Breath Mints / Battle Scars
XXVI
December 25th, 1998
It's half past one in the morning, and she finds herself making no attempt towards Gryffindor Tower as they sneak back into the castle.
And he makes no attempt to let go of her hand.
But he doesn't lead her towards the Dungeons, either — and she's admittedly a little disappointed. Has always been curious about the Slytherin common room.
"Nott will be there," he says when she mentions this, pulling her along after him through several dark corridors.
Excitement bubbles in her chest. Being Gryffindor's resident know-it-all — and therefore, by extension, its resident prude — she rarely gets to feel the exhilaration of sneaking around and doing what she shouldn't.
And this — tiptoeing hand in hand with Draco Malfoy through the castle in the middle of the night, desperately seeking out a place to be alone — is the epitome of that.
Her cheeks ache from smiling, her face flushed with thoughts of the dark possibilities she'd seen brewing in his eyes at dinner.
She is so tired of relying on self control.
Now, she only wants to rely on free fall.
Soon enough, Draco is dragging her up an all too familiar spiral staircase, both of them out of breath.
"You can't be serious," she gasps out, stifling a laugh as they come to a stop at the top before the door.
"Alohomora," he whispers, then yanks open the heavy latch and pulls her inside by the waist.
"The Divination classroom?"
She spins in a slow circle, surveying the dark, deserted room as he turns to lock the door behind them.
"Needed somewhere with pillows," he answers, and with a flick of his wand, he lights every candle in the room, illuminating the floor pillows in question in front of the Divination tables.
She quirks a brow at him. "I'm not certain Trelawney goes home for the holidays. What if she's in the castle somewhere?"
Draco shucks his coat — stalks toward her. "Then she'll have seen this coming and made herself scarce."
Hermione laughs. "She was never fond of me."
"Making this absolutely fucking poetic." And he takes hold of her with a familiarity she didn't know they were allowed to have yet. Like he's been doing it for years. Like he knows exactly where to touch her and how much pressure to apply.
He kisses her once — a languid, melting kiss — before shoving her off her feet and onto the heap of floor cushions. Follows her down.
She laughs again, tossing away her bag as he crawls up over her. Pauses. Stares.
The candlelight flickers over him like little threshing waves of gold, and she sort of realizes that this was how she'd always pictured her first time. How she'd imagined it would feel. Probably not in the Divination classroom, and never in her wildest dreams with Draco Malfoy, and for the second time, no less, but…the candles, the pillows, the look in his eyes…
It's the stuff of fantasies.
She wonders if she should be afraid of waking up.
He stays leaning over her for the longest time, just looking at her. Seeming to drink in the situation — possibly the absurdity of it. They hadn't had much time for thinking the first time around.
She reaches up. Runs her fingers over the cold swell of his lips. Feels him press back against them in a kiss.
And then he's sitting back — tugging his sweater over his head, messing up his hair.
She sits up, letting her coat fall from her shoulders as he starts unbuttoning his undershirt. Their eyes stay locked, watching each other as they undress.
He's…sculpted.
That's the best way she can describe it. Thin, but broad and tall, with expertly rounded shoulders and sharply carved edges. Gleaming alabaster.
But he's also scarred.
It'd been so dark in the Hospital Wing that she hadn't noticed at all. Now, though, with the candlelight and the moon's glow in the windows, it's only too easy.
And she gasps. Stops fumbling with the fasten on her jeans and sits forward fast to press her hands against his chest.
He seems confused for just a moment, then tenses a bit with realization. "Ah, yeah…" he murmurs with a forced casualness. "Saint Potter made a right jigsaw out of me."
She runs her fingers over the dark purple slashes, so long and thick they must've been gruesomely deep. Harry hadn't lied about what happened that day, but he certainly hadn't described it like this.
"How do you know what a jigsaw is?" she hears herself ask. Can't think of anything else to say.
"I'm not brainless, Granger. I do know what Muggles are. All of us had to take Muggle Studies."
She's relieved to hear the familiar snark in his tone — is afraid she might cry, otherwise. Instead, she presses her head to his chest, closing her eyes and letting out a slow, deep exhale. She needs him to know that she understands. Needs him to know they'll get through this — both of them — somehow. But she can't put it into words, so she just leans against him for a few endless minutes. Sighs when his hand snakes up to bunch in her curls.
Draco Malfoy will never be the sort to pet her head and whisper sweet nothings, but she finds she prefers the sharp pressure of his fingers tangled in. Like he's holding on for dear life.
Then she feels his free hand play with the lace strap of her bra, and the sadness in her chest sinks away as though down a drain, that forbidden burn bubbling up in its place.
She pulls away — finds his gaze glued below her throat, and she's absurdly glad she'd had enough wishful thinking earlier to dress accordingly.
"This is fun," he says, voice low as he traces the rough pads of his fingers along the pink lace edges of her bra. Gooseflesh fans out across her skin.
"I'm not always boring," she murmurs, smiling a bit sheepishly when his sharp eyes flit up to meet hers. "It's part of a set."
He lets out a short huff, an expression almost like pain, but not quite, passing over his face. In the next instant, he shoves her back down onto the pillows. "Move, Granger. You're in the way." And he starts yanking at the bottoms of her jeans, trying valiantly to get them off over her feet.
She laughs. Never thought she'd be able to laugh so much in a situation like this. Feel comfortable like this.
But then her jeans are off and everything becomes very serious very fast.
He looks almost feral as he eyes the pink lace shorts, completely see-through. Completely revealing. Her face feels hot.
Draco makes a noise she can't quite describe, and then he's scooped his hands beneath her thighs and yanked her toward him. She realizes she shouldn't like how much he yanks her around, but she does, she does — and she can't think about that right now because he's leaning in with all sorts of intentions she has in no way planned for.
"Malfoy, wait—"
He pauses with his head lowered between her knees, fingers leaving imprints on her thighs — clicks his tongue. "I've told you that's not my name."
And she's grateful for the burst of irritation — it calms her down. "I will not be calling you that until you call me by my first name."
His head knocks against her thigh and he groans in exasperation. "So many fucking syllables…"
"Oh, you poor thing."
"Her-mi-o-ne," he sounds out, voice vibrating against her skin, "I mean, it takes ages to say it."
"Yes, well, Draco has that hard consonant that isn't any fun at all. Takes a lot of effort."
"Are we really arguing about phonics right now?"
"You started— oh my god!"
She suppresses a shriek as he dives forward and closes his mouth over the lace front of the shorts. Her thighs jerk against his hands — jut inward instinctively — and an electric shock shoots up her spine. She fists her hands in his hair, desperately trying to yank him back as he soaks the fabric with an unexpectedly hot, wet tongue.
"Stop, stop!" she gasps, pulling so hard she's sure it hurts.
He does, but only to hook his thumbs under the lace and yank the shorts off entirely, sinking back between her legs impressively fast before she can lock them shut.
"No, wait — no," she babbles nervously, reaching for him and kicking her feet out and squirming.
He yanks hard on her thighs. Spreads them so wide it stings — strains the muscles for a moment. She gasps and her eyes shoot to his and he's just staring at her, inches away from where she'd never expected or planned for any boy's face to be.
"Hermione?" he says, raising his eyebrows, and hearing her name for what must be the first time on his lips silences her quite effectively.
They stare at each other for several tense seconds.
"Yes?" she manages, and it comes out a squeak.
"Shut the fuck up."
And then he buries his face between her legs, tongue going on the instant offensive and laving its way across nerve endings she didn't know she had. Her head falls back against the pillows like it's weighted down, a moan ripped forcefully from her throat, and all she can do is helplessly jerk and twitch against him as he kisses her there with the same fervor he uses when he kisses her lips.
Her mind makes a choice out of two options. She can either fall into a drug-like state and let her thoughts turn to mush, or she can over-rationalize everything. She decides the first option is too vulnerable.
So she thinks. Thinks and thinks and overthinks as Draco Malfoy goes down on her.
Every time the late night conversations of the girl's dormitory would shift in this direction, oral sex would come up, usually proposed by Parvati.
From the way the experienced girls had talked about it, it had seemed like a lot of tongue flicking and alphabet tracing and general tentativeness. Romilda had said it was quite difficult to climax, as the boys performing it had rarely applied enough pressure.
And now Hermione is thinking those girls did her a great disservice, because she is absolutely not prepared for the way Draco Malfoy performs oral sex.
He is absurdly un-shy.
The tentative licks and snake-like tongue effects she'd expected are no where to be found — he's placing wide, wet, open-mouthed kisses on her like he's trying to clean every drop of ice cream from a bowl, with no regard for trying to find specific spots or trace letters. Instead, he sucks. Sucks. Licks and sucks and closes his lips hard over her, again and again and again, and by god, the sounds.
She's absolutely not prepared. Her thighs are shaking and her breath has abandoned her and she's desperately searching for that lack of sensation Romilda had mentioned and instead finding an ever building tsunami of quivering energy.
Her mind takes a horrible turn down a back alley and she starts to wonder how she tastes. Remembers Parvati talking about certain boys making her self-conscious. Saying they didn't like the way she tasted. Does she taste bad? She can't imagine she tastes good. Bloody hell, she's been nervous and sweating and she hadn't expected his tongue to be anywhere near there. What if he's—
"Hermione," he says against her suddenly, and she's pulled out of the back alley and somehow thinking how inordinately pleased she is about the four syllables in her name.
"Yes?" she croaks when she realizes it's a question. She forces her head up, unprepared for the sight of him looking up from between her legs, chin and lips wet, glistening. Her cheeks flame.
"When I said shut the fuck up, I meant that overlarge brain of yours as well."
"I…I just…" she splutters stupidly, breathlessly, "what if I taste—"
He yanks on her thighs again — his way of silencing her. "You taste," he starts, then makes her watch as he presses a wide, sloppy lick against her, his eyes falling shut, a groan tumbling from his open mouth. "You taste like fucking opium."
Hermione jerks against him, suppressing another shriek even as she overthinks some more. "Opium is bitter."
"Stop taking everything so literally and being a fucking know-it-all for two fucking seconds, please," he says, even as he pauses to suck on an extremely concentrated collection of nerves. "I did a lot of opium. I fucking love opium. You don't know how much I love opium." She can't believe he's having a conversation with her as he's licking her like this. After every sentence, he stops and sucks and kisses her until she sees white spots, then continues. "But the tossers in the Ministry's psychiatric division have decided that I don't deserve any more opium. Can you believe it?" His tongue dips low, teases her entrance. She bucks up against him — whines, or at least that's what it sounds like. "And I was very, very…" He lets his tongue sink into her, briefly, then pulls it out when she moans, "very upset about that, as you can imagine." One of his hands releases its iron grip on her thigh and snakes around to where his mouth is, fingers toying with her like he knows exactly where all the sweet spots are. "Now, though…" Another open-mouthed kiss. "I don't think I could care less, because this…" His finger slides inside of her. Her head flops back onto the pillows, toes curling against the cushions by his hips. "…you…" He adds a second finger — starts to pump them rhythmically as his tongue sets to work on that same collection of nerves. "…are so much better." And then he adds a third finger, sucks hard and curls one of the digits up against a spot inside of her she was previously unaware of, and it's too much.
She screams. Yanks away from his mouth and his grip and curls herself into the pillows, bucking against them and squirming as she rides out the waves of almost painful pleasure. Hides herself from him, tucking her face into the cushions.
She stays that way, gathered up in a fetal position, until her breathing slows and the shaking stops. Even then, can't bear to look at him.
She feels the cushions adjust beneath her, accommodating his weight as crawls up over her. Feels his cold hand curve around her chin, pulling her face from the pillow and forcing her to look up at him.
"I thought you were a Gryffindor," he smirks. Then he licks his lips purposefully. Licks the moisture off his chin, grin widening when her breath hitches.
"You…you are absolutely a Slytherin," she whispers, voice shaky. But she jolts when she feels his hand slide between her legs again.
She reaches down to push at it. "No, stop — no, I'm...it's too sensitive." And she realizes she sounds like she's begging. Flushes.
"Does it look like I care?" he growls, other hand dragging against her hip to flatten her on her back again. She hears the telltale clink of his belt buckle. Sees a flash of purple fly to the side as he tosses away his trousers, the journal in the pocket thudding loudly against the floor.
Her stomach glows pink suddenly, startling her, and then she hears his wand clatter somewhere off to the other side.
"You're a…bastard," she murmurs feebly, even as her arms betray her, weaving around his neck — inviting him in, wanting him closer.
His tongue flicks against her lips. He spreads her legs. "I know."
And then he sinks in deep.
They lay in a tangle of velvet cushions, discarded clothes and sweat, both unable to sleep.
Their position is not quite affectionate, and yet intimate all the same. She's never expected to cuddle with him. Doesn't need to. Doesn't care. This — lying facing one another, with only their ankles tangled together, is more than enough. With the way his sweat-soaked hair sticks up from where her fingers twisted in it and with the blissful ache, the heavy soreness between her legs.
He huffs a laugh at one point, reaching out to tug on one of her curls and watch it bounce back. "Happy Christmas, by the way."
Something warm throbs in her chest. "Happy Christmas," she echoes quietly. Doesn't tell him it's the best she's had a while.
Then she remembers.
"Oh," she says, unable to help a smile as she sits up suddenly. "I almost forgot."
He watches lazily from the pillows as she finds her bag, gaze searing across her nakedness and making her blush when she notices. She comes back quickly to lay beside him again, if only to hide most of her body against the cushions.
And she pulls the wind-up carousel out of the bag. Holds it out to him, suddenly a little self-conscious. Uncertain. "Happy Christmas."
He laughs.
Loudly. Unexpectedly.
To the point where she's embarrassed and starts to pull it away, thinking he's making fun of her. But then he takes hold of the toy in one hand and yanks her in for a kiss with the other.
He's on in his feet in the next instant, leaving her laying confused as he finds his jacket on the floor, absolutely unashamed of his nakedness.
He collapses back down next to her and pulls the exact same carousel from his coat pocket. "Happy Christmas," he says wryly, laughing as he hands it to her.
"I—what?" she splutters, laughing too. "How did you — I thought you didn't have any Muggle money!"
"I didn't. I stole it. Happy Christmas."
And he kisses her before she can even start to argue.
The Christmas morning feast is one of the best, or so she's always heard from Harry and Ron. A sort of gift to the few students who have no reason to go home for the holidays.
But it's even better than she imagined, because she's sitting next to Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table while she eats it, completely soaked in the afterglow of the night before, with not enough students in the Great Hall around them to notice or care.
She sneaks sideways glances at him as he drinks his tea sleepily. He drinks it black — strange, now that she knows about his sweet tooth. But his plate is stocked full of sugary treats like candied gingerbread bonbons and almond cream tarts, so she supposes that makes up for it.
They eat in pleasant, coexistent silence. He scribbles in his journal and she bites back on her curiosity.
But then the mail arrives, and he spits his tea all over it — curses and tries to mop the dark stains off the purple cover.
He yanks the Daily Prophet up off the table, almost ripping it in his haste.
Hermione sips her tea quietly.
"Bloody hell," he sighs at last, wiping a hand along his face — warping it into a grimace. He hands the Prophet to her dejectedly so she can see the front page.
WAR HERO AND FORMER DEATH EATER SPOTTED ON ROMANTIC CHRISTMAS EXCURSION
Below it is a massive, moving photograph of the two of them kissing on the edge of the fountain in Trafalgar Square.
"Fucking Skeeter," Draco groans, angrily shoving a bonbon into his mouth. "Probably fucking followed us the whole night."
"Yes," says Hermione quietly, setting the paper down. "I paid her to."
He chokes again on his tea.
She laces their hands together on the table. Glances sideways at his appalled face.
"Figured you deserved a grand gesture."