion. “What do you want me to say, then?”
Draco sighed, quite unintentionally running a wet hand through his hair, and shrugged. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
The young girl hesitated. How exactly was she to go about that?
Then, rather coyly, and in a manner quite unlike that of the woman she’d been the night before, Hermione pressed smooth, wet lips against the corner of Draco’s lips. Pulling away, she studied his reaction.
He simply stared at her, silver eyes unreadable, before wrapping his arms about the small of her back and pulling her all the closer. He captured her lips more fully, fingertips tightening about the flesh of her hips, and pulled away to settle his forehead against hers.
She could feel his breathing—shallow, broken—and scrunched her face up when his mussed hair tickled at her nose. He blinked silver eyes at her, studying her intently, a smirk curling about his lips. “There’s an owl for you.”
“What?” Hermione turned curiously, not seeing any.
Draco nudged at her cheek, giving a slight nod. “In the room. He’s tapping.”
Hermione had never much believed in it before. Years ago, when Lavender had gushed on and on about how different things were after sex, she’d rolled her eyes and turned a blind ear to it. She’d been interested, admittedly, knowing despite herself that certain things couldn’t be learned through books, but had to be felt, gleamed from experience.
She felt so different around him now…as though they shared an intimacy that was on another level entirely. With every passing moment the events of the night before became clearer in her mind, and she felt herself blush at her audacity. She had been awfully…bold with Malfoy, smiling at him from beneath lidded, suggestive eyes. She’d given herself mindlessly and completely to him—to what he had made her feel, and she finally understood the implications of giving oneself for another. Nothing was certain, she knew…but at that point—she had no intention of thinking of the future; she was merely glad for what Malfoy had given her, even if it were nothing but a momentary solace.
Draco studied the young woman from his perch by the fireplace, chin supported by his thumb, the rest of his digits spread out before him. He loved looking at her. She had only recently discovered the Malfoy library—expansive in all manners of magic. Looking at her now, Draco remembered why she’d been named the smartest witch at Hogwarts. It was her love of learning that did it.
She brushed errant curls away from her face, pushing them behind her ears, glanced up…to find him watching her earnestly. At his smile, she blushed, cheeks twinged pink at the unaccustomed attention. He wondered if she had already forgotten his touch…he hadn’t. If anything, seeing her standing as she was—unassumingly by the tall shelf, body gravitated subconsciously towards him, fingers skimming the books as the read…he imagined those same fingertips on him, over his face, on his lips—
“You scare me when you do that.”
“Hmm?”
He pulled his hand away from his mouth as he was distracted from his reverie. “Do what?”
“Look at me like that…you don’t even bother blinking.”
A pale brow rose along with its owner. “And you blame that solely on me?”
Hermione brought the book she’d been reading close, keeping a finger inside to hold a page. She craned her head to the right, honey curls tumbling, and waited wordlessly for him to continue.
Draco leaned towards her, breath catching as he took in her scent, and pulled her close to him. “You’re beautiful.”
He was vaguely aware of the sound of a book crashing to the floor.
Hermione trembled and dropped to the floor, fingertips tightening about the spine of the book, and hugged it to herself. Her glance upwards revealed the tall blonde, eyes closed and hands fisted, and she felt her cheeks burn a little more on account of it. She’d never once really felt desire before…and she never thought it’d been a sentiment she’d have liked to have been on the receiving end of, but…
Having him so close to her, despite the feelings of awkwardness that it inspired within her…also made her feel excited—womanly. To be desired was something of another world entirely.
She touched his cheek tentatively, unsure yet of her touch, and pursed her lips in curious wonder when his eyes fell shut, a yearning expression coming to his face. He was pale. Pale all over, she recalled with a blush. His skin was silky—of the definite aristocratic kind, and it held the look of being the type to bruise easily.
He was breathtaking. He was handsome in that classical way—well mannered because of his upbringing, genteel and gentlemanly. He had changed over the years, his disposition morphing as his body did, his manner of thought complimentary to his newfound discoveries about life. He had long distanced himself from his family’s ancestral traditions…and, she realized belatedly, his ideals regarding blood purity.
“Yesterday…” he cleared his voice as he began to speak, deep tenor sounding richer amidst the library, “when I saw you…I didn’t know what to think.”
Her fingertip’s journey continued downwards, so that it dipped and teased at his jaw, “You’d changed so much…but…you were still the same.”
Hermione stood on tiptoe, chancing a quick peck at his lips. “And then you kissed me.”
The young girl cocked her head adoringly, and stared into the depths of his eyes. His expression hardened slightly. “And I had hoped you’d be gone by morning.”
Hermione’s brows came together, and she took a hesitant step back.
“…I didn’t want to face your regret.”
“Regret?”
A nod, “Regret. Because of what you’d done. With whom you’d done it with.”
The young witch frowned, but sighed. “I don’t regret anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
She hesitated. “Last night was…pardoning the cliché…mind-blowing. You made me feel,” she lifted brown eyes to meet silver, “like I’d never thought I’d feel. And I thank you for that.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not something to be thanked over. It’s something I’d do…over and over, if you asked me to.”
“If I asked you…?”
There was another nod. All he needed was a word. An indication. Anything. He wasn’t the type to kid himself into believing he’d stumbled upon something that was instantly perfect. He understood what had happened; welcomed it whole-heartedly despite the wronged nature of it all. He’d had a one-night stand with Hermione Granger. But that didn’t mean it had to end there. Not by any means.
There was that shyness about her that was beginning to drive him to extremes. He longed to be with her again, to feel her moist, tan skin beneath his hands, to feel her body yielding and warm under his own. He wanted to touch her all over again, kiss her, feel her caresses. And he wanted to know it was all her.
No alcohol. No impending threats. Just him and her.
She had received a letter from Potter he knew, he’d recognize that temperamental, snowy owl anywhere. He’d excused himself as she’d read the message, not wanting to intrude despite his better judgement, and had taken her to the library shortly thereafter. But it was gnawing at him. And it would’ve made an even bigger impression if he hadn’t remembered what Hermione had told him the night before. About Potter marrying Weasley’s sister. He’d probably been worried when Hermione hadn’t shown up.
Draco rubbed at his temple despite himself, wishing he could excuse himself indefinitely, go back to his room, brew a sleeping draught, and dream of his night with Hermione over and over again.
It was unrealistic, but it was his only option as of then.
“Why do you think I’d regret it?”
She was curious, perhaps even the slightest bit hurt. “Because you weren’t in the best state of mind last night, is why.”
“I am now, though, aren’t I?”
A nod.
“And I’m not screaming at you for staining my purity, am I?”
A bit of a scowl appeared on the man’s features. He was about to protest when Hermione raised a silencing hand. “I’m a woman, Draco.”
He had noticed that much.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, “I wanted you just as much as you wanted me, and Merlin know it, if I had had but one doubt, I wouldn’t have let it happen. But it did, because I let it and because I wanted it to.”
“Because of Potter?”
“Harry? What does Harry have to do with this?”
Silver eyes darkened as the tall man turned his back on the honey-tressed girl, fists tightening. “That’s why you were drinking last night.”
“That’s not why I was drinking.”
“Hermione…” His voice had softened. It was pleading.
“It’s not…not really.”
“Then why?”
“Because…I just realized…how lonely I was.”
Draco paused then, uncertain of how to proceed…or of what to say. Hermione took a step forward, reaching out and placing a tentative arm on the curve of his shoulder. “I…I was just—afraid that I was going to be alone, just like when we started Hogwarts.”
“Harry’s married, Ron’s off with Lavender…doing Merlin knows what,” here she stopped, grimacing before continuing, “and I was back to being me. Boring ol’ Hermione, who hangs out at the lab for fun. How quaint.”
“You’re not quaint.”
“I am.”
He was awfully adept at changing the subject. “Not at all. You’re a beautiful woman. Intelligent, cautious, sensual…soft.”
Hermione shifted under his gaze, “But I was still alone.”
“And you never told Potter or Weasley about it?”
She looked near the point of glaring. “Tell them what? To sod off their girlfriends?”
“If you were their friend—”
Hermione smiled sadly, shaking her head, “It doesn’t quite work that way. I want them to be happy.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Don’t you want to be happy?”
“I don’t know anyone sane who doesn’t want to be.”
“Then? I don’t see the problem.”
Hermione’s shoulders fell in a delicate shrug. Her smooth shirt, wrinkled as it was from the previous night’s endeavors, hung nicely over her frame, highlighting her womanly body, despite its decidedly androgynous nature. “I don’t either. I’m not supposed to be lonely.”
“Books can’t teach you how to find someone.”
“I know…”
She looked upwards at him, hazel eyes twinkling absently. “Harry’s owl invited me to their reception dinner.”
“What?”
She had a habit of going off on tangents. She nodded. “Their reception dinner. They’re having one…this weekend. And they want me to go. I didn’t want to go alone…but, I was thinking,” she cast him a sizing look, “…maybe you would come with me?”
“Me?”
She nodded, tufts of chocolate curls falling in her face. “Me? To the Weasley’s house?”
“Why not?”
“I’m Malfoy. I’m not supposed to like the Weasley’s.”
“You don’t have to. Come with me.”
“Hermione—I don’t quite think my presence will be appreciated.”
“We’re not in school anymore.”
“I didn’t say we were.”
Hermione gave a nod. She stayed quiet for a while, focus on his black, shiny dragon-hide shoes, before lifting her eyes up to study him. “Do you regret it, Malfoy?”
“Draco.”
“Malfoy.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Why?”
“Why the questions?”
“Because I want to know.”
“…Because it’s something I’d always wanted.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’d always wanted to sleep with me?”
“No. I’d always wanted to know you.”
“You don’t know me. Not at all.”
Draco gave a succinct nod. “All right then. I don’t know you.” His manner was crisp, rigid—formal.
Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, when steely silver eyes snapped in her direction. “You’re right. I don’t know you. All I know is how your body shivers when I kiss you, how your eyebrow crinkles when I touch you—your smell, the way you blush whenever I look at you…the way you feel around me, the texture of your skin,” his eyes darkened another notch, “the way you look when you’re spent—your head thrown back, your body glistening, your breathing ragged and shallow—the way your voice sounds when you feel you can’t go on.”
The young woman bit her lip at his litany, stomach churning at the vivacity with which he expressed himself, heart constricting at the bitterness in his voice. She’d never been talked to like that before, but granted, she’d never been involved in an affair, either. The tears bit at her eyes, and Hermione could feel her taking a step back at his onslaught. “I’m not made of stone Hermione!”
She raised wet eyes up at him, rubbing at her cheeks roughly, the optimism in her tummy dropping at his tone. Her lips quivered despite herself and her eyes searched out the door. She wanted to leave. More than anything she wanted to leave; forget she’d ever seen him again—forget about Harry, about Ginny, Ron…everyone.
She wrung her hands desperately, choking back a sob and feeling her breath catch as she made for the door. It hurt. Deep down, somewhere, she’d been building up the hope that despite what had happened—despite their drunken encounter—there would be occasion for more.
She was clumsy to pull open the door, it being of sturdy and heavy material, ideal for keeping out the noise. She was momentarily torn between running upstairs and burying her face in sheets of the bed where she’d awakened, or running out the front door and leaving her nightmare behind.
Vaguely, she recalled she was in a wizard’s house, and sought out the fireplace. Her steps were quick staccato on the marbled floor of the Malfoy foyer, and she was a good twenty feet from the mantle when Draco’s arms fell about her, bringing her crushingly close to his chest.
She felt stifled at first, Gryffindor pride pushing her to try and pull away, but Malfoy was dogged with determination and held her close as she cried hot angry tears. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she found she couldn’t quite breathe. “Don’t…don’t, Hermione.”
She could breathe in his scent—musky cologne and something innately him that made her tingle at her toes, and lightheaded in her thought. There was something just as desperate in his nature that made her hesitate, “Don’t go.”
His arms tightened about her, and his lips were at the crown of her head. He began a trail of kisses from then on, dropping them haphazardly about her face, kissing away her tears, groaning inwardly in despair when they began anew. “Don’t…”
He caught her lips then, unable to stand the sight of her—eyes bleary red, cheeks tearstained and puffy, hair askew—and crushed her even closer.
“No one ever told me I was beautiful before.”
“Why not?”
Hazel eyes blinked up blearily at him as their owner brought a fine glass to her lips, “Because. Everyone was always too busy with themselves.”
“Should I be honored then?” There was a slight twinkle to otherwise lifeless eyes.
“Yes. You should.”
“Then I am. You’re beautiful.”
“Say it with my name.”
He paused, setting down his glass, and pressed his smooth, cool hand at her cheek. He brought his face closer to hers, platinum hair brushing caramel. His breath was soft against her lips, and she closed her eyes in anticipation. He shifted slightly, pressing his lips to her ear, “You’re beautiful, Hermione.”
And that was all she needed to hear.
His hands found hers and held her fast, fingertips intertwining, thumb brushing against the underside of her trembling palm. He pressed his forehead against hers, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against him, and sighed. Merlin, but did he want to kiss her!
“I never understood why you and Potter never amounted to anything.”
Frail shoulders rose and fell in a detached shrug. “The Wonder Trio, was it? That’s what they called us.”
‘That’s what I called you.’
Hermione, as if reading his mind, gave an affirmative nod, “There’s something to be said about being surrounded by men…and never being minded.”
“They were intimidated, maybe?”
“No. They were just too different from me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…they were never lonely—being with someone was never just enough for me.”
Giving in to instinct, and knowing she’d pull away if she so desired, Draco pressed his mouth to hers, surrendering his pride as he kissed her. He could feel her resolve fading, dissipating as her hands found their way about his neck, a little sigh escaping her.
A smooth kiss was pressed to the base of his neck, the touch experimental…bemused. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered a night—when they were still at Hogwarts, when he had stumbled in on her and Potter. The two were a blushing fiasco, and—though he had seen nothing of what had transpired—they both threatened him at wand-point, should he say anything of what he had seen.
He never had. He’d never felt any real need to. As far as he’d been concerned, Potter and the Mudblood could have done as they’d liked; it bore no consequence on him. But his mind had been piquied since then. He’d pondered over Granger’s condition.
Over how she must have felt watching all those girls fuss over Potter at whatever thing he did.
Eight years later, he still couldn’t understand her blind devotion to the ‘Boy Who Lived.’ It ate at his male ego—made him bristle, even…but there was something that kept him from acting out upon it…and that was the fact that she was with him, then. And that Potter was miles away, getting hitched.
“Come upstairs.”
“Not here, Hermione.”
“Why not?”
“There are people watching—”
The young girl nodded vaguely, lost in the feel of Draco’s arms…in the sound of his voice.
“You know what’s funny?”
A handsome smile spread itself on attentive pink lips, “what’s that?”
“I’m not lonely anymore.”
Hermione was vaguely aware of Hedwig—aware that she still awaited a letter of response to Harry, aware that she shouldn’t be where she was…
But all she could rightly think of was the young man hovering above his, his hot kisses, and the whispered promise of his touch.
The young man’s smile widened. “You know…neither am I.”
End
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