A/N: Welcome back, wonderful readers! Many thanks to LightofEvolution for the lovely review. Enjoy!
But did he see her?
This is the question that plagues her at 9 AM the next day and the one she has been playing on repeat on her mind for most of the night before. When she did managed to sleep, her dreams involved a certain blond man with a rapt expression on his face, and broken movement, up and down, that only stopped when moans echoed from wall to wall. She had awoken several times in a sweat, disturbed and anxious and always thirsty like she hasn't tasted water for days.
Even now, almost 24 hours after the events, her hands still tremble if her mind is immersed down the path to that memory. She paces up and down her Ministry office, unable to focus on a single matter. She yelps when the door is open and a colleague barges in.
"Hermione," Cormac McLaggen is saying way to cheery for her, "what a wonderful day isn't it?" She nods weakly and swallows. "How's work? Oh, can I have a coffee too? I just wanted to make sure I'll see you at the party tonight!" he rushes in a jocular manner and then actually winks at her, making her jolt back in surprise. Unaware of her discomfort, he gives her a peck on her cheek and then saunters out of the room as jolly as he came. Hermione wants to rush after him and out of the building.
The nerve of that man! And his horrible, horrible timing!
It's the first time in years that she has trouble rationalizing something and it eats her from the inside. What the hell was Malfoy doing back in England so unexpectedly? Why did he commit such… blatant sexual acts? What if someone would have caught them?
I caught them!
She blushes fiercely at the memory and it seems that the image of his head thrown back in pleasure is etched upon her memory, imprinted on her retinas. She feels a cold chill when scenes from the previous days flash before her eyes and they rush one after the other until the guilt and the shame threaten to suffocate her. There is an unwanted heat in her belly, spreading from her toes to her neck and she is frightened by it. And has a half-mind to go see a doctor.
But most of all, she prays to every known deity that he hasn't spotted her, staring at the… was that love-making? Was it just… err… oral stimulation? Did he… ermmm… return the favor afterwards?
Oh, Lord! This is what Malfoy has done to her. Tainted her forever with such blatant display of nymphomaniac affections. Or something along the lines. There must be a book about it somewhere.
With the last remains of self-preservation she does her best to push thoughts of him out of her mind and focus on work. It was dangerous enough to find out that three Death Eaters have escaped Azkaban.
And a fourth had been released a week before: Lucius Malfoy is finally free.
Ron stares hard for a few seconds and she hugs her chest, self-consciously. He stares some more. It goes on until she stomps her foot loudly and, although acknowledging how childish it looks like, she sets her arms akimbo. Ron straightens, but not before licking his lower lip.
"Erm… Hermione… you look, wow, why don't you wear this dress more often?" He correct himself. "Blimey, Hermione, I would have never guessed that green looks so good on you!"
She blushes now, but doesn't fight the satisfied smile that spreads on her lips. Instead, she advances towards him and takes his arm. She has bought the dress on a whim, loving the way the fabric clung to her body, almost like a caress. It wasn't like her to show an open back, to wear a décolleté, but she reckoned that the three years anniversary of the Final Battle was a special enough occasion. And, perhaps, at times, she liked to remind people that she has grown into a woman and she's no longer the insecure child ready to save the world. So she leans into Run, breathes him in and walks with him on her small heels, loving the breeze of May on her exposed calves.
"You look great too, Ron," she says and kisses his cheek. Somehow, the gesture feels more intimate that a full-blown French kiss.
They Apparate just outside the Ministry premises and soon they meet old friends and acquaintances. Everything speeds from that point: she is quickly swept up in a crowd of Magical Law Department employees, while Ron converges with his fellow Aurors. She gets just a quick glimpse of his giveaway red hair before he disappears in a small crowd and she is left answering questions about S.P.E.W.'s efforts. At times, she watches the people around her, observes their interactions. She somehow gets through the buzz around her, her thought quieten, her movements slow and she tries to get the bigger picture, as if she were an witness to the scene and not an actual participant. Looking at their laughing faces, it seems odd that there was a war three years ago. They look young, eager, blending in the crowd and full of life. At times, there is a crack in this image, because she knows almost everyone around her has lost someone they cared about in the war, but they go on, learning to smile again and take from live whatever they can. There are marriages happening, where old friends come together to drinks and celebrate and there are births of children who have never been licked by the flame of war. Who, perhaps, will never know the agony of being called Mudblood and will never experience fear for their parents' faith. Her children will live in a carefree world full of music and laughter.
And then she sees him and she whips her head around, short of breath. Draco Malfoy has just entered the room, the beautiful blonde girl on his arm and she can basically feel the tenseness in the people whose path he crosses. When she finally looks again, his back is stiff and his expression unreadable, but the woman walks confidently, the self-assured smile never leaving her face. There is something electric about her, in the dynamic of her moves and the tilt of her head that tells the audience they will never wipe the smile off her face. She holds his arm like it's the most natural thing in the world and seems impervious to all the commotion they cause.
Hermione retreats in a corner and watches them and those who watch them. They find themselves a quiet spot at one of the tables and he signals for the waiter to bring them two glasses. She leans in to whisper something in his ear and he seems to relax at this, only if slightest. Those around him seem to disperse, as if they do not wish to stand in their way. Young girls watch the couples with something akin to fascination, while the older people express their dissatisfaction openly, sneering over the brims of their glasses or simply turning their backs to them: as if, if they do not make eye contact, the couple is not there at all.
But they are there, dressed in the finest robes, although Malfoy still looks somber in black and Ginevra's clothes are simple cut, but efficient in displaying all the gifts that Mother Nature gave her. Hermione watches them as if trying to solve a puzzle, unconsciously biting her lower lip, safe from view behind a canopy of whispering people. She is woken up from her reverie by the voice of another Ginevra, tugging at her elbow.
"Would you look at that!" Ginny says, pointing to them. "The nerve of those people!" she huffs, but Hermione knows her well enough to see that she is half-amused.
"What? Malfoy and his guest?" she asks, hating how stupid she sounds. "I just found out he has a job at the Ministry, but no one would actually disclose where exactly…"
"In your department," Ginny supplies, a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. "They'll let you know tomorrow." There must be a flicker of panic in her face because the redhead goes on, teasingly. "Why, Hermione, I'd hoped you'd be happy at the news! You will finally get the chance to boss that blonde git around."
"Boss him around?" she says, her voice a mere squeak, while a recollection of yesterday's events unfolds before her.
"Oh, yes," Ginny answers with glee. "Word has it he's going to train for the Magical Law Department, under your direct supervision. Personal Assistant, I think he's called? Gives you the opportunity to, you know, knock some sense into his bigoted, asshole self. Just imagine, the great Malfoy" she says snickering at the expression "taking orders from his former rival, Muggleborn Hermione Granger. I get sweet dreams just imagining the look on his face. "
Hermione gulps: there is another look on his face that she is reminded of. Her eyes trail across the room and she is startled, sputtering on her drink: a pair of big, darkened grey eyes lash out like a bullet from a gun and pierce through her with an intensity so unnerving that she actually takes a step back. By the time Ginny asks her what the matter is, he has turned his back to her and is engaged in a seemingly polite conversation with an elderly Ministry employee. The blonde woman never leaves his side.
"Who's that?" Hermione croaks and Ginny arches an eyebrow until her friend's index finger points to the gorgeous woman.
"The American," Ginny replies. "I keep forgetting her last name – honestly, why does she also have to be called Ginevra?! – but she is the very rich daughter of a high-ranking Ministry official in the States. The one responsible for the Magical Cooperation Department. Rumor is her daddy got Malfoy the job. And, you know, they'll probably end up married and producing a washed up blond haired kid with a pointy nose."
"Ginny!" Hermione admonishes, but the redhead shrugs and takes off to greet Neville.
Hermione feels a pang of guilt, or perhaps jealousy as she waves to Neville: she might be book smart, but she'll never have that magnetic quality that draws people to Ginny or enables her to find out all the news before anyone else. She scans the room again and her gaze lands on Harry and Ron, huddled together with Padma Patil in between them and the pretty girl pats Ron's arm, laughing freely at some joke another. This is a portrait of normality and Hermione breathes easily for a moment.
There is a prickle on her skin and she swears she can feel him before she sees him. He moves in her direction, fast and steady and the hairs on the back of her neck stand. She feels her throat dry, and her palms itch: she wills herself to be still.
Malfoy moves towards her gracefully, silver hair falling on his eyes, the faint smell of his cologne invading her senses. Every nerve in her body acknowledges him, recognizes something that she can't put her finger on. She hears the staccato of his footsteps and braces herself for some sort of impact, paralyzed before him.
Malfoy stops right in front of her. She blinks, because she thinks he has cast his gaze down, but what he does is unabashedly scanning her body, his gaze conspicuous and strong. The breath hitches in her throat as the same eyes linger a moment too long on her chest. She can feel her cheeks burn and then his eyes settle on her, heavy and promising, almost… threatening. Her instincts finally kick in, awoken and fighting the invisible grasp he has on her, but before she can open her mouth, he's gone, striding towards the bathroom.
She finally dares to breathe.
"Take this," Luna chirps happily, appearing out of nowhere and handing her a glass of a swirling yellow liquid. "It will help with your flaming cheeks," she adds to Hermione's further mortification. "What an incredible energy," she muses, to no one in particular.
"What energy?" Hermione breathes out, only then noticing her glass. "What is this, Luna?"
"Cantaloupe liquor," the blonde says smiling. "You looked like you needed some strengthening after your encounter with Draco. Why did he look at you like he asked you a question?"
Hermione takes a quick sip of her drink and cringes at the strong alcoholic taste, barely disguised under the fruity taste.
"Question? Surely, you misinterpreted."
Luna casts her eyes down and Hermione feels guilty. After all those years people, her included, still seem to take Luna's candor and her quirky ways for foolishness and naivety. Hermione feels the shame wash over her and chastises herself for the outburst. It is the dreamy blonde that helps her out.
"I was wondering… "she begins "well, if it would be possible to come by one day and help me sort out this new batch of books that my father ordered. We were told that some of them are really old gems and I thought I could use someone with your knowledge. Only if you want, of course, I wouldn't dare to…"
"I'll come tonight," Hermione cuts in, relieved that she is offered the possibility to make things right. "We can go over them after the party. If it's not too late of course."
"I'll make orange tea," Luna beams and then she too disappears into the crowd.
Hermione scans the room again, knowing she won't have but a moment of peace before someone else claims her attention and she needs to tell Ron she won't be home tonight. She notices Ginevra, Malfoy's friend engaged in deep conversation with two older Ministry officials who seem to hang on to her every word. Hermione feels an irrational dislike to her immediately and turns her attention to Neville, Ginny and Hannah Abbot, laughing out loud at something Dean Thomas has said. A little bit further Harry and Malfoy shake hands and the image is so foreign that she deems it unnatural. On one hand, she knows Harry's determination to make things right and bring everyone together, but on the other… she is still cautious with her forgiveness, feeling that she lost too much to ever be able to fully trust a new person again. A new person or an old enemy. It's a lingering effect of witnessing her parents not knowing who she is for a year.
They exchange a few polite lines and then, as if he felt her eyes on him, Malfoy turns and arches an eyebrow. She feels the tingling sensation in her belly again and quickly averts her eyes. They land on Ron and Padma, drinks in their hands and heads shaking with laughter and Hermione smiles too, happy to see him happy and carefree, just as she loves him the most.
"I'll stay at Luna's tonight," she tells him and he's momentarily taken aback at her sudden appearance next to him, but then he hugs her powerfully and she cringes a little at the strong smell of alcohol in his breath. Padma looks to the side and Hermione feels giddy: for a moment, she plans on ditching the world and staying right where she is.
"I'll miss you, Mione," he whispers to her and she is floored, because they surely must look like one of those annoying couples that are too engaged in what is otherwise known as public display of affection. Her feet move away from him before she is hooked on that lovely feeling.
She thinks that she will claim just a few more moments to herself and makes her way through the crowd and into the magical terrace, taking even more sips from Luna's liquor, which seems to appeal to her after all. She's happy, her previous shame forgotten, the words and gestures of her friends all she needs to carry on.
She has everything, she thinks with a deep feeling gratitude: her parents are safe and alive, her fiancé is kind and loving, her friends are happy and looking to the future and she has a job that she adores. She is so happy actually that she is afraid of how much gifts can one person receive. If she were religious she'd say a prayer, but instead, she decides to dedicate her life to better things in the wizarding world and ensure that others are granted this kind of happiness too.
The sound of decided steps interrupts her reverie and she knows who it is before she turns to face him. It's unnerving, the way the hairs on the back of her neck stand, the way a chill creeps its way along her bare arms. She feels cold and uncomfortable and he is getting closer. She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth and turns around.
He is… smoking? Barely a meter away from her Draco Malfoy lights up a cigarette, takes a long drag and then exhales with a satisfied puff. The smoke gets in her stunned face and he smirks at her coughing, taking another drag.
"These will get you killed, Malfoy," she says before she can refrain herself.
"So will curiosity, but it seems both will thoroughly satisfy you first."
She is so keen on having him put the cigarette away that she does not ponder over the meaning of his words. What she notices instead is the deep rasp of his voice, the agile way the words have been delivered, as if he has the upper hand and she should know it.
"Plus," he adds nonchalantly this time. "I always thought you'd be quite happy to get rid of me."
She doesn't grace his implication with a proper answer.
"Isn't it beneath you to adopt a Muggle custom?" she baits. "Doesn't it breech some ancient code of Malfoy pureblood honor?"
His mood shifts instantly: his jaw clenches at her jab and he gives her a hard look.
"Always the same judgmental shew, Granger! Weren't you, Gryffindor Princess," he answers, spatting the last two words as if they were venomous on his tongue, "responsible for rebuilding the wizarding world and putting aside old prejudices? Guess you're just as hypocrite as the old league, then."
"Hypocrite?"
"Don't get high and mighty with me, Granger. You, people, brag about how noble is of you to have forgiven us, low lives purebloods, and offer us a second chance, when in fact, you're all bigger racists than we were. Clambering on your high horses and looking down on us like some scum who should never set foot in your dearest, closed door, merry-go-round society. I'm disgusted," he sneers and takes another puff.
"We are not-"
"The hell you aren't. I've had people spit on me the moment I set foot back in England and now I have you judging me because I am smoking a bloody cigarette. What? Am I not allowed to touch your precious, Muggle cigarettes?" he says and then takes a final drag, inhaling deeply and taking a step closer to blow smoke in her face once more.
She turns around and coughs, feeling her eyes tearing up: she had always, always hated cigarettes. She detests their smell, the faux cool, je m'enfiche type of attitude that some smokers think cigarettes help them achieve. But most of all, she hates the consequences of the addiction, having already lost a grandparent to lung cancer. She can't explain all this to him.
"Suit yourself," she finally says and means to walk away. He pulls her arm, making her turn around.
The hold is strong and it hurts a bit and when she raises a reproving gaze to question him his eyes are shielded, cold and obscuring any answer she might demand. She has only a moment to take in the taut skin on his face before all her senses seem heightened when he rubs his thumb on her forearm. The skin beneath his touch seems to erupt in a hot and cold shivers and they spread along her arm, to her dry throat and to the exposed skin on her chest. It's where his eyes set too, relentless in their stare as the thumb moves in circling motions, soft and strong at the same time. She means to ask him what he's doing, wary of the way he steps closer now, but she is trapped under the weight of her own indecision. She knows she should push him away, yet, her gaze sets on his own and where a couple of seconds ago there was a chill, it is now a vapid, momentous fire.
He moves closer still. Her eyes shoot up.
There is something very unfamiliar about him. His face doesn't hold the childish pride anymore. His pointy features dissolved into a hardened expression. The only thing that seems to have stayed the same is his silver hair, white in the low light and falling onto his eyes, making him the spitting image of a royal. His eyes are steely now, darkened like ash and focused on her. His high cheekbones seem locked in place. His lips are fuller than she remembers, but she had never seen them so close. They're slightly open now, dark pink and full and almost predatory. Hot air comes out in small puffs and a faint scent of cigarettes that is not as offensive as she has imagined.
"Funny," he says finally and leans on the railing, "I would have never taken you for one who runs away from an argument."
"I don't like to fight. Not anymore," she admits and they both fall silent.
She doesn't know what to say. She itches to know where he has been all these years, but she can't just open her mouth and ask, that just won't do. She wants to bring up the fact they will work together and, after a small argument in her head, she does just that.
"I heard you will be working with me," she says in what she hopes to be a neutral tone.
"Contain your glee, Granger. I will not be the small pet for you to boss around."
She is indignant. "I don't treat my colleagues like pets."
He laughs, a hallow sound that echoes in the air around them. "That's not what Dean Thomas says. Met him in France a couple of months ago and he was quite eager to share just how overworked he was and how no one could, how did he put it, ah yeah, please you no matter how hard they try."
She is mortified now, small under his shameless smirk. Malfoy lights another cigarette and she goes through all the memories of her and Dean working together, at a speed that is about to make her head explode.
"You're lying," she says. "Dean would never say all this to someone like you."
"Someone like me? Or, perhaps, not all Gryffindors are so prejudiced, holding Hogwarts grudges like petty little girls like you. "
"I am not –"
"- you better keep in mind that I will not be treated like your freaking house-elf, Granger. No need to rub off your insane working hours and swotty little ways on me."
"I most certainly –"
" – and none of your prejudiced bullshit. I have no qualms about reporting your sorry ass to the Minister of Magic. And we both know you grovel to his office in the hope that you'll take his seat one day."
"That is definitely not what –"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger! You actually are so deluded that you don't even recognize what you want. Of course you want to be Minister of Magic, save me your lame excuses!"
She is seething. She balls her palms into fists because she's too temped to claw his eyes out, while he stands there, looking an unattainable level of royalty even with the snarky way he holds the cigarette between his lips. She makes a move then, taking out her wand before she thinks too much and a furious wave of icy cold water splashes over him for a few seconds until he is left drenched and wide eyed.
She takes a step back to admire her handiwork, water pouring freely out of his clothes, cigarette pack washed out in the drain and wet hair sticking to his forehead. She catches the mean gleam in his eyes and is very careful to stay out of his reach.
"Pettyl!" he mutters under his breath and instead of drying himself with his wand he proceeds to take off his suit and throw it to the ground. Next, his long fingers unbutton his shirt, proceeding at the slowest rate possible.
With every button, a vision of the palest white skin emerges and she finds her eyes glued to it. She has seen that skin before, embarrassing her to no end, but this time it is right before her eyes; she knows that if she extends her arm, her palm could flatten out on his chest and, despite herself, she feels the urge to do just that. She swallows nervously when the fingers reach the final button and then he peels his shirt off, exposing a lean chest and wide shoulders. She finds herself gripped by a feeling she cannot understand and a warmth in her stomach that threatens to take over. Her eyes roam over the exposed skin, taking in every scar, the scarce, blonde hairs on his chest, the taut muscles on his abdomen.
"My, my, Granger, "he sing-songs and only then she looks back at him. "You look like you're enjoying what you're seeing."
She wants to argue it, but the words are stuck in her throat. He moves towards her, stealthily, agile and before she knows he is standing right behind her, the bare skin of her upper back colliding with the cold skin of his chest. A violent shiver awakens her every sense. A strong arm coils around her stomach. Even before he speaks, his hot breath hits her earlobe and she whimpers.
"Ntz, ntz…" he breathes out right in her ear while the tips of his fingers graze her stomach through the thin fabric of her dress. "Don't you worry about it, Granger: I already know you like to watch."
The world shrinks to the space of this final line and she wishes the earth could open up and swallow her. When he releases her, she is left a mess of frazzled nerves, unwanted shivers and all-encompassing humiliation.
He knows, she tells herself. He knows, he knows, he knows.
When he steps back, a vibrant shiver shakes and her nipples harden from the cold: she feels them so erect she's afraid they can cut through the fabric of her dress. Furious, her head whips around to give him a piece of her mind, but it's only the ghost of his presence that greets her eyes. She hugs herself, shaken and wills her sanity to return.
When she dares to go back to the party, most of the people are gone already. She finds Luna, patiently waiting for her in a corner, but she's too harassed by the evening's events to be able to join her. Offering her most sincere apologies and a fierce promise that she will join the girl some other day she looks for Ron, but finds him gone already. Harry, Neville and Ginny are gone too.
Not bothering to say any more goodbyes, she rushes to the Apparation spot and holds her breath until she finally sees the comforting surroundings of the apartment she shares with Ron. She collapses in the living room couch, reveling in its softness as she rubs her tired temples. Unexpectedly, she catches a whiff of strong perfume and she smells herself, curious to see if someone's hug was so strong as to leave such a scent on her. However, she identifies the perfume, strong, but tasteful, coming in from an unfamiliar scarf that sits forgotten on the back of her favorite chair.
Did Ron buy her a gift that she forgot about?
Just then, an identified noise comes in from Ron's bedroom and she freezes. She thinks about calling his name, but bites her lip instead. Her shaky limbs carry her towards the bedroom, warm candlelight spilling in the hallway from the door left ajar.
She thinks she hears a moan and she flinches. Her hand is tremulous when she pushes the door wider.
She covers her mouth with her hand to stifle the gasp. The musky scent of sex invades her nostrils as the sound of skin slapping on skin hits her eardrums. Ron grunts powerfully as his naked body pounds into the soft, lush curves of a brown skinned woman. Her full, round breasts are almost crushed as he rolls his hips into hers, with an animal-like abandon. Their bodies are sweaty, molded into one. The woman writhes energetically and digs her nails into his back murmuring half-words, begging him for something. Ron's hand sneaks between them and his mouth bursts into a pained moan as he kneads her generous breast, twisting the nipple between his fingers. The woman is almost delirious with pleasure now and she pulls him to capture his mouth in a hungry kiss. She releases him quickly to rasp a couple of desperate "yes" and Ron thrusts harder, maddened. The woman bites his earlobe and he cries out, moving even faster. She comes with a louder cry yet, clenching her legs around him until he is spent inside her. He falls on top of her with a look of sheer bliss that is sprawled all over her pretty face too as she lazily licks his neck.
Hermione lets out a strangled cry and both Ron and Padma turn eyes mirroring the same horror.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Any feedback makes my day!