Author's note (April 2018):
1) Disclaimer: I lay no claim on JK Rowling's genius, and am ever thankful to get to play around with the amazing characters she's created.
2) I've made some rather noticeable edits to this story, especially of this first chapter. The plot is still generally the same, but the emotional dynamics are slightly different. Also, there were some parts I had to clean up because they made me wince when I was re-reading. I like it better now, and I hope you do too.
3) WARNING: This story depicts scenes of a sexual nature, which are at times violent and can be construed as dubious consent. Please proceed with caution if this could be a trigger for you.
CHAPTER 1
He earns eleven NEWTs after returning to Hogwarts. Not that it matters. No one wants to offer a future, not even a dim one, to an ex-Death Eater. Especially not Dumbledore's purported assassin, the boy who let the Dark Lord's forces into Hogwarts.
By the time graduation passes, all three Malfoys have been acquitted. Not that this matters either. In the court of public opinion, they may as well have been hung.
Back in the manor, dark memories linger throughout his childhood home. The dungeons where the screams of innocent Muggles echoed as Voldemort's more sadistic followers had gleefully practiced dark curses. The long, formal dining table, where the Dark Lord and his inner circle had obsessively plotted the demise of a seventeen-year old boy. The ballroom in which his maniacal aunt had brutally tortured then sliced up one of his muggle-born classmates. Even his own bedroom wasn't safe, for it was where he had cowered and resented himself for middling between the wrath of a homicidal dictator and his own loss of innocence.
When Pansy and Blaise announce that they're going to Australia to escape the stigma, at least for the Southern Hemisphere summer, he packs his bags immediately to join them.
His friends are not recognized in wizarding Sydney, but his tell-tale Malfoy platinum hair earns him frequent glares. He uses glamours to darken his hair and alter his face daily, wears long sleeves, and avoids telling anyone his family name.
They move into a penthouse beside the South Pacific coast. Draco likes the modern finishes and sleek lines of the architecture – day if the manor is night. He also likes that it's outside of the magical world.
They spend a few days each week lounging on the muggle beach a stone's throw away from their quarters. He and Blaise learn to surf, while Pansy works on her tan and reads. Everyone is surprised at how bronzed Draco's porcelain skin gets.
Evenings are spent exploring the nightlife in both wizarding and muggle Sydney. They sip spirits and smoke weed on their patio, conversing to a backdrop of darkness and crashing waves until reds and oranges tinge the sky. For weeks, they move from one high to another, and chase it all down with vials of dreamless sleep. Drugged up and nightmare-free, he feels... normal, like the debaucherous teenager he would have been if Voldemort's rise hadn't impinged so disastrously on his adolescence.
Sex helps too, another pleasant distraction to take the edge off. It's an unspoken rule that hooks-up with each other are off-limits. And anyway, barely a month passes before Pansy becomes enamored with a tall, dark-haired, Australian half-blood and takes herself off the market.
"It's just for the summer," she says. But they've never seen her so happy. His name is Trevor, and she forbids either of her friends from mentioning the pureblood supremacist nature of her parents. Blaise and Draco shrug. The war is over. And they've literally run away to Australia to escape the shackles of their parents' dark ambitions.
Trevor becomes an unofficial fourth roommate. The guys like having him around. He's particularly helpful during their forays into muggle Sydney. They're floored by the vastness, complexity, and technologies of the muggle world. When Trevor introduces them all to the mobile phone, complete with touchscreens and the "Internet," Pansy becomes enamored with something called "Instagram," while Blaise spends a curious amount of time using something called "Tinder." And Draco, well, he's enamored with the anonymity the muggle world affords him.
Unlike Blaise, who always seems to be falling for one woman or another, Draco sticks to one night stands. He doesn't think he could stomach showing up to date number four still disguised with glamours, or explaining how his real last name is one internationally synonymous with bigotry and illegal magic.
So he settles for the not-too-shabby consolation prize of adding notches to his bedpost. He usually gets to know them a little first. That way he can have at least a little sincerity when he tells a woman how incredible and intelligent and gorgeous she is. He gets a rush from the sort of intimacy he gets in return, where he feels cared for and adored, if only for a few hours. On some level, he knows it's cruel to make promises he can't keep, but he can't help it. In those moments, when they look at him like he's prince charming, fucking almost feels like love.
One night, in March, Draco finds himself alone. Pansy and Trevor are out celebrating their two-month anniversary. Blaise is on a date with his latest flirtation, an Elvira or Alicia or something of the sort. Feeling all too sober and lonely, Draco decides to go out on his own. He's become accustomed to well-crafted muggle cocktails and particularly likes those served at high-end hotel bars.
The bartender smiles sweetly at him as she sets his drink down. Draco looks her up and down, as he hands her a credit card. She's tall and lithe. He can imagine her small breasts bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts. Those long legs wrapping around him. She'll do.
As he sips his drink, a familiar voice travels to his ears from a few seats down. Dread tingles behind his ears as he turns and sees Hermione Granger. She's talking to a man, who looks to be her father or an uncle, acting significantly less swotty and bossy than he remembers.
He looks down into his drink, and thinks back to his training with Snape. He slows his breath and wills his heart to stop pounding blood in his ears. Tonight, his hair and eyes are both dark brown. His brow and nose are thicker and wider. His ex-schoolmate is unlikely to recognize him, so there is no reason to run.
Still, her presence unnerves him. Granger, of all people to appear from his past. The bravest, cleverest muggle-born, the princess of the Golden Trio, the goddamn antithesis of his cowardly, pureblood Death Eater self. What the hell is she doing here?
He pulls out a few bills and sets them beside his unfinished drink. He pulls out his phone and pretends to look at it as he gets up to leave. One foot in front of the other. He glances at her as he walks past. Her hair is in graceful curls that cascade past her shoulders. Her dress is backless and holy shit, is the man putting his hand there? Draco stops in his tracks and gapes as her companion runs his hands down to her arse. His eyes further widen when she runs her hand over his thigh and whispers something in his ear.
So definitely not her father then. Or her uncle.
Draco leans in closer to hear better.
"-promise I'm worth every penny, baby."
He blinks as her tongue darts out flicks the older man's earlobe.
Draco computes the situation the best he can. Instead of skipping down Diagon Alley with Potter and Weasel in all the weekly parades Wizarding Britain is likely to be throwing the heroes who vanquished the Dark Lord, Hermione Granger is whoring herself to a not-very-attractive older man in muggle Sydney. What the holy fuck?
Then, his inner Slytherin sees an opportunity. Once the idea forms, he can't get it out of his head and he acts before the practical, non-inebriated parts of him can protest properly.
He quickly glances at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, satisfied that he looks nothing like the boy Granger had known.
"Excuse me."
Granger gelares at the stranger who interrupts her sales pitch, while her elderly companion suddenly looks quite skittish. Draco holds back a smirk as the man quickly withdraws his hand from her bum.
"Yes?" she bites out.
"Excuse me, miss, but I just want a word with your friend here," he drawls. "Sir, don't I know you from somewhere? I think my mum and your wife are part of the same garden club."
The man moves to stand, blatantly avoiding eye contact with Draco. "No, I don't think so young man. Sorry, miss, but I have to uh – erm, well the drinks are on me." He quickly fishes out a few bills and strides out of the bar.
Granger's glare intensifies. "What's your problem?"
Draco slides into the seat occupied by the other man. "Oh come now, is that the proper way to speak to a potential customer?"
Her eyes soften somewhat, but her lips remain pursed. "From where I'm sitting, you've only been bad for business so far."
He shrugs. "What's your name?"
"Lara," she responds without missing a beat.
His eyes narrow at the pseudonym, but who is he to judge. He isn't even wearing his own face at the moment.
"Well, Lara. I'm Drew. And I apologize for scaring off your friend there, but I was rather interested in you myself, you see."
"And what makes you think I'd be interested in you?"
"That old guy versus me?" he scoffed. "Come on. I have to be the lesser evil."
She remains silent as he motions for another Manhattan. The bartender doesn't wink at him this time when she slides him the drink.
"You're rather presumptuous, aren't you?" she says slowly, sipping her own drink. "And arrogant."
"Most girls prefer handsome guys their own age rather than old, rotund sweaty types with receding hairlines."
She rolls her eyes. The gesture is so very Granger.
"So you think you're handsome."
"You don't think so?"
"Looks aren't everything."
"Oh, I know," Draco grins in spite of himself. "I know exactly what you working girls want in a man and I promise you won't be disappointed in the size of my … assets."
Her nostrils flare slightly. She signals to the bartender. "At least get a girl drunk before you tell her what she looks for in a man."
They don't speak as the bartender pours them each a new beverage. He gets a bourbon neat and she gets an extra dirty vodka martini.
"So you're saying you can afford me," she says, as she eats an olive.
He watches her reddened lips wrap themselves around the garnish. He's seen that same mouth twisted open in agony, her petite body convulsing in pain he knows first hand to be excruciating.
"Why so prickly, Lara? You might make a guy think you're not interested."
Her voice is hushed when she speaks. "Of course I'm interested. As long as you're paying. It's a thousand an hour. Ten grand overnight. Extra charges may apply"
Draco whistles and grins. "Do you take credit card?"
She gives him a small smile in return that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course."
She becomes less chilly once he agrees to her terms.
It's not that he particularly wants to fuck Granger, though he isn't about to give up such an opportunity either. Plus, he's pretty damn curious about the hows and whys of her situation.
His stomach growls and he starts to regret drinking on an empty stomach, but he orders them both shots of tequila anyway.
Getting drunk with Granger is different than he expects. He's always known her to be proper, and moral, and itching to show off everything she knows about everything.
The Lara-version of her is softer and duller, like a caricature of a seductress.
"I want to taste you," she says. She touches his thigh and leans in close enough for him to smell that she's not wearing any perfume. He lets her brush her lips against his, her tongue darting out gently to sample his lime-stained mouth.
He briefly acknowledges that there will be a special place in hell for him – Death Eater and defiler of Gryffindor's muggle-born princess.
They stop by the front desk for him to reserve the penthouse suite.
Champagne and a charcuterie plate are sent upstairs. As he eats, she takes his credit card and swipes it on a small attachment to her phone. Muggles, he thinks. So efficient with transfers of funds.
She hands him back his card, then hooks her phone up to the music player by the nightstand. A song comes on with a sultry voice and a retro beat. He watches as she steps out of her heels and sways back and forth to the music, occasionally sipping the chilled champagne. She looks older with her smoky eyes, rouged cheeks, and slinky dress, but he catches glimmers of the Granger from Hogwarts underneath.
He finds a slightly crushed joint in his wallet and they share it on the balcony.
"What's a fellow Brit like you to Australia?" he asks.
"England got a bit… suffocating after a while. And besides, my parents are here and I'm visiting them."
He has a flashback of Voldemort lauding the Lestranges' massacre of the Bones family and nods.
"So shouldn't you be spending time with Mummy and Daddy? Not skulking about with bad men in hotel rooms?"
"Are you a bad man?"
"The worst."
She snorts. "I highly doubt that."
"Know a lot of bad men, do you?"
"Something like that."
She takes a deep hit from the joint and coughs. He hands her the champagne bottle and she swigs directly from it, though the bubbles do little to soothe her aching throat.
He smirks as her eyes glaze over.
"What brings you to Sydney, Drew?" Her words are slow and slurred.
He sips a hit from the tail end of the joint and tosses the rest from the balcony.
"Surf. And sun."
"Right. A bit of a trust-fund baby, aren't you?"
She's studying him with wide, dark eyes, still coughing slightly.
He laughs. "So to summarize… so far, you've told me that I'm an arrogant and presumptive spoiled brat, but not the worst man you've ever met. Is that right?"
She refills both their glasses of champagne. "Doesn't seem wrong."
"You're the worst whore I've ever met, you know? Shouldn't you be kissing my arse a bit more? I'm certainly paying you enough."
"Is that what you want?"
He keeps his expression light. "I'll take whatever you want to give me, Lara."
Somehow, she ends up in his arms. Together, they sway to the faint notes of music audible from the room. The moon is out. Faintly, they can hear and smell the ocean over the sounds of the city. It's almost romantic. He briefly thinks about how she'd react if she knew who he really was.
He insists that the lights are off when they disrobe. Good thing Dark Marks don't glow in the dark.
Her mouth is hot on his throat and her fingers are gentle as she runs them across his chest, over his abs, and down to his belt.
He finds the small knot keeping her dress up at the base of her neck. A quick pull and the top pools around her hips. Her skin is the softest he's ever felt, but that could be the high talking. Her breasts are larger than he expected, soft handfuls of womanliness topped with hardened, sensitive nubs.
She makes a breathy, desperate sound when his mouth wraps around one nipple while his fingers tease the other. He moans, and maybe she does too, when she slips a hand into his boxers and thumbs the head of his cock. He lets her pushes him into a chair and fuck, her mouth is so hot and velvety around him. She swirls her tongue around his frenulum and then brings her head down so that he's pushed against the back of her mouth. His fingers are in her hair, guiding her as gently as he can. Up and down, then right there into that tight part of her throat. She pushes against his hold slightly, so that she can swirl her tongue around him, moaning vibrations against his sensitive rod. He groans when he can faintly see in the dark that one of her hands is rubbing furiously between her own legs.
He reaches down and holy shit, she is soaking wet and so, so warm. In that moment, with alcohol and THC coursing through his body, his cock down her throat, and his fingers inside her hot, tight, sopping core, none of their history matters. All that matters is how she's pushing at the flesh behind his balls and the heat of mouth around his cock and the way she keeps sucking even after he spills down her throat.
"Wow," he breathes. She grins up at him and clumsily swigs what's left of the champagne.
He stands and pushes her towards the bed.
"Your turn," he says before dipping his head between her legs. As his tongue hits her clit, her back arches, pushing her pussy harder against his mouth.
Vaguely, he registers her moans. "Please please please. Don't stop."
He lazily explores the texture of her folds and the hardness of her small clit with his tongue. He delights in her wetness as he tunnels one digit inside of her, groaning in satisfaction at how her cunt squeezes around him.
"More, please." He loves how desperate she sounds.
Slowly, he puts two, then three fingers inside her, curling them up to that special spot, all the while sucking gently on her clit. Her moans increase in volume and her words become unintelligible.
He's fully hard again by the time he feels the signs of her burgeoning orgasm - her cunt throbbing around his fingers, her juices spilling onto his hands. He pulls away before she can fully climax, smirking at the whimper she makes in disappointment.
He stands and pushes her down. Then, he's on top of her, thrusting until he's fully sheathed by her dripping, clenching cunt.
"Wait… Stop. Condoms are… non…negotiable." He can tell she's trying to sound authoritative, but her words come out breathy and disjointed by his thrusts. With anyone else, he would have stopped immediately, but this is Granger beneath him, and he's not about to let rubber interfere with this stolen experience.
They are wizards after all, and he's sure she knows all the proper spells to cast in the afters. Instead, he spreads his fingers, still wet from her pussy, around her jaw and cheeks, cupping her face possessively. Easily, he shifts his weight on top of her and kisses her deeply, thrusting his tongue against hers with the same rhythm he's burying himself inside her below.
"Please… stop… we need to use… condom," she's saying against his mouth, but her arms are around him now, running her fingers across his back muscles.
He threads one hand through her now very tangled hair, and the other over her throat, groaning against the arch of her neck.
"Shut up," he says and to his surprise, she only moans in response. He kisses her right cheek, then her left, then down to her collarbone. With each kiss, he slips a small lick against her skin. She tastes deliciously of sweat and pussy and the very thought that this is Granger bucking beneath him, squeezing his arse, wrapping her legs around him – he has to slow his thrusts to avoid cumming too early. He wants to savor this surreal pleasure with Hermione Granger.
"God," she breathes against his ear. "I can feel you getting even bigger. Ohhh -"
In the blackness, her dark blue form writhing beneath him is quite possibly the sexiest thing he's ever seen. He rises to his knees, pulling her legs around his hips so he has more force behind his thrusts. His eyes rove over the bounce of her breasts, the way her hands tightly fist the sheets, the tilt of her pelvis to draw him in deeper. He pounds her hard enough to leave bruises on both their bodies.
Her orgasm is loud and wet, almost painful as her channel throbs heavily around his cock. He stills and silently recites the properties of polyjuice potion to distract himself, but it's not enough to keep from spurting his release.
"Fuck," he breathes, half in frustration at his loss of control, half in holy shit, he's just come inside of Hermione Granger.
He stays above her long after their climaxes are over, content with the gentle pulsing of her core. She doesn't seem to mind. She traces her fingers lightly over the back of his neck and presses light kisses against his jaw.
Even soft, he manages to stay buried in her as he shifts to the side, turning her so they face each other on the still made bed. They kiss languorously. He feels her lips turn upwards against his, and then her hand between his legs massaging his balls.
When she rests her head against his chest, he cringes at how reverent he is of her right now. Being with her is nothing like being with anyone else. He can't bring himself to launch in his usual routine of pretty words to solicit fleeting adoration. He wouldn't mean it the right way, given that he's only ever hated her for her goodness. And he doesn't want her doe-eyed and sweet anyway. He wants the Granger he knows - the overachiever, the manipulator, the spine of steel.
"Are you this much of a slut for all of your Johns?"
He thrills in the way she stiffens beneath him, and her response certainly doesn't disappoint.
"Why? Want me to tell you you're special? That only you can make me cum like this?"
He growls and pulls out. "You really are the worst whore ever." He pushes her onto her back again, and plunges two fingers into her cunt.
"You… don't… seem … to … really… mean … that." Her words are haughty but his effect on her is unmistakable. She cums in a messy splash in less than thirty seconds.
He continues to drive his fingers inside of her, occasionally flicking her clit with this thumb.
"Go ahead," he says against her ear, when she cums again. "Tell me I'm special."
With some effort, she manages to pull his fingers from between her legs and rises to her knees to straddle him. She slowly drags his hand over her smooth, flat belly, then across her full, soft breasts, and finally to her lush, open mouth.
She sucks his index finger between her lips, with a flourish of her tongue.
"You – " Now, she's sucking his middle finger, all the way to the back of her throat. "Are. Very." She licks his palm decadently. "Special."
Merlin, somehow, he's rock hard again already.
"Maybe you're not such a bad whore after all."
She doesn't respond, though he can feel her body tensing. He likes that she's uncomfortable. It makes him feel more in control as he flips her around onto her knees and drives into her from behind.
From this position, she feels impossibly tight. Her face is pressed into the mattress, muffling her moans. He pulls her head back by her hair with one hand, and harshly pinches her nipples with his other.
Her words are barely intelligible, partly because she can't stop moaning, and partly because blood is pounding in his ears. She says something like, "Is that the best you can do?"
He drops his hold on her and she falls like a rag doll onto the mattress, still impaled on his cock. He grips her hips hard enough to leave marks, and he thinks with satisfaction how many healing charms she'll have to use to erase him from her body. The thought makes him thrust harder.
For good measure, he bites down on her shoulder and palms both her breasts roughly when he cums. He manages to register that she's there too, quivering tightly around his cock. He stays bent over her for long minutes, panting heavily from possibly the greatest orgasm of his life.
Eventually, he registers something hot and wet drip on to his arms, which are still wrapped tightly around her shaking body.
Tears?
Shit. He's made her cry.
He pulls away stiffly, disgusted with himself for losing control in this way, but she squeezes his arms to keep them around her.
"Sorry," she says quietly, her voice tinged with a sob.
He's flabbergasted. "Why are you sorry?"
"I mean –" She tries to speak, but she can't stop crying.
He holds her while she struggles to restrain her sniffles. "Shhh…" He says, in his best imitation of someone offering comfort to a tearful lover. "Don't apologize. I shouldn't have hurt you like that."
She only sobs harder, her petite body shaking in his embrace. Then, she's… laughing?
"What –"
"I mean …. I'm sorry…. You didn't hurt me…. I don't know why I was crying…" she manages to get out between giggles. "And now, I don't know why I… can't… stop… laughing."
He notices her flesh is now covered in goosebumps, so he moves the blankets around them so they're both under the plush, goose-down comforter.
"You must think I'm insane," she says, when her giggles are finally quieted.
He doesn't respond, instead opting to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. He feels infinitely weary from this night he knows he didn't deserve. From the endless adrenaline rush that was fucking Hermione Granger. And though the practical part of his brain is telling him to get up and get the fuck out of there, the rest of him sinks into the comfort of curling up around her. Of the kisses she peppers on his forearms. And of the vulnerability in her soft voice as he drifts away from consciousness.
"Somehow, you make me feel… more than I have in a long time."
He's sure it's just another line she uses to get bigger tips from clients, but sleep overtakes him before he can argue.
Draco is used to waking up from nights of drunken debauchery, but his body and cock have never been quite this sore. Nor has he ever been this… paralyzed? Startled, he realizes he's rigid, and not in a good way, from an expertly cast Petrificus Totalus. He is also completely naked.
Before him, Hermione Granger is fully clothed, sitting in a chair she's pulled up beside the bed.
"About time you woke up, Malfoy." She spits his name like it's toxic.
Fuck.
END OF CHAPTER 1
AN: I haven't written anything in forever and would really appreciate feedback! Thank you, lovely readers! :)