A/N: I am revolving in my mind how to write the idea of Draco teaching Hermione how to fly because Flint said she couldn't even fly a broom – but that's the only parallel to my "Pain" universe. This has to do with "Fear of Flying". Remember Erica Jong, anyone?
In allusion to her book, which was quite spectacular in its time because of its explicitness, this story is likewise EXPLICIT and crude in its choice of words. BE AWARE
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Fear of Flying
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"Granger"
"No"
"You're coming with me."
"No"
"Yes"
"No, I don't want to."
There it was, Draco Malfoy thought. The wilfulness that made her so typically female but underlined her viridity. She denied what she didn't want to face, she simply refused to open her eyes to things she didn't want to see. He knew she wasn't a virgin anymore, but her behaviour very much supported that it hadn't been long. As an experienced woman she would have faced her challenges. A virgin closed her eyes and prayed that things vanished before she opened them again.
Oh, how he wanted to purge her from the limits of her mind and unleash the woman within and face the challenge that was him.
"You're too chicken, Granger, that's your problem."
She blustered: "What does chicken have anything to do with it?"
"Bok-bok-bok"
"You did NOT do the chicken to me."
"Booook?"
"That's it, Draco Malfoy, stop this immediately. I have work to do."
"No, you don't. Nothing that couldn't wait. I would know. I do the same work."
"That's beside the point. I don't want to come with you."
"You want to give a nitwit like Flint the opportunity again to discount you because you can't fly a broom like any normal witch?"
She scoffed. "I'm not responsible for his low level of intellect. I am a normal witch. I've acquired more knowledge about magical procedures and artefacts than many pureblood can claim. There are people who refuse to see it, but it's simply intellectual vacuum. And I don't care. Just because I'm a muggleborn doesn't mean I'll never fit in. I'll find my place."
Her very expression was a challenge. Dare me, Malfoy, it said. Dare say that I don't belong. He was wise enough not to jump on the cheap opportunity.
And here she brought it down to the old controversy of blood. Something he had long left behind and she knew it. He had already had his doubts when Voldemort had burdened him with his task to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore. But faced with certain death he couldn't allow his doubts to surface. Closer to the end of the war, though, faced with the inevitable, he had started to show his colours to the Order.
He'd had a heart-to-heart with Potter where he had started out sneering at the "Chosen-One-Who-Was Still-Around-Despite". But for once Potter had sneered back. And then the insults had flown like spells in a fight, in which Potter had finally gotten to him.
Draco didn't know how, but Potter had matured. He had called him out on his love for his family. Not the Malfoy name and fortunes, but the fact that he loved his mother, and even his father in a way, and didn't want any harm coming to either of them. By the end of their "conversation" Potter had laughed in his face and called him pathetic for being a normal man. And then he had slapped his shoulder – Draco had winced at the touch – and welcomed him to the Order.
He had tried hard to bring the Dark Lord down. It had earned him Potter's respect and so he was allowed to move amongst their circles deliberately. In the process he had learned the side of Granger her friends knew best. Describing procedures of Voldemort's inner circle he had learned quickly that nothing was complete before she asked her set of questions, which aimed precisely at the weakness of information. Her brilliant mind seeing through the logical holes in any narrative, her friends were only satisfied when she was.
Granger was the analytical mind, the puzzle and enigma solver. She tackled every problem with her infallible hunger for knowledge and compared each unknown with the knowledge in her immense mind. And so he learned to associate her leaning back with a satisfied exhale with the end of the interrogation and the passing of a test.
It took him several months to understand her modus operandi and its gaps. Because a strategist she might be, but the deeper revolving of an evil mind remained elusive to her virginal constitution.
It had enraged her at first when he pointed them out to her, the holes in her mental pattern. And they had been at loggerheads for weeks, hissing and spitting every time they met, just like old times at Hogwarts.
Eventually he had to admit that not only was he looking forward to their powerful exchanges, just as he had at Hogwarts. He also had to admit he had pinpointed her limits to her naiveté, her Gryffindor refusal to believe in evil and her virginal faith in the good in the world. And he wanted to erase them.
He knew she wasn't a virgin anymore because he'd had her.
It had been a thoughtless night, almost an accident. After another success in rounding up the remainders of Voldemort's regime, namely the Lestrange brothers, they had been drunk with victory, and a little tipsy, helping each other up the stairs. When she had wanted to say good-night on the second floor level of Grimmauld's place where she still shared a room with Ginny Weasley - if the Weaselette wasn't sleeping somewhere else, namely Potter's room, yeah, he wasn't blind, was he? Nor was he deaf -, he had kissed her hotly against the door and then pulled her with him to his third floor accommodations, and she had come willingly. Three times they had done it that night, two weeks ago, because they couldn't stop.
It had been wild and loud – they had cast a Silencing charm on his room – and disinhibited. They knew nobody would hear or disturb them and so they hadn't held back a thing.
Granger had surprised him. He knew he hadn't been her first. But experienced she was not. And yet, she hadn't been shy in demanding what she wanted. Despite her prudish and prickly demeanour and maiden attitude in day-to-day situations she had been quite able to enjoy the sex. Her bossiness apparently was an indicator that she went for what she wanted and it turned him on quite a bit.
Ever the quick learner, she had quickly responded to all his instructions and had equally quick decided what she liked best; and had tried out everything he had shown her with mounting curiosity and skill. And Merlin, had she blown his gasket. Literally.
Usually he carefully gauged what he would do and how far he could go with each girl he took out. Wine and dine, and date until he had explored her inner workings and motivation – which was ultimately to become the next Lady Malfoy – and then the chase was over and he dropped her because she became predictable and boring. But he always had to be extra cautious, lest she think he wanted to 'settle down' with her.
With Granger, he didn't need to be cautious. He had enjoyed the moment, with no thought of the morrow.
And so he had abandoned all thoughts of entrapment and all cares of what was to come and had just savoured the sensations and the moment for once. And so had she. He had felt his stomach muscles ripple when he moved and the smooth gliding when she moved with him and her legs tightness around his waist. He had heard the slapping of flesh and the squishing and the panting breaths and moans. He had doused his senses in her flowery smell and the mixture of sweet butterbeer and sharp firewhiskey and the tangy smell of sex. And when she had panted hotly against his jaw, which reminded him of her satisfied exhales, and squealed in delight and strangulated his prick in her cavern, he had come so hard that he saw stars. Three times.
He didn't understand it, but the fucks that night had become increasingly more spectacular. Perhaps it had been so good because they were entirely detached. It had been just a fuck on the spur of the moment, no promise of love or marriage, friendship even, or any commitment. Mindless, thoughtless, except for the pleasure.
But that didn't mean they didn't fuck well. Merlin's meandering monocles, did they ever.
Every time they had exhausted themselves and rested a bit and she had turned to gather her clothes and sneak back into her room, he had pulled her back, wanting to touch her warm skin again, and started over. He just couldn't stop. He knew there was going to be no tomorrow and he wanted to drag out the moment as long as he could. She had turned every time when he held her back and let herself be dragged in his embrace again with a smile.
And the next day, after she'd finally had snug out of his room when he'd fallen asleep in satisfied exhaustion, everything had been back to normal. She had behaved exactly as before, prissy and bossy, and nobody had asked any awkward question because everybody had nursed an equal headache and tried to avoid Hermione's loud voice as best they could. And so nobody had paid attention to the fact that Draco Malfoy felt increasingly hot under his collar whenever she was around.
Because he missed it. He'd only done it once with her, well, twice, okay, three times, but he missed the feeling of her apt hands on his cheeks, of her legs slung around his waist, the abandon rutting and the soft little sounds she made. Wasn't that unreasonable? How could you miss something before you'd gotten used to it?
But this was the way it was. After that night when they had crossed the border of sharing their bodies, if not their minds and souls, every time he was around her he felt like undressing her immediately and luring out those delicious sounds again she did that night.
Granger wasn't a wanton woman by any standards. Men did not want to pick her up because she dressed too sexily or wore her hair too wantonly, like other women he knew: on the contrary, if there was a more conservative dresser with worse hair Draco had yet to find her. He didn't understand it. How could she be the perfect virgin by day and the powerful lover by night?
And it was no use asking anybody – not that he would have embarrassed himself in doing so – but nobody saw her other as the perfect virgin they saw during the day. They wouldn't understand what he was asking.
Why was Draco so interested in Granger, he asked himself?
A valid question, because he didn't really want to entangle himself with Hermione Granger, despite the intrigue. They both knew that there would be no future for them. Their friends and families would never allow it. He might have changed sides and was helping to rebuild their society, but that didn't mean that all traditions and propriety had been abandoned. They had no "relationship" future. And he didn't even like her that much. She was still bossy and self-righteous and nagging and dragged on his nerves.
It would be immensely complicated and he could have used some respite after the trouble with the Dark Lord. But on the other hand, he couldn't quite let her go either. There was something entirely too enticing about her. It didn't leave his thoughts.
But he had his answer ready before the air of his question had evaporated: he was so interested because he had seen a Granger behind the Hermione Granger that everybody knew and adored for her virginal righteousness and logic – and it intrigued him to no end.
He had seen a woman who took what she wanted and enjoyed sex with a man who wasn't exactly suitable for her. And then the next day she had gone back to her role of almighty Virgin Mary who cared for every living thing in her glory and beatitude and was untouchable by a man. And her behaviour had made it very clear that their one night would stay exactly that and that she was not interested in a repeat.
And it irked him. He didn't know exactly why, but he felt as if she was lying to everybody, including herself, about who she really was.
And he wanted to expose her. He wanted everybody else to see her as a woman who didn't mind being impaled when the right man came along. Including she herself. And he wanted to claim the credit for her liberation.
There was no turning back once he sensed that kind of femininity within her, tempting him. Femininity where once he only saw anal bossiness and a bushy-haired, buck-toothed Know-it-all.
He wanted to break her out of her virginal shell. He thought he would be quite the man for it. It would likely be some kind of a fight, feisty as she was, but that intrigued him even more.
Draco Malfoy felt quite confident in his masculinity. He had plenty of experience with women and girls alike and was quite positively aware of it. And yet, when it came to Hermione Granger he wasn't sure if she wouldn't leave all his experience in the dust once she discovered the female power she held. A fact which made him a little nervous around her and had totally cured him of any ambiguous ideas he might have still clung to with regards to blood purity.
And a fact which lured him to her like the moth to the flame.
It lured him despite or perhaps because of the fact that Granger was the perfect antidote to mindless fucks. She was the typical person who would never do anything inconsiderate. She was the typical example of a person needing a relationship to base sex on and to make love. Everything else was a mistake not to be repeated.
The way she structured every meeting and every research she did; her bossiness that tolerated no objections, her know-it-all-ness, her staying on top of everything made her the prime example of an anal character; and her altruistic impulses to help magical creatures that didn't want to be helped, against their will so to say. It had to be rooted in her inability to integrate her libidinal forces into her persona which urged her to seek release in ever more creative ways. But it prohibited her from simply enjoying a friends-with-benefits relationship, he figured, which was something he considered himself. Likewise, her sense of herself, of her ancestry and her destiny in their world seemed so incredibly fixed. There was no room for anything unconventional.
Which he felt was proven by the fact that they kind of had avoided each other as much as possible after that night. Lest they did the same unthinkable mistake again.
Mindless fucking didn't fit into her orderly world. And yet, when he had pulled her she had come with him, and Dumbledore's doddering delight, it had been worth it.
Perhaps he could make it fit there.
As allured as he was by making her scream his name in abundant ecstasy, he wouldn't have minded doing it a few more times.
He knew she wasn't the kind of woman one would catch in a field of rye enjoying the pleasures of a union with nature because of her uptightness.
But just to imagine her in the throes of passion as he'd seen her that night made him break out in cold sweat and his breathing difficult against the tightness of his chest.
She wasn't there yet, but he wanted to be instrumental in her liberation.
Merlin, was it hot here?
Nothing a cooling flight on a broom couldn't fix.
This was the reason why he wanted her to go flying with him. It was some kind of power game, for he wanted to see if she would loose her mind once up in the air and became weakly female. On the other hand it was not, because he wanted nothing more but for her to discover her power and keep her control and be able to fly with him. The way she had discovered in the bedroom what she wanted, with him. It would mean that they were equal; that they could take and give equally. Seamless. Zipless.
She was an enigma as far as witches were concerned. A muggle-born but with the strongest power in any witch or wizard known in centuries, besides Dumbledore and yes, Voldemort himself. It made her out to be gawked at. It just wasn't normal.
But she still didn't deserve to be attacked, as Flint had done, even though she asked for it. By her alignment with Potter, she asked for being targeted as the infamous mudblood fighting to overthrow society rules as old as civilisation itself. There was only one way to rescue her from the vultures of the traditional wizarding world: to ingrain her as much as possible into the wizards' ways; to make her indelible from the public eye – and associate her with traditional wizards. Because as famous as Potter was, traditional he was not.
This was something Draco could do. He would make darn sure that he civilised her into society as far as he could to ascertain that people like Flint had no more opportunity to attack her for being foreign.
He would take care of it. He would save Hermione Granger from her narrow mind and virginal constitution. And save himself in the process. He would break her out of it. By making her fly. And then perhaps he could explain this soaring feeling he got every time he saw her.
He fixed her with a gaze he hoped was as sure as he wanted it to be. "Not even if it was really important to me?"
She quirked an eyebrow. "It's important to you if I learn flying from you?"
"Yes."
"Why?
He winced. "Because I love flying and I l…like you and either way, I miss one of you?"
By himself Draco thought that she wouldn't have to run away with him; that he didn't have to live with her on an isolated island, so, who cared if he lied through his teeth to get her to fly with him? Didn't he? Lie through his teeth? Yes, for a good cause. Because if she let loose with him she was likely to loose her innocence and end up in bed with him again.
Right. This was the goal. It had nothing to do with the fact that even though he thought she was a royal pain in his ass at times, if one wanted to know the truth, she would keep him on course, channeling his excess malicious energy by putting him down and exhausting him between the sheets. And thus, he would be able to humbly steer away from the evils of adulthood that had already been planted in him at a very young age.
If only he could make her loose that darn stubborn innocence.
"Draco!"
"Hm?"
"That's so sweet." She looked at him adoringly.
He winced again. She didn't believe he truly was in love with her. He didn't blame her for it. He didn't believe it either. But he couldn't quite tell her that he lusted after her sex-mouse persona that she hid from everybody, yes, including herself.
Love? No. Hm? What was love really anyway?
"So, you'll come with me?"
"Do I have to?" Hermione cowered and bit her lip.
"Yes."
She cowered some more.
Draco stepped close to her, as close as the broomstick in his hand allowed. "I won't let you fall." He kissed her hair covered temple. He had been much closer. He'd had his mouth on her. He was allowed this innocent intimacy. "You know I won't."
He put his hand on her cheek and stroked over her bitten lip with his thumb. "Please?"
When she still looked undecided, he kissed her softly and whispered "please" once more, against her lips.
Hermione sighed, unable to resist the pleading of this fine male specimen. "Oh, alright."
He smirked. "Great, Granger, let's go."
"What, right now?" she said flabbergasted.
"Of course right now. I won't let you chicken out again."
Her face darkened. "I did not chicken out, Draco Malfoy. I faced Voldemort. I fought grown-up Death Eaters. Hermione Granger doesn't do chicken."
"Bok-bok?" Draco made but very quietly.
He didn't want Hermione backing out in anger. Her self-righteousness was still spectacular. Even though her rage was delightful to him, he'd rather have her on a broom with him today. Soaring feeling and perhaps some touching. So, he just pulled her behind him out of the house, passing the drawing room on the way, where a lone dark-haired figure sat, studying a Dark Arts book intensely.
"Potter"
"Malfoy," the dark-haired figure greeted in passing. "Man, you're good. I've only been begging her for eight years to go flying with me. And you took what, five minutes?"
He didn't receive a reply as the addressed person was already in front of the house, coaxing Hermione in front of him on the broom.
"Alright, we'll skip the "Up". Just get on, take it between your legs, come on."
She followed his orders but stood very stiff over the broom. "Draco, this doesn't feel right."
"It will be alright, Granger, where's your courage?" he soothed her.
She shook her head. "No, I don't know. This feels weird."
He put his hands on her hips and said what he thought: "This feels amazing. Trust me, Granger. It will feel amazing."
"I just know it will hurt."
"It won't hurt, will you cut it out? Now, take it in your hands, smooth, there you go. Feel it vibrate under your hands."
"Is it normal that it vibrates so much?" Hermione asked nervously, biting her lips again.
"Absolutely. It feels its rider. Stay calm, Granger."
"Hm," Hermione did for lack of more protests.
"Now, when you're comfortable, pull it toward you and it will lift up. Just make it want to fly."
"That's the problem."
"What is?"
"I don't want it to fly!"
"Why, by Agrippa's agonizing ant bites, not?"
"I … I just don't."
"Hermione," he groaned. He raised his gaze to heaven, looking for divine empowerment. Why was he doing this again? "Look, you like magic, you like magical objects, some of them fly, you should like flying magical objects, why the heck don't you want to fly?"
"Because it's not natural."
Draco took one hand of the broom and rubbed over his forehead and face. Stubborness be damned. "Excuse me?"
Hermione bit her lip again, which he only saw because he saw the pouted upper lip from the side. He felt his own lips make the same moves because he was watching hers so intently.
"It's not natural to fly on broomsticks."
Draco hid his face behind her shoulder, inhaling involuntarily and enjoying the womanly scent. "So, the broom is the problem? Would you rather fly a dragon?"
"Been there, done that. But, no, it's too heavy. It shouldn't be flying either. Aerodynamics."
"A rod – what?" Shut up, you prick, he thought.
"Aerodynamics. Objects that are not made to fly shouldn't fly."
"Like Muggle airplanes, you mean? Tons of metal and steel and no natural wings?"
" ?-?-?"
"I thought so. They fly with magic, you know, these magical objects and beings. Safer than these Muggle thingies. You are familiar with magic, aren't you?"
"Yes," Hermione feeped.
"Very good. Then pick it up and fly, will you?" he snarled sarcastically.
" !-!-!"
"Granger."
" - - -"
"Bok-bok-bok"
"I'm not afraid."
"Right. Then go!"
"- - -"
Draco sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon. "Look, just hold onto me and I lift it, alright?"
When she nodded and grabbed his arms to the point of strangulation, he picked up his trusted broom and pulled it in the air.
She was sitting between his arms, his hands holding the broomstick, his warm body behind her back and Hermione didn't feel quite as terrified as she'd thought she would feel. The broom was hovering about three feet in the air. This wouldn't even hurt if it fell.
"This is not so bad."
"I'm glad this is such a hit," Malfoy commented surly. "Want to try yourself?"
"Oh, I don't know," Hermione squeaked.
"Go on, Granger, you hold it. We can't fall seriously."
Hermione put her hands on the stick between her legs and held it.
Nothing happened.
No wild bucking, no throwing her off, no scaring her, no pain, no blood, nothing.
'There you go, Hermione', she thought. 'Stay calm and you will learn. Just as you did the other night. It scared the heck out of you at first to go against your grain, but in the end it was quite enjoyable. You can do it.'
Even if it would just stop bloody Malfoy from aggravating her. Every time he riled her up, her hair stood on end and she couldn't back down. She could do this, biting her lip, if only not to admit defeat.
Oddly enough, it calmed her for whatever reason to be there with him. Just as it had surprised her that she was able to be so unreserved in bed with him, despite their usually aggravating interactions. He had seemed to enjoy their experience. Despite her certainty that this could have been only a one-time thing, as he wasn't likely to repeat it and risk being seen with her, she couldn't deny that it had opened up her horizon. She was certainly no expert, but she thought they'd had something good going that night, and it had changed her view a little about what was proper and what was right. If she thought about her first (few) fumbling times with Ron before they fell apart and this one night with Malfoy, she didn't have to be as exceptionally smart as she was to decide which one was better.
Perhaps she and Ron had tried too hard. Perhaps passion was perpendicular to friendship. Perhaps one couldn't be good friends and then discover the burning fires of passion for each other. But one could with a person with whom one had fought tooth and nail for years. Because the blood boiled already; only this time for a different reason.
Hermione Granger was not unsensical. She knew that Malfoy was not likely going to end up falling in love with her and propose. But she knew also that happiness was what you made it. And given that wizards and witches lived quite long lives, it didn't make sense not to have some fun on the way.
But she wasn't going to be his little toy. If he wanted to have her again, he would have to make the first move, she'd thought. And if not, he was not going to make fun of her for a night of equal pleasure. Because even though she was no expert, she was quite certain that Malfoy had a pleasurable night with her. The way he had squeezed his eyes shut when he came as if he was in pain and panted his firewhiskey smell in her face had driven that point home. She had liked it.
And so, she had given him no opportunity to insult her or make insinuations about what they had shared. It didn't mean, however, that she would avoid him like the plague. She would let him come closer, if he tried. She had seen his nervous glances when she entered a room he was already in, carefully hidden from everybody else and only known to her because she knew the reason. And she accepted his offer to teach her flying as a white flag.
"This isn't too bad," she admitted.
"Told you. I'm taking it a little higher."
"Whoa, Malfoy, easy does it."
They were rising slowly. When still nothing happened, Hermione gained more confidence. Why had she never done this before? Right, no incentive.
"Wow, nice view from up here."
"Do you want to try yourself?"
Hermione gulped and turned backwards into Draco's chest, which made him smile; involuntarily, but smile none the less. "You think, I can?"
Draco's smile morphed into a snort. "Granger, you're the world's smartest witch, of course you can."
"But this is different. This has nothing to do with knowledge. This is feeling and having no fear."
"What was it with facing Voldemort and not being afraid? Want me to do the chicken again?"
"No, I do NOT want you to do the chicken again." Hermione snapped at the annoying blond man.
He sighed. Why was he doing this again? Oh, right, to get into her knickers. "Tell you what. You hold on to me and the broom and see where it takes you."
Hermione furrowed her forehead. "Will that work?"
Draco grinned. "You'll see."
"Alright, then," Hermione huffed and turned around. She gripped the handle of the broomstick and behind her to a body part of Draco Malfoy. Thank goodness for zipless wizarding clothes.
"Ah, Granger, maybe not that …" Malfoy started but didn't finish his sentence. He exhaled slowly instead. It didn't feel all bad, after all. And he'd had her hands there before, on the body part. No, Draco, no thinking about that, he scolded himself internally. You want to make her fly, not yourself. You still need to be able to keep your wits, in case she crashes the broom.
Hermione, feeling confident, was all business. "Okay, if I pull it in, it goes up, if I push it out of my legs, it goes down, is that it?" Ha, she thought, nobody would ever say Hermione Granger didn't learn quickly. Very quickly. Even Malfoy couldn't deny it. Couldn't you, Malfoy? She couldn't suppress a smirk entirely.
"Yes," Draco croaked behind her. "With feeling, please."
"Right, feeling," she muttered. "Right means right, left makes it go left."
"Hoohoo," Draco moaned behind her, when she mirrored the movements on the broomstick on his body part.
"Okay, I'm pulling it up," Hermione decided determined.
"Hmmh," Draco groaned into her shoulder. "Easy does it, woaaah"
"Draco, what's wrong with you? Am I doing something wrong?" Hermione asked sternly. Honestly, he had wanted her to come flying with him. And now that she was getting the grip of it, he was moaning as if she was going down. That was the way he sounded, at least.
"No, not wrong per se …," Draco groaned.
"Alright, I'll practice, okay? Pull – up, push – down, pull – up, push – down, riiiight, leeeft, riiight, left – there, easy as pie."
Draco felt the sweat pearls on his forehead and the heat in his lower belly.
This was not good, this was so not good. If he lost control, who knew what would happen with the broom? He wanted her to lighten up but not over his dead body.
He started thinking about Severus Snape in a pink tutu, waltzing and kissing Rodophus Lestrange. Oh, for Rodolphus' roving rear, of all despicable, disgusting images, he would have to scourgify his brain when he was back down, but this should work!
And it didn't. Because Granger's gentle sure hands on his most sensitive body part made him think of the other times she'd had her small warm and apt hands on this body part, not to mention her mouth, and even Snape dancing Swan Lake with his bits dangling out didn't do the trick. Draco felt so screwed. He was losing it.
"Granger, perhaps, we should call it a day. You are doing so well, we should give it a rest and try again another day." Draco managed saying this under mastering every mental reserve he had.
Hermione furrowed her forehead. "What, now, when it's just starting to be fun? No, I don't want to stop."
Draco thought he would die, one little death at a time. He didn't want her to stop either. But they had to, or they would crash spectacularly. Not that he minded having Granger's warm hand on his prick as the last of his thoughts on earth, but he wouldn't have minded having a few more of those occasions before he died. He had to tell her. She was doing another practice round of pull-up, push-down, and he couldn't hold on for much longer.
"Granger.."
"Hm?" Up, down, up, down, up, down – hooo, almost.
"Hermione, take your hand of my prick."
"I – what?"
"Take your warm able hand out of my trousers and away from stroking my prick or we will die!"
Hermione tutted. "Draco, don't you think you exaggerate a bit? I'm doing so well."
"You do. You're doing too well," he growled. "In fact, you are doing so well that I will burst in another three strokes at the latest. You are a very talented witch and I really liked what we did the other night, but I'd rather experience it a few more times in my bed than out here on my broom for the last time in my life – because we will crash when I lose control."
"Nonsense," Hermione dared to defy him. He missed the gleam in her eyes at his words and couldn't see her determination. "We won't crash. In fact, I'll prove it."
"No, NO," Draco yelled, but it was too late. Hermione continued, focused on her goal to pull and push the broom and mirror her hand movements behind her, and Draco felt his vision blacken, his balls pull in and tighten, and then lights explode in front of his eyes when he climaxed spectacularly.
"Haa, haaa, haaaaa, I don't want to die, I don't want to die," he screamed, holding tight to the broom's stick and Hermione.
Hermione was calm. "Draco, let go, you're scaring the broom. It's shaking down to its bristles."
"I … what … oh, Merlin, we are still flying."
Hermione snorted. "Of course, we are still flying. Did you think I would do this if I didn't know what I was doing? I am Hermione Granger. And I don't want to die, either. I didn't survive Voldemort, only to snuff it in a flying lesson."
"Oh, Salazar's dangly bits, I love you."
Hermione sniggered. "You say that quite a bit. Watch out or I'm starting to believe it. But since you seem to lose control on a broom, I expect you to continue what I started in the bedroom. I don't want you to touch me up here. I can't trust you not to crash us when I come and you lose control."
"Yes, Mistress," Draco wheezed. "Everything you say."
Draco just had enough time to store his bits inside his pants and trousers again before Hermione had brought the broom safely down again. When they touched down, she jumped off and waited for Draco to unfold his shaky legs gingerly.
"I'll go on ahead," Hermione smirked at him. "You know where I'll be." She came very close to his face and kissed him fiercely on his mouth. "Don't take too long or I'll get started without you."
"Yes, Hermione," Draco replied feebly before his knees buckled.
Oh, god, had she just taken his prick in hand and flown his broom at the same time? And there had been nothing naïve about it. Had he underestimated her? Did she only look innocent? Perhaps he had misinterpreted the focus of the challenge?
Apparently. Getting started without him, he? Images of Hermione with certain natural accessories assaulted his brain: not only hands and fingers, but in ascending order, a gherkin, a carrot, a sausage, a cucumber. It twitched in his trousers again.
Oh, Merlin, he wasn't even sure if he was going to make it to the bedroom, which was on the third floor. He had to try though. He heaved himself up.
Making his way around the side of the house to the broom shed on his shaky legs, he heard Mrs Figgedy the elderly neighbour pass and complain loudly about the size of bird poop that fell out of the sky nowadays. In her time, even impudent birds behaved better. Never had a bird spoilt her hat like that before. The gall. She was going to write a letter to the city hall and would send this spectacular specimen of bird poop enclosed, as evidence. That would teach them.
Draco swallowed and hid in the shadow of the side of the house. He didn't want to explain to Mrs. Figgedy which particular bird …
Anyway.
Trudging back into the house after Mrs. Figgedy had passed, Draco heard Hermione prancing proudly up the stairs, humming to herself. She must have stopped in the kitchen. Cucumber green clouded his vision. He swallowed.
When she passed the doorway to the Drawing room, he heard Potter call out: "Hey, Hermione, how did go?"
He heard her turning back, digging her head in and beaming from ear to ear: "Very well, Harry, thank you. Draco thinks next time I can do it on my own." She left the doorframe and floated up the stairs.
"I bet he does," Harry mumbled. "Well, Malfoy?" he addressed the blond former Slytherin who had come behind, walking a little stiffly.
Draco leaned against the doorframe and faced his former enemy. He looked his usual git self, with his trademark annoyed arrogant sneer. The only difference was that he went easy on his mid-section a little, as if it had been in good use, not to say over-use.
"Well, you will be glad to know that Hermione lost her fear of flying." Then with a nod, he turned and stumbled up the stairs, after Hermione.
"I bet she did," Harry mumbled, turning a page. "I bet she did." And then he couldn't hold back the smile spreading over his face. Who would have thought that Malfoy would be the one to ease Hermione's transition into womanhood?
He quickly cast a silencing charm up the staircase. Just in case.
A/N: I've sprinkled references to Jong's book and two other books from the same time throughout the story. Kudos for you if you find them. All three books have to do with awakening adulthood and sexual liberation. ;-)
Hope you liked it. Leave me a note if you did. My family is hungry. I have to post now or it won't go up for another two weeks because I'll over-edit it.