Post-Hogwarts, AU. Hermione is seeking pain relief.
The epilogue never came into existence, and I do not claim these characters as my own. I just like to stick them in small spaces together and see what happens.
Hermione winced and pulled her shoulders back into the plush armchair. This week at the Ministry had been particularly desk-heavy, and she had finally given in to Molly Weasley's insistent prodding and booked herself in to Diagon Alley's version of a chiropractic clinic. Her father's best friend was a massage therapist, but Hermione was curious as to how it differed in the wizarding world. She took heed of Molly's warnings and avoided the spinal Healers (It can't be good, manipulating the bones like that), instead taking an appointment with a Healer specializing in muscle therapy.
Said muscles in the centre of her back began to throb, and she leaned forward, elbows digging into kneecaps. Who knew office jobs could be so painful? She had tried earnestly to set up her workstation to be ergonomically appropriate, but obviously something wasn't right. Maybe it was the way she liked to lean one elbow on the armrest or slide her bum down in her chair so she could lean fully against the backrest and think. Whatever the reason, hopefully regular sessions with this massage specialist would keep the discomfort at bay. Magnesium pills and anti-inflammatory potions (if there was an ambassador for the clumsy mating of Muggle and magical ways of life, Hermione was certain she would fit the bill) only helped for so long, if at all.
The timid secretary appeared from behind her counter, breaking Hermione out of her reverie.
"Excuse me, Miss Granger, but Healer Stefanovic had to Apparate home for an emergency. Would you like to reschedule or see someone else?"
Hermione grimaced, marveling at her luck. "It's okay, I'll see someone else." She groaned, kneading her shoulder.
"We have only one other muscle specialist, Healer-"
"It's all right! I'll see them," Hermione interrupted rudely, throwing in an apologetic smile at the last second. "As long as they can help ease my back, I don't care who it is."
A cool voice floated from one of the offices, making Hermione freeze mid-stretch. "You might want to wait before you say such things, Granger."
Her eyes popped open. Smirking from the doorway stood none other than Draco Malfoy in all his tall, skinny, cold-eyed glory. She felt her cheeks turning pink, but scowled hotly at him in response.
"Forgive me if you were the last person I'd expect to see in an industry where murdering people is frowned upon."
The secretary blinked several times before bustling back to her desk at lightning speed, concentrating heavily on the parchment scattered upon it. Hermione wondered if Malfoy was prone to violent, terrifying outbursts even now, but his smirk only grew wider.
"Shall we?" he gestured dramatically at the dimly lit office behind him. Hermione swallowed, finding herself between a rock and a hard place. She mentally weighed the pros and cons of following the former Slytherin into his lair, a rather lopsided battle.
Curse me and my big mouth, she thought darkly, wondering why she never listened to Harry and Ron when they reminded her that sometimes it was good to think before you speak.
With an exaggerated sigh, she pulled herself to her feet, making sure her eyebrows remained knitted together, thus conveying her distaste at the situation. If she turned and ran away (like she very much wanted to), she would look petty and immature after declaring so wisely that she didn't care who the Healer was. Plus, she would probably strain her back even further and would then find herself back at square one.
Malfoy's grin would have made the Cheshire Cat proud, and it didn't falter in the slightest as she dragged her feet into his office and fell into a chair by the desk. He closed the door behind them and waved his wand back and forth across it several times. Hermione heard the unmistakable click of the locking mechanisms and noted the silence that fell on them. A sound-proofing charm? Her eyes widened. What noises did he expect her to make?
She took his distraction as an opportunity to scrutinize his workplace. The room was quite large, complete with a set of well-stocked bookshelves and a comfortable looking couch in the centre of the pale, thickly carpeted floor. The walls were a pleasant shade of caramel that felt cosy and inviting when lit only by the lamp that hovered above the corner of Malfoy's desk. When coupled with the varying white and beige tones of his furniture, the whole effect was one that promoted relaxation and healing - unless you were Hermione Granger, who felt compelled only to chew her bottom lip and fidget nervously.
When he was satisfied with the isolation of his office, Malfoy turned on his heel and followed her to the desk, folding himself smoothly into the huge chair located behind it. He tapped a large peacock quill with his wand, and it trembled slightly before hovering over a piece of blank parchment. This left him free to lean back in his spacious leather throne, his fingers steepled like a movie villain as he stared at her in amusement.
"What can I do for you, Miss Granger?" he asked with a voice as smooth as his meticulously groomed hair. Hermione knew he was somehow mocking her, and her scowl returned.
"I have a sore back," she said dryly, as the quill began to scrawl across the parchment. He made a show of nodding and looking inquisitive.
"Would I be correct in assuming you work for the Ministry?"
"Indeed you would."
"Something with plenty of administrative duties?"
"Aye."
He nodded again, and peered at the parchment. "I see you booked a one-hour appointment, so what I'll-"
"Why in the name of Merlin did you become a Healer?" Hermione cut in, unable to keep the incredulity out of her voice. Apparently she was magnificently void of manners this afternoon.
A slight frown adorned Malfoy's flawless forehead, and he sighed. "Perhaps I want to feel up sweaty Quidditch players and grumpy office wenches every working day for the rest of my life," he said casually. Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke before she could.
"Or perhaps I have always appreciated the human form, and the way the skeletal muscles operate with such order and precision to coordinate every tiny movement that we make. Being a Healer was secondary, as it's an easy profession to enter if you have the Galleons and at least half a brain."
Finally, the Malfoy she knew from Hogwarts. This new version was unsettling, with his crisp white shirt (unbuttoned strategically at the base of his pale throat) and complete lack of vulgarity. She rolled her eyes at him, feeling more apt to deal with the spoiled rich brat she remembered.
He grinned again, suddenly, and she had the impression she was on the Titanic in a sea of icebergs. It didn't bode well.
"But enough about me," he drawled, the leather chair creaking in protest as he rose to his feet, motioning for her to stand before the couch that beckoned so pleasantly from the middle of the room. "Why don't we get started?"
He flicked his wand at the loveseat and transfigured it into a soft-looking massage bed. A pile of plush bottle-green towels appeared folded at the bottom end, except the one that threw itself unceremoniously at Hermione's chest. She was slightly impressed, though she tried hard to keep that out of her expression.
"Take off everything except your skirt and knickers, and that includes jewelry," he said from somewhere behind her. Heat rushed to Hermione's face, and she turned to look at him in horror. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask what else she expected.
"This may be a magical clinic, but I'm still going to have to actually stimulate you with my hands. And that won't work if I'm rubbing you through fifteen layers of clothing," he stated matter-of-factly while inspecting his fingernails.
Hermione felt dizzy behind the intensity of her blush, but she couldn't help but take the opportunity to notice how fit Malfoy looked in his grey designer slacks, hanging low on his slim hips while remaining tight in all the right places. She realized he wasn't the skinny adolescent she remembered; he seemed to have grown into his height, in a way that made her regret that he used to make her life miserable. Suddenly his (no doubt intentional) word choice became very inappropriate, as she thought of those long, slender fingers pressing into her skin and probing some of her more sensitive places. And by that she meant her back and neck, of course.
With another trademark smirk (she wondered if he had a daily quota or if she was simply more amusing than his usual patients) he conjured a flimsy privacy screen between them. Muttering darkly to herself, Hermione began to remove her cardigan. When her torso was completely naked, she placed her clothes and wand on the chair and shivered, wondering what came next.
"Face down on the table," came his voice, firm and suspiciously close to the screen. She could see his lean silhouette through the plastic and, to her further embarrassment, she liked it.
Stop that! It's Malfoy. Your Healer fantasy has never been more unwelcome, she scolded herself, before laying face down on the table as instructed. A headrest appeared in front of her and she settled her face into it, thankful she wouldn't have to look at him.
The privacy screen rustled as Malfoy made it disappear, and she heard his faint footsteps on the carpet. All the tiny hairs on her back prickled as he drew close to the bed, and she knew he was looking at her. She trembled slightly and held her breath, trying and failing to wish away the small twinge of arousal that followed as she imagined his eyes roaming the soft expanse of her back. She was half-naked and at his mercy, and she was infuriatingly content with that.
A weight on her back made her start, but it was only a towel being draped over her waist and bottom. Malfoy was moving again, this time to the other side of her, and she strained her ears to hear what he was doing. He muttered a spell under his breath and she heard the slick sounds of oil on skin. She swallowed in anticipation, her back pain driven further from her mind as she pictured his oil-slicked fingers sliding down her back, over her ass, between her thighs…
Hermione gasped as his hands touched her back, spreading the lubricant over her skin. She silently cursed him as the oil left a trail of fire in its wake, lighting up every nerve he touched, making her flesh tremble as her muscles were forced into submission. His warm, pleasantly rough palms glided down to her waist, and up again, and down her sides to brush the swell of her breasts. Every movement tore her between flinching away from the sensation and pressing further into his touch with an undignified moan.
How were his hands everywhere? Was that part of the spell? She felt the pads of his fingers sliding between her ribs, the heel of his hand rushing to meet the muscles of her shoulder, and his well-muscled forearm as it dove down her side, sending a spasm up her spine. She had to admit it felt amazing. She felt as though she was a big, tangled ball of Gillyweed, her muscles slipping and sliding over one another to lay quivering in a softened heap against her bones.
It felt good.
With a sharp bolt of horror, she felt an all-too-familiar slickness building between her legs. Was this part of the procedure? Did he know this would happen? Blood blossomed in her cheeks as well as her core, making her head spin. The tension was growing slowly in her belly, rising with a fiery need to be touched. She pressed her thighs together gently, hoping to douse the heat. It wasn't very successful.
Hermione took a deep breath and exhaled toward the floor, trying to focus on relaxing her body rather than allowing it to be incensed by his touch and whatever unethical concoction he had applied to her skin. She was set back a little when she opened her eyes and saw his shoes peeking at her, and felt the disturbance in her hair as he leaned over her. Did he need to be that close? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine an unattractive, less enigmatic classmate. Crabbe? Too unattractive. Neville? Not skilled enough. Ron? Too complicated…
Eventually, she was able to distract herself from Malfoy's perfect, aristocratic features and infuriatingly skilled fingers and draw her focus on her unwinding back muscles long enough to dampen the heat that throbbed between her thighs. She sighed in contentment, assured by the idea that his little plan to unsettle her hadn't worked. Much.
Then the towel was removed from her waist, and Malfoy was telling her to roll over with an unmistakable hint of amusement in his voice. She stayed exactly where she was with her eyes goggling at the floor, certain that she must have misheard him.
"Granger, don't make me conjure that screen again. I promise I won't look at your perky little breasts."
"Shut up, Malfoy!"
And they were officially back in Hogwarts. Out of sheer frustration at his smugness, she defiantly flipped over, making sure to turn with her back to him and keep her arms firmly crossed over her chest. As it turned out, she needn't have bothered; he was holding the green towel up like a curtain, protecting her from his view. She huffed at his alleged decency and he took it as his cue to drape the linen gently over her chest.
With nothing to look at but the dull ceiling and Malfoy's face, Hermione resolved to close her eyes. Maybe he hadn't noticed her reaction so far? She focused heavily on keeping her eyelids gently shut, and her face slack and without expression. She imagined relaxing things, like the ocean, a cosy fire, and Ancient Runes homework.
She was doing brilliantly, until Malfoy's hands brushed the skin at her throat. She barely stifled a gasp, feeling a pulse of heat shoot from his fingertips to the parts of her body she really didn't want to think about. He stroked her again and again, and somewhere in the back of her mind she realized he was pulling unruly tendrils of hair away from her neck. She shivered, feeling her nipples harden against the lush fabric of his towel.
Oh Merlin, make it stop, she pleaded silently. Make it stop before I stop caring that it's Malfoy touching me.
Ever so gently, the burning fingertips began to knead the knots of muscle at the base of her neck, and Hermione feared she might explode on his table. She hadn't realized this was a problem area for her until now; her tendons were rejoicing at their release, and a much smaller bundle of nerves further down her body was screaming for its own. Would he think it rude if she bolted off the bed, threw her cardigan on and fled the Alley? Or would he feel victorious? What if she politely asked him to put his magnificent fingers to use where she needed them most?
For the love of Merlin!
Without realizing, her eyes flew open to meet his. As expected, he looked like a cat in a canary cage. She blushed furiously and tried to give him her most fearsome scowl. But it was lost in a groan as his hands cupped her head, his fingers snaking behind her ears to massage the skin there. She shut her eyes again, as though he might not notice her if she couldn't see him.
Breathe in, breathe out… Hermione chanted slowly in her head, using all her willpower to focus on the oxygen filling her lungs, and leaving in a flutter of warm air that tickled the skin above her breasts. Slowly, ever so slowly, while Malfoy was focusing on her shoulders, she felt herself relax.
She felt blissfully detached, and with an inward grin praised herself for achieving the desired muscle therapy result. None of this absurd - Oh.
Pleasantly rough fabric assaulted her nipples as the towel was pushed from her chest, and she felt them harden instantly in the cool air.
What in Merlin's name is this? her brain exclaimed, as another part of her anatomy, much lower down, screamed in want. So torn was she between leaping off the bed and subtly shimmying out of her skirt, she forgot to actually do something, and Malfoy's hands were on her again.
Everywhere.
His gloriously rough palms were sliding over the stiff peaks of her nipples, his fingers were kneading the yielding flesh of her breasts, and gliding down her sides to send spasms up her spine, and why did his angle feel different? Had he moved?
Hermione gasped as she felt his fingertips probing beneath the waistband of her skirt, teasing the hot skin there. He grasped her hips in both hands, fingers still hooked under the material, and before she could protest, her ass was rising off the mattress, allowing him to remove the garment. She heard it hit the floor somewhere, and didn't even care that it would be creased now.
Her eyes struggled to remain closed as one of Malfoy's hands slid back up to cup one breast, while the other pried her thighs apart. Should she be protesting or something? It was hard to remember through the assault of pleasure she felt when cold air hit the damp cotton covering her heated sex, followed closely by those bloody fingers.
Malfoy probed her gently, outlining her folds through her knickers, and rubbed lazy circles over her clit. One of his trimmed fingernails scraped over the tight little bud, and her hips jerked at the sensation. Whether they bucked away from, or into, his hand she couldn't tell. All she knew was the warm hand stroking her breasts, pinching her nipples with fingers that were now dry and rough, as the other hand slowly, lazily, drew circles around her intimate flesh, stroking her lips but never really touching the way she needed him to.
She felt the aching desire coiling tighter and tighter, and felt her pussy become heavier, swollen with her brazen want. Riding a sudden surge of boldness, she parted her legs further and bucked her hips into his hand, seeking the friction of those fingers. She heard what might have been a chuckle overhead, and the hand that was running circles around her right nipple pinched, hard. She moaned, a frown marring her sweat-slicked forehead.
She needed friction, she needed to be filled, and she needed Malfoy to stop teasing her already. Her skin was on fire from the massage oil, and even the bite of the plastic against her sweaty back shot heat to the place Malfoy was not really touching. Though she daren't open her eyes, she imagined him standing over her, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal taut forearms, and the buttons at his throat undone just enough to hint at a smooth expanse of toned marble skin. She pictured his eyes melting into her, focusing intently on her body like she was a puzzle for him to solve or a knot for him to unwind. As she watched him in her mind, a lock of platinum hair fell out of place, brushing his cheekbone. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but he had her pinned in place with the barest of caresses.
Her clit throbbed achingly, and she whimpered. Still he stroked her gently, touching her directly through her knickers, but still not enough. He brushed her clit as he stroked down her pussy lips, which were now plastered against the cotton, and heavy in her lust. The tendrils of desire pulled tighter in her abdomen, and she couldn't hold it any longer.
"Please…" she whispered, her knees spreading wider on the mattress, not caring how she must have looked to him. She heard an indistinct rumble vibrating through his chest, and two things happened at once.
The hand that had been playing with her breasts slipped away, and met its counterpart between her legs, where her knickers were pulled roughly down her thighs, smearing a cool trail of moisture down the insides. One hand swiped at the fluid that had gathered between her folds, and used it to assault her clit with quick, tight circles. Her hips jolted clear off the bed and she moaned, loud and unabashed. Her heart was crashing against her ribcage and she felt it just there, the first waves of her orgasm fluttering in her belly.
And then he slowed. And then he stopped. Hermione had half a mind to openly abuse him for misconduct and unethical behavior, and she opened her mouth to do just that.
And then she felt it. His long index finger dove into the depths of her, gliding into her flesh easily, aided by the wetness that pooled at her entrance. It had been a long time since she had been filled by something other than her own small, slim fingers, and her breath caught in her throat as she savored the sensation. He stroked places she could never reach, and her heart started skipping while the buzzing in her flesh grew stronger.
Another finger, stretching her, probing her, stroking the quivering flesh deep within her core. They curled, pressing against that spot, and the fluttering started again, and aching, so intense it was almost painful. The sweet agony twisted in her gut, and her hips were rocking into his palm, sending jolts up her spine when her clit brushed his hot, rough skin.
The waves came faster now, pulsing through her blood, licking at the heat between her thighs. She thrust against him in abandon, seeking to be pushed over the edge, to feel that pleasure tear through her until she could only lay boneless on the dampened mattress.
His fingers curled tighter and she rose, hurtling toward the peak, her breath coming in shallow puffs, her blood pounding in her head. She heard a voice above her, and the cadence of an incantation, and - Oh!
Oil-slicked fingers pressed against her clit, rubbing sharp, wet circles in time with the stroking at her center. She rose higher, feeling the heat coiling tighter and tighter until it burst, sending spasms of pure, unadulterated pleasure screaming through her body.
His fingers stayed pressed inside her until the last wave rocked through her hips, and she was vaguely aware of a hand resting comfortably on her abdomen. When she was sated and still, he removed his hand from inside her, and gently (appreciatively?) stroked her tender folds.
And then, a voice.
"Finite Incantatum."
As though doused with cold water, Hermione opened her eyes, startled. Malfoy stood over her, watching her with what she could only describe as victory dancing in his eyes. She swallowed, and moved her leg experimentally. It met resistance, and she realized with another start that her skirt was on. As was her underwear. And, from what she could tell, the cotton was only slightly damp, as opposed to drenched and wrapped around her ankle, as it had been not twenty seconds ago.
Huh?
"Feeling better?" her Healer asked, his voice straining to stay passive.
Did he know what happened? Wait, what happened? Hermione's brain was buzzing with questions, and she could only blink up at him in bewilderment.
"Um… yes?" she spoke tentatively, like she was in fourth year and McGonagall was asking her sample NEWT questions.
"Please take this as an opportunity to clean yourself up and get dressed. I will be fetching a glass of water." He spoke with all the airs of authority and politeness, but still his voice trembled slightly with an undercurrent of sheer amusement.
Hermione felt herself turn beetroot red, and she was glad the towel was still draped over her chest (huh?), for she was perilously close to hiding beneath it. But then he was gone, and she exhaled loudly into the silent office.
As she cast a quick Scourgify or two, she felt herself moving from her pleasant post-coital haze to befuddlement, to anger.
That slimy git! She scowled, feeling rage building in her chest. There was only one conclusion she could reach that made sense, given the instantaneous appearance of her clothing: He molested her brain! She felt extremely embarrassed, there was a sense of violation creeping up on her subconscious, and she wanted to smack him around a bit, like she did in their third year at Hogwarts.
And she wanted him to do it again.
The revelation, while unsurprising given the party her hormones were currently throwing, made her even angrier. How dare he abuse his privileges as a Healer, and her seemingly permanent single life? She hadn't had sex in far too long, and she wouldn't put it past him to know that and exploit it. He probably got off on it.
She paused halfway through buttoning her blouse, and allowed her mind to toy with that thought for a little while. Did he really know exactly what happened to her? Did he like it? Would it be inappropriate to enquire about the status of his romantic life?
A sharp knock on the door snapped her out of her sex-addled thoughts, and she hurriedly finished with her buttons before allowing him to enter.
The lamp hovering above Malfoy's desk suddenly required her full attention as he strolled past her (so close his delicious cologne muddled her senses slightly) casually and dropped into his throne-like chair. He leaned back fully into the leather and studied her with a definite air of amusement. She started to think about sitting on his lap, but then he spoke, and she remembered that she was very unhappy with him.
"Did you like my massage oil?"
A hate-filled glare was her only reply, which sparked him to respond as though she had said, Why yes Malfoy, it was wonderful. What was it?
"It's a lubricant I developed myself. It harnesses whichever desire you're feeling at the time, whether it be a desire for pain relief or relaxation, or something more carnal." At this he winked openly at her, and she was so caught between finding it the most infuriating thing ever and being hopelessly attracted that she very nearly bared her teeth and growled. He continued.
"Its purpose is to provide feelings of pleasure to the individual based on their desires at the time and to encourage the release of endorphins to promote relaxation and pain relief."
Her mind stuttered and stumbled over his words while he stared openly at her as though she was the most interesting thing to enter his office in a long time.
"It hardly seemed to work," she eventually sniffed, meeting his arctic grey eyes for the first time since she was flat on her back under his probing hands.
His answering grin was incredibly smug, even for him, and she was caught off guard. "Perhaps it works, perhaps it still needs some improvement. In either case, I'm fairly certain you won't stop thinking about it. And I'm even more certain you will be booking another appointment here - and it won't be with Healer Stefanovic."
Hermione's fists balled up at her sides, and she wished, for a moment, that looks could kill. How dare he be so smug and self-assured! Someone ought to bring him down a notch!
The room was silent as their eyes fought, his cool and confident, hers burning in her exasperation. Finally, she found her voice again.
"How does Tuesday sound for you?"