A certain Slytherin lies in bed, pondering the twining snake pattern on his ceiling when his door explodes against the wall and a certain Gryffindor explodes into his room.
"Granger! What do you think you're— "
A finger slices the air and stops level with his nose, as if she could cast a spell with her usual intensity at this range. "Don't speak! Just get your privileged pureblood arse off that bed and in my room!" He sits gobsmacked as she storms back out, debating staying put or tossing back a smart rejoinder until a booming "NOW!" gets him on his feet and out the door.
She's in the center of her Head Girl quarters, back to him, toe tapping impatiently, arms crossed tightly as though physically restraining her emotions. "Alright, Granger. What was so all fire important?"
Whirling to face him, she halts his progress by flinging out her arms in an encompassing gesture to the room. "This! What am I supposed to do about this?" Having no immediate reference point, he casts a cursory glance about the place, not spotting anything immediately out of order. The desk is an organized marvel- every book in place, scrolls tightly rolled, sharpened quills at the ready. The few posters and photos on the walls are artfully arranged, the bed made with military precision and the armoire and chest of drawers labeled with small tags noting their contents. A sporadic and oddly lined pattern spans her walls, like an overzealous note-taking session, yet he can't see that as a cause for such distress. If she couldn't figure out a charm for neater wallpaper, he isn't about to help, and tells her so.
"Oh please. Would I be bothering with a weasel like you if it were that simple?"
Her snapping tone and obvious fluster have him smirking. "First off, Granger, I'm supposed to be a ferret, remember? Although if we're really going with an animal format, I think I'm more a…" His speech breaks off as the pattern on the walls shifts into focus and he truly looks around.
It isn't just the walls. Writing of all sizes, fonts and styles coats every available surface, and he steps closer to read.
Everything about her is warm: melted chocolate eyes, radiant roasted chestnut hair that swirls and flies as if it's alive, a honeyed glow to her skin, a smile that evoke thoughts of spring sunshine, and a voice that crackles with intelligence like a cheery hearth. Everything about him is cold: ice blue eyes, platinum blond hair, pale skin that constantly calls frozen deathly pallor to mind, chilling temperament, voice like an icicle and a tone nearly as deadly, ready to cut and stab and bleed.
Miss Granger continues to display astonishing academic prowess, routinely at the top of both class and school rankings, and is also showing a blessedly marked improvement in social skill and interaction…
She was the virgin queen of Gryffindor, the impregnable princess, the brain…
Saw Grainger the Pain agin today. Ugh, she makes me ill. That hoity-toity little snit- aint got the sense of a skwheeling mandrake for all her branes...
She was tired of always being the support system, the smart one. She wanted so badly for someone to see what lay beneath the surface… and love it.
"Good god, Granger," he breathes, a little awed. "What have you done?"
The facts were these: good, bad or indifferent, Hermione Granger tried not to care what people thought or said about her. She lived by her own code of conduct, and only sought to exceed expectations of an academic nature. Weaponized words had hurt her in more ways than one, and so she'd learned to block out what she could and try to forget the rest. But a rumor - said to be circulating from a certain Slytherin's forked tongue - had worked under her skin until she'd done something desperate.
Thinking she understood the spell to read a mind regarding her, she had only expected to be able to know what Draco was thinking or saying about her. After a frustrating day of silence, she'd returned to the sanctuary of her room only to be greeted with its new supernatural décor.
She realized her mistake instantly: the tense of the spell was allowing her to literally read anything anyone said (or thought or wrote) regarding her, and a quick scan of the walls' contents proved she was a confoundedly popular topic. Unlimited in content but thankfully confined to her room, it was a fascinating result to a spell gone awry- but Hermione knew she couldn't take this much personal interest for long and sought to find a way to reverse it.
Two hours of fruitless counter spells later, she'd accepted the fact she needed help. An hour after that, she'd steeled herself and actually gone down the hall to seek it of the enemy… who is currently smirking at her misfortune like the smug arse he always is. "What can I say, Granger? That's what you get for being nosey. Just be happy you're so en vogue and leave it." He spins on his heel and swaggers out the door… only to stall mid-stride into the hallway as a scrap of sentence on the doorjamb catches in his peripheral. He draws the step back and turns to face the marked support, eyes widening as he reads.
A wild mass of auburn curls bob in time to the rhythm as she slides her mouth up and down his…
"Never let it be said I back down from a magical challenge," he purred, slinking towards like a jungle predator. "Let me pull out my wand and I'll see if I can make you see stars…"
"Merlin!" the breathless statement, an exhalation of accolade, is taken as a compliment. Her eyes refocus as she comes back to earth, to him, to the solid reality of his arms…
He can feel her tightening, vibrating like a taut violin string as he draws forth the notes of her orgasm… slowly building to the crescendo- "Oh Draco!"
His breath came in short pants and he stammered her name as his climax approached, as though each thrust into her tight core required his brain to restart. The resulting diminutive sounded like a possessive plea. "Mi- Mi- Mi- Mione!"
A moment passes in silence before he clears his throat, tells his body to get a sodding grip, and demands the source book. 20 minutes of putting their heads together yields a glimmer of temporary solution. They can't shut the spell off completely but can filter it to only show new stuff. New stories still continue to scroll all over the place and Draco's confusion is mounting.
"What is all this stuff?" he asks.
Rolling her eyes, Hermione shows him a Muggle concept called an Internet, accessible through a backdoor in the Wizarding World Web. "It's called fanfiction, Malfoy. Fans write relationships and story lines they wish were found in media they like. Or they expand on existing plots and pairings and… the like."
"But how do they know about us?" A notation on his physical attributes draws his attention. "And how on earth do they know about that?!"
A soft rolling shrug balances the blush that accompanies her reply. "I'm not sure, but they do. And apparently, they looooove to write about us." She gestures with a fingertip, first in an encompassing circle, then between them.
They sip on conjured drinks and pickle-flavored popcorn, occasionally flicking pieces at one another as they read. Scrolling through the archives, they find pairings and plotlines that raise more than their eyebrows. "Ugh, they put me with Saint Potter and the Weasel?! Gross!"
Hermione laughs at his dismay, then rolls her eyes at a subset featuring her and Snape. "I know I'm considered a teacher's pet, but a collar just doesn't seem my style."
"Oh I don't know about that, Granger. I think you'd look quite fetching in a little costume, bringing me my slippers at night, or a martini when I came home." Her warning look goes unnoticed as he stumbles on, blithely stuffing his foot in his smug mouth. "Curls bouncing wildly as you leapt into my arms, just so happy to see me after I'd—"
Whatever else he's about to say is lost as a fist collides with his jaw, knocking him to the floor. A familiar line trickles out with a smothered surprised giggle. "That felt good."
They finally hit on a joint approach, pairing a spell to run with the online filter. Suggesting they read only good things about themselves, Draco casts about for THE BEST, allowing for only quality complimentary content. Every wall is again filled, and they trade amused quips.
"A three way with you and Harry? Hmmmm. That actually has possibilities. Blond and brunet working in tandem for my pleasure."
"Trying not to wake you because I've ravished you all night yet craving it again? Certainly sounds like me." He stretches his arms over his head, feeling the kinks pop from sitting so long. Hermione stands up, wandering to her bedside table for a water bottle after a stretch of her own.
In an absentminded tone reflective of her probably not realizing she spoke aloud, Draco hears, "I didn't know you had Dryad blood."
"What was that?" His question falls on deaf ears as she continues to peruse an apparently eye-popping tale playing across her pillow. The farther she reads, the more she blushes and the wider her eyes grow. Finally tossing the pillow across the room, she visibly tries to calm herself.
He retrieves it from its landing spot and begins to skim it. His brows shoot together like someone fired two magnets at each other as he reads. The story winds its way around the pillow, continuing as he rotates it around and around, like scrolling on a screen.
Realizing what he's doing, she grabs the pillow. "Hang on there! I was getting ready to mount you from behind and make you come again! Give it back."
He tries to snatch the pillow back but she whips it behind her back. One silky blond brow arches towards his hairline. Oh, really?
He feints to the right, gratified when she pitches left with a squeal. He's on her in a flash, alternating between tickling her sides and trying to pull the pillow from her grasp. It's a bit like a wrestling match between octopuses- so many limbs crashing in so many directions without ever seeming to gain or let go of their prize.
Twisting out from underneath him, she manages to scramble past the bed- only to have him jump up, reach across it and yank her back to him. She bounces a bit as she lands on the mattress, finding herself pinned once more. The pillow has long since been lost and forgotten, but resuming their tickle fight is now of utmost importance. Squeals and giggles and blended gasps of laughter spiral out as they connect. They pull back, a little breathlessly, and just as something shifts in Draco's eyes, Hermione's flick to the ceiling.
Seeing a shimmer out of the corner of his eye, Draco turns too, spotting two flashing words in a simple font: For Dakota.
Settling back on the mattress- Hermione's head pillowed on his shoulder- they watch as words begin to fill the space over their heads and they read along as a new story comes to life on the page… er, ceiling.
It begins with a bit of backstory, as stories often do, before leading to a moment in her room while Draco is helping with a problem. It's suspiciously close to their current circumstances, down to them lying next to each other in bed and getting an idea to do more.
A few minutes go by, until it's clear they might both be considering following the dictates of the story- if the words appearing above them are any indicator. And the room does seem to be getting warmer…
He sits up, turning a little to face her. "I'm up for it if you are, Granger" he says with an impish light in his eyes.
There's a wide-eyed stare, a quick swallow as though tamping down any reservations she might be having, and she agrees, sure if a little shyly. "Alright. Let's try it."
Draco has his wand out before she can blink, whispering with his eyes closed before punctuating with a flourishing swish and flick. A voice – female, American, a little low but quite smooth and a bit melodic – begins narrating the story. Hermione has enough time to ponder if Draco had manufactured the voice or if it belonged to the author before his lips find hers; then she stops thinking. It does make things easier to follow if they don't have to contort to read the ceiling.
Whenever the story delves into either of them speaking or thinking something, an impressive version of their voices takes over, though neither is sure if that's because the author knows what they sound like or if it's somehow implanting them into the story. But there are clothes to remove and skin to explore and it just doesn't seem to make it high on the list of important things right now.
Listening to their own personalized erotic story, they proceed to follow the directions being typed out, including a variety of intriguing positions that mercifully lack the open defiance of the laws of physics and anatomy so prevalent in their earlier research. And they discover that as enjoyment is being written into the story it flows into them as well, heightening the experience like the effect of a particularly potent potion.
The story only seems to be affecting them until one point, when Draco employs his teeth in a rather novel fashion- only to spot a chunk of sentences as they highlight, vanish, then reappear letter by letter until they spell out what he's just done… and Hermione's rather enthusiastic reaction.
Finally, as they lay sated in each other's arms, THE END in pale blue lettering casting a soft glow in the room, Draco comments that he doesn't know who this Dakota person is, but "whoever she is, we have to thank her." Hermione snuggles closer and replies that she's pretty sure they just did.
A/N: this was a birthday/Christmas present for my darling Dakota.
quick breakdown: the italicized stuff is mine, all original ideas and lines. the descriptions they read out are other fics in the fandom I read and liked (references used with permission.)
this is also my first (posted) work in the fandom, so whether you liked it or not, be nice. I don't mind honest, just... be nice.