Intimacy Issues
Pairing: Dramione (Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger)
Universe: post-war, EWE
Rating: M for sexual language
Summary: A little dramione fluff for Valentine's Day.
For whatever it was worth—and it was worth quite a lot, in his mind—this had not been his idea. First it had been something Theo said about needing to improve his communication and also something about his general intemperance. War's over, for fuck's sake Malfoy get your shit together, that sort of thing. "Your intimacy problems are a real drain on available resources," etc. etc., and from there, a languid half-intoxicated laugh as Blaise had suggested, "There are people you can call for that, you know."
Blaise had practically dialed the phone for Draco himself. Or, at least, that was how Draco would choose to recall the events from here forward.
His fingers shook only slightly as he placed the call, settling himself on the center of his bed. He hadn't been entirely sure how to go about any of this, but had decided to leave his clothes on. That way, if he were caught somehow—By whom? Unclear. Aurors?—he'd be able to protest that it was all a big misunderstanding. There was less guilt involved with his clothes on, and anyway, if it was terrible and he hung up the phone right away while still fully dressed, then it would be like it never happened.
He fidgeted for a moment, then drank the full glass of Ogden's beside the bed before pouring himself another. He glanced down at his trousers, sighing internally.
Right then. Off they went.
He pinned the phone between his right shoulder and right ear, plucking the whisky glass up from the nightstand with his left hand. He'd have to set one of these things down at some point, he realized with a frown, and drank another half of the glass's contents. It had been some time since he'd been in any position remotely close to this one, having been touched by a grand total of nobody, himself included. He doubted it would last particularly long, if it were to go anywhere at all.
One ring, two rings—
"Lady Revel's House of Fortune, Athena speaking," said a female voice. "What shall I call you, fair stranger?"
Draco swallowed tightly, clearing his throat. "Oh. Am I supposed to, uh…?"
"Choose a name? Yes, fair sir, it's your choice. It will be more pleasurable for you to have one, and more convenient for me as well."
"Right. Okay. Ah." He cleared his throat, fumbling aloud, "Did you say you're Athena?"
"Yes, I'm Athena."
"Right, okay, then I'll be…" He racked his brain for whatever he could draw from his shallow well of mythology. "Apollo."
"Apollo." Her voice was silken and rich and faintly familiar. "Excellent. And what might you be looking for this evening, Apollo?"
"I was, um. I was hoping for... Well—"
He broke off, hesitant and thoroughly horrified with himself, and the female voice on the other end gave a low chuckle of amusement.
"Am I to understand that you would like me to make you come, Apollo?"
He winced, left hand clutching tighter around his glass. "Well—"
"Apollo, life allows for two essential choices. Pleasure or pain. Joy or sorrow, having or wanting. You've already shown up here, haven't you? So do what pleases you," she advised him, and again, Draco had the oddest feeling she reminded him of something, like a glimmer from his past. "I'm here to please you, Apollo," she murmured. "All you have to do is say yes."
"I... hang on." He inhaled, exhaled, and drained the remainder of his glass, setting it down on the nightstand. "Alright," he said. "Yes."
"Excellent. Do you have any particular fantasies, Apollo?"
"Oh, ah. Well." He closed his eyes, right hand foisting open his zipper. "I… is there something you, um. That most people—?"
"Every fantasy is unique. But if you need a place to start, I'm happy to make some suggestions. Some people prefer to imagine a dark corner somewhere, a beautiful stranger. Some people prefer an island setting, forbidden lust…" A pause. "Perhaps you might like to imagine we're in the restricted section of a library after hours," she suggested. "You've come to meet me, but nobody can know."
"Yes." He nearly sighed with relief, shifting lower on the bed and folding a hand experimentally around his half-hard cock. "Yes, that."
"The lights are burning low and the castle is quiet—you jump at every sound. You keep glancing over your shoulder, worried we'll get caught. Your friends won't approve—no one will. But there's something between us, something burning, and neither of us can stand it any longer. You want to see for yourself the way my nipples become little pearls of anticipation when you speak to me. You want to slide your hand under my skirt to see how wet I am after your eyes have met mine across the room."
Draco closed his eyes, relaxing into a slow stroking pattern. "Yes," he exhaled, and the voice on the other end made a sound of acquiescence.
"Now that we're here alone together, I can finally tell you all the secret thoughts I've had. The way I want to run my tongue along your thick, hard cock. How badly I want to sit across your thighs, with your hands so tight around my waist they bruise me. Do you want me to beg for you?"
"Oh, um. Sorry, but I want, er… gentler?" Draco said, wincing a little with his eyes closed. "It's just—I'm not—"
"Ah, I see, okay." Athena's voice softened. "We're both nervous," she said, her voice nearly tender this time. "Your hands shake when you reach for me, but you can see on my face how badly we both want this. You draw my legs apart and I gasp, so loudly you think someone will hear me. So you place a hand across my lips and I kiss your palm, which is your first indication that I want this as badly as you do."
Draco made a low sound that he would have been heartily embarrassed by under any other circumstances, his grip tightening around his cock.
"Apollo, I didn't think you'd come." Her voice sounded young now, girlish, as if she were filling the role she'd described. "I've been waiting for hours, just sitting here thinking of you."
"What were you thinking about?" Draco asked raggedly.
"Being in your arms," she whispered. "Your hands running along my body. Your lips on my neck. I've been thinking about meeting you here alone for such a long time."
"How long?" Suddenly he wished he'd removed his trousers. The excess fabric was difficult to wrangle as his grip on himself grew more urgent.
"For weeks. Months. Every night before I go to bed, I lie in the moonlight and think of your tongue stroking over my breasts. I know it's wrong, Apollo, but I can't help it. When you're near me I can't breathe, waiting to see if you'll come closer. Even your smell drives me wild."
He groaned a little. "And now that we're alone?"
"Tell me what you want, Apollo."
"I—" He frowned. "Well, I'm—"
She seemed to take his hesitation for what it was—either confusion or lack of imagination, or a little of both—and helpfully, she decided for him. "Should I take off my skirt? My blouse?"
"Yes. Wait—no." He shook his head. "Um, take off your knickers. Leave the skirt on."
"I slip my knickers off from under my skirt and tuck them into your trouser pocket. For later."
Draco shuddered. An excellent detail. "Yes."
"Do you want to touch me?"
This he could manage without hesitating. "Yes."
"You're parting my legs now, stroking your fingers up my thighs, and I'm pulling your head to my breasts. You slide your tongue slowly around my nipple and I gasp, my knees buckling a little. You pressing me against the bookcase is the only thing keeping me upright—I can hardly breathe for having you so close to me."
"Mm," said Draco, quickening his pace again. "Now touch me. Please," he added hastily.
"No need to beg." He could hear her smiling, and briefly, a familiar image passed through his head of autumn leaves, chocolates and sweets, Hogsmeade visits. "I'm fumbling with your trousers, anxious and apprehensive but unable to stop myself. I want you so badly my fingers shake, and then I slide my palm below the band of your pants."
He frowned a little, suffering that faint brush of familiarity again. A niggling sensation, just out of reach.
"You and I both falter, realizing we're holding our breaths. I curl my hand around your cock and oh god, you're so hard." She gasped a little, theatrical and feminine, and Draco's breath grew rapidly unsteady, the pulse in his mind matching the throb of his erection.
"Your cock is so thick and long, Apollo, I want you inside me, but I can't have you like this. Is this wrong?"
"No, it's not wrong," he mumbled, only half-aware he was speaking.
"You push my legs apart and feel me, how wet I am for you. You press against me and I'm keening for you, pleading without words." Almost there, he thought. Things were mounting with embarrassing quickness. "I'm nervous and desperate. I want to be able to say no but I can't, I'll die if I can't have you. I'm panting in your arms—oh god, yes." He moaned into the phone, nearly bursting. "Your hands are driving me mad but still, we could get expelled for this—"
"Granger?" he blurted without thinking, before suddenly spilling into his own palm, choking.
There was silence on the other end.
"That'll be ten galleons," said Hermione Granger.
Needless to say, this had not been Hermione's first choice of post-war employment. Unfortunately, being a war hero was not as lucrative a position as it seemed, and politics in the wake of the wizarding war was a bit of a mess. The Ministry's starting pay wasn't enough to live on in London, which certainly gave her a new respect for Arthur Weasley's ability to keep his family fed—as far as Hermione could tell, wages had seen no increase since the first Voldemort war, much less the second. She no longer had any real assets, muggle or magical, having used most of what she'd saved on hers and Harry's little camping trip hunting horcruxes, and she needed something that could pay for her pricy Diagon flat—the first thing she'd found after moving out of Grimmauld Place. That, of course, was a thing also she hadn't been able to afford to do, necessarily, but much to her financial chagrin, breaking up with Ron had sort of necessitated it.
She'd been told a few times throughout her schooling that she had a nice voice. When she found an ad in the Daily Prophet calling for a part-time voiceover artist, she thought it seemed like something she could reasonably fit into her daily work schedule. When she discovered the hours were primarily used at night, she was relieved. When she discovered the pay, she was delighted. As for the work…
Well. It hadn't come naturally, but she was a quick study. She had always been highly clever for her age. One of her primary talents—and the reason she was one of Lady Revel's top earners—was that Hermione had a knack for discovering what each of her callers really wanted, and very rarely was it sex. More often it was some obscure loneliness or intimacy issues, or they just wanted a proper hug from their dads. Whatever it was that made men want to call into sex hotlines and pay money for someone to talk to, it served Hermione fantastically well, and though she never mentioned to anyone what it was she did every night while her colleagues and friends all went out for a pint, she didn't exactly regret doing it.
At least, not until, "Granger?"
She was silent for a moment, of course, because she hadn't recognized his voice until he said her name, but now, obviously, she did. How deeply regrettable.
"That'll be ten galleons," she managed eventually. "There's an enchantment enacted at the beginning of the call, so the deposit will be automatic. Thank you for your time this evening, and we at Lady Revel's House of Fortune wish you pleasant dreams."
"Wait, Granger, hang on—"
She hung up the phone, frowning to herself.
Well. That was interesting.
She supposed it made sense on second thought, or perhaps third. Draco Malfoy was still unfairly wealthy following the outcome of the war and furthermore, he was almost certainly the type to pay for sex. Phone sex was an odd choice. Though, before she had known who he was, she had read him (correctly, given his reaction) as the type of man whose fantasies were less about any sexual desire than they were about desire itself—being wanted rather than being touched.
She shook herself of the oddity, then returned her attention to the phone. There would be other callers tonight, and gradually she would forget about him.
Maybe.
Probably.
Surely if she tried hard enough, then yes.
The phone rang once, then twice, and she picked it up, raising it to her ear. "Lady Revel's House of Fortune, Athena speaking," Hermione said. "What shall I call you, fair stranger?"
He waited two nights before calling again.
"Lady Revel's House of Fortune, Delilah speaking," said a different voice, this one raspy and secretive. "What shall I call you, fair stranger?"
"Actually, um. Is Athena there?" he asked, toying with the ice in his glass before setting it down on the nightstand. He sat at the edge of his bed this time, jittery and confused as to what exactly he was doing. Even more confused than he had been the first time.
"Yes she is, fair sir. One moment."
There was a pause as a bit of music played, transferring from one line to another. Draco chewed the skin around his thumbnail for a moment before reaching for his glass, attempting to drain it. The ice took a dive towards his nose, scotch spilling out from the sides of his lips as he choked on the excess liquid.
"Lady Revel's House of Fortune, Athena speaking," said Hermione Granger's voice, followed by, "Sorry, are you alright?"
"Yes, yes I'm here, just—" Draco turned away from the phone receiver, coughing until his eyes watered, and then returned to the phone. "Wrong pipe," he managed, before remembering this wasn't about his own idiocy, but hers. "And what exactly are you doing, Granger?"
There was a pause.
"What shall I call you, fair stranger?"
"Are you saying you don't know who I am?" demanded Draco, before realizing that maybe she didn't. Surely if she had, she wouldn't have continued through the fantasy either.
"What shall I call you?" she asked again, militantly scripted.
"Right, sorry, um. It's Apollo," he said, not wanting to make matters worse. For whatever reason, he'd been positively dying of curiosity since he spoke to her two nights ago, and he was now fairly certain she wouldn't speak to him at all if he used his real name.
There was another beat of silence.
"Apollo," she echoed. "What might you be looking for this evening?"
"An answer, mostly," he said. "I thought that was clear."
"If you'd like an orgasm, Apollo, I'm happy to arrange it. Otherwise, thank you for your time this ev-"
"No, no, wait," he said hastily, glancing down at the whisky he'd spilled on his shirt before forcing himself to say, "I'd like to come, please."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I…" He trailed off. "Yes."
"It would be my pleasure, Apollo." Whether she recognized him or not, her voice hadn't lost its buttery quality. "How would you like your ecstasy this evening?"
"Look, I'm not judging you, obviously," said Draco. "It's just a bit odd, isn't it?"
"Do you have an affinity for touch?"
"I—doesn't everyone? But look, Granger—"
"Athena," she corrected, "and I'm currently lying on a massage table, slathered in oil."
Draco froze, his hand tightening briefly around his glass. "What?"
"You're running your hands along my spine and watching the shape of my ribs expanding. You can't be sure, but you think I've keened a little at the presence of your fingers. You run your hands over my arse and arrive at my thighs, finding yourself curious what would happen if you stroked your finger along the lips of my pussy."
Draco, holding his breath, exhaled. "You don't have t-"
"You finally gather the courage and I inhale sharply, surprised, but I don't move. Feeling emboldened, you slide a finger inside me and I moan, shockingly eager. This leads you to realize you're so hard you're throbbing."
Draco glanced down at his cock, which was indeed much harder than he'd anticipated.
"You come around the table to stand beside my head and I gaze up at you, questioning. Slowly, and without a word, you slide down the zipper of your trousers, and without speaking I sit upright, teasing the tips of my fingers along the edge of your shaft."
Fuck, Draco thought. Then, grudgingly, he unzipped his trousers, diving one hand into his pants.
"Oh god," Hermione breathed, "you're so hard, so smooth. I want you in my mouth."
Draco swore quietly under his breath. "Take me in your mouth, then."
"I want to, Apollo, but first I run my tongue below your shaft, curling around the tip." She paused as Draco exhaled raggedly. "I'm stroking you with my tongue repeatedly, until you're not sure you can continue to stand. After a few minutes of this, when you're about to groan with frustration, I take all of you into my mouth, sucking you hard from base to tip."
He wanted very badly not to picture her face specifically while imagining this, but it was inevitable that he would. Her overlarge eyes, that massive cloud of hair. Looking up at him with her lips on his cock.
"You're so hard," Hermione breathed over the phone.
It was all he could do not to come on the spot.
She wasn't especially proud of the fact that she'd brought Draco Malfoy to orgasm over the phone for the second time, but then again, he clearly knew it was her. He'd let her do it anyway, so maybe his shame was technically greater.
It wasn't even that he'd simply let her do it. He'd paid her to do it, twice now, and 'fool me twice' was one thing, but fool me three times—
"It's Apollo," he said after the third ring. "Don't hang up."
She considered doing it anyway.
Then, thinking better of it, she said, "I've raised my rates."
"Have you?"
"It'll be twenty galleons for your pleasure tonight, Apollo."
"And if I just want to talk to you?"
"Thank you for calling Lady Revel's House of Fortune," she said conclusively, forcing a spirited tone to her voice. "Have a delicious evening—"
"Fine, fine. Okay." He exhaled, and she heard the rustle of clothing, or bedsheets. "But this time I want to talk."
"You're paying twenty galleons just to talk to me?"
"No, I mean—" He stopped. "You talk, but I want to talk, too. I want to be part of it."
"Roleplay?"
"Uh, sure." He cleared his throat. "I don't actually know any of the, um. You know—"
"Kinks?"
"I mean… Salazar's balls," he muttered to himself, "yeah, fine. Sure." There was a little tinkle of ice in a glass, followed by, "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."
"I'm here to guide you," she told him carefully.
"Yeah, right, I get that, but seriously, I don't know," he said. "I just… don't."
She waited a moment before answering.
"It's my job to know for you," she assured him. "You are allowed to take pleasure in it, if that's what you want."
"I don't know what I want. That's why I'm here." Another sound of ice in a glass, followed by a swallow. "I'm not good at any of this, honestly, but I want to try."
"Okay. Well," Hermione said, "why don't you pick a scenario, then?"
"Oh. Um." He sounded agitated. "A picnic."
"A picnic?" Part of her wanted to laugh. "So we're outside," she said. "The sun is… high?"
"Yes, that sounds good."
"The sun is high," she confirmed. "It's hot. Sweltering. You watch me take a bite of a strawberry, the juices spilling over my lips."
"There's the smell of fresh grass," he suddenly cut in, and she blinked, unprepared for his contribution. Granted, he'd said he wanted to, but still. She hadn't entirely believed him. "Your eyes and mine catch for a little too long. Just a beat."
"The third time they do this, you can see the blush in my cheeks," she said. "The strap of my dress falls from my shoulder and I don't bother to fix it."
"The sweat on your skin is intoxicating," he said. "I fantasize about running my tongue along the side of your neck and before I can stop myself, I do it."
"I turn my head," Hermione said, hoping he wouldn't hear the way her skin had pebbled just slightly, "and you catch my lips in a breathless kiss. Both of us are taken by surprise and yet we're completely expectant, as if some part of us has always known this would happen."
"I part your lips with my tongue and you sigh into my mouth." Another muffled sound, as if he were lying back on his bed. "I peel back the bodice of your dress and cup your breast in my hand, stroking it."
"I gasp and pull you closer, pressing myself against you. Your hands are feverish on my bodice, fumbling with my skirt—"
"I slide my hand along your thigh—"
"—I groan and dig my hands into your hair—"
"—your knickers are soaked with desire and sweat," he said. "I tug at your hips, laying you down across the blanket, desperate to put my mouth on you—"
"When your tongue slides across the slit of my dripping cunt, I whisper your name," she said, and he stopped.
"Say it," he said, and she flinched. They had just been getting into the flow of things, and just when she'd stopped thinking…
"Apollo," she said, channeling the sound into a breathy moan.
"No. Say my real name. I know you know it," he said in a lower voice, almost pleading. "Say it."
Part of her knew that admitting it out loud would mean the end.
"You start slowly at first," she said instead, ignoring him. "Tentative. But I'm desperate for you, canting my hips. I can't bear another moment without you inside me."
He said nothing.
"I try to pull at your trousers, oblivious to whether we might get caught, but you stay out of reach. You slide a finger into me with your mouth sucking me, licking, watching my legs tremble around your head. Just when I'm crying out for you—"
"I stop," he said, and Hermione blinked. "I sit up, look you in the eye, and say I'm going to watch your face while you come, and then I keep stroking you with my fingers. I run my thumb along your clitoris, diving inside you, touching that spot that makes your back arch. You want to look away but I won't let you. I keep my eyes on yours."
She grimaced, unsure what to do next. "You make me come—"
"Twice," he corrected. "I make you come twice before I let you touch me."
"I take off your shirt—"
"—and I let you run your hands over my chest. Slowly."
Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly quite dry. "Your skin is soft and smooth," she said. "The muscle underneath it is hard and firm, and your cock—"
"Is throbbing for you," he said. "Touch it."
She squirmed a little, glancing around.
"Oh," she exhaled into the phone.
He was quiet for a moment.
"I can't tell if it's more fucked up or less that we're doing this with each other," he said. "In some ways it's fitting. In other ways it's totally perverted."
Her mood soured. "Well, if that's all—"
"I just mean that it's not as if I haven't had these fantasies before," he said hastily. "And it's a bit strange to be doing this now, that's all."
"You're the one who called."
"Yes, I know."
"If you want to get your twenty galleons' worth, I should probably continue," she added.
"I already came," he said. "Before I called."
She blinked.
"Sorry, I clearly spoiled the mood," he said. "Is it alright if I call again tomorrow?"
She considered it. "It'll be another twenty."
"That's fine."
"Alright," she said. "Then thank you for your time this evening, Apollo, and we at Lady Revel's House of Fortune wish you pleasant dreams."
She hung up the phone and excused herself, then walked directly to the toilets. She shut the door behind her and slid one hand into her knickers, relieving herself of her sudden, inexhaustible ache.
Theo and Blaise had mild curiosities as to what he was up to every night recently, though not enough to really press the issue. Which was good, as Draco wasn't sure what he would have told them anyway. He was reserving each evening to get off on the phone with a girl he hadn't seen in close to three years, not to mention one he hated. Or had hated, once.
There was no logical explanation for why he continued calling. He supposed the only thing he could say was that it was a relief, somehow, to hear her voice. It bore some semblance of a foregone normality, even if the only topic they could conceivably discuss was sex.
"I have these nightmares," he said. "I wake up and I'm back in the past, like the end of the war was just a dream I had and reality is the nightmare."
"Your cock tastes so good," she said in reply. He took it as encouragement.
"Do you ever feel how alone you are? Like, really feel it. To the point where you're surprised other people can't see it. It's like you're wearing this horrifically tasteless cloak or something and everyone else is politely pretending not to notice."
She was quiet for a moment before saying, "Would you like to hear how wet I am?"
He considered it. "Yes."
"I'm so wet you could see it. My knickers are soaked through."
He inhaled sharply. At this point he no longer bothered touching himself. He got off to the thought of making the call and then simply spoke to her with his eyes closed.
"I'd like to see them," he said softly.
"Where are we?" she prompted.
"Uh," he began, and cleared his throat. "Your office?"
"Alright. I'm sitting at my desk and you come closer."
"Yeah," he said. "That sounds good."
"I ask you to shut the door. Then I part my legs just slightly, just enough so you can see my knickers below the desk."
"I crawl under it to look closer," he said, eyes still closed.
"I let you," she said.
For a moment it felt very real—that the two of them were together in one room and he was actually on his knees for her, begging for her permission. His cock ached in his trousers, but he ignored it.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She said nothing.
"Your pussy, I mean," he said quickly. "Like velvet."
"Use your mouth," she suggested.
He smiled with his eyes closed.
"You taste so sweet," he murmured, and wondered if he could have ever said that to her face.
Or if she'd even let him try.
She was starting to wonder if she were in dire need of some sort of counseling, as this was clearly not a normal thing to do. It seemed the purpose of their calls was less and less for sex, and she was starting to feel morally obligated to put it to a stop.
Unfortunately, it was also very enjoyable. Even without considering her sudden increase in earnings, he was the best client she had ever had. He was highly inventive, which suited her, so long as he wasn't trying to push her boundaries.
"Can you do me a favor?" he said. "Ask me why I call you."
This was one such example of pushing, though it wasn't a clear violation. She doubted knowing the answer would improve her feelings on the matter, but she did as he suggested.
"Why do you call me?"
"Because I want to feel something," he said. "I think initially I wanted to feel anything, literally anything, but now I think it's only you. I specifically want whatever feeling you give me."
She cleared her throat, prepared to drag them back to the subject at hand. "You undo the ties of my bathrobe—"
"—and set you on the edge of the sink." A pause. "Tell me how you want me to fuck you."
"Apollo," Hermione warned carefully, "this isn't about me."
"Well, tonight I want it to be about you," he said, suddenly restless. "I want to get off on whatever it is you want."
This was troubling, right? Hogwarts had no courses on psychology, but she was fairly certain this was unhealthy, or maybe it had always been unhealthy, from the moment they recognized each other's voices on the phone and failed to hang up.
"I want the opposite of what you want. To feel nothing," she said.
This time, he was quiet.
"I can fuck you like that," he offered eventually. "Until you forget everything. I can fuck you slow and deep until you can't think of anything else but how badly you want to come."
She shivered a little, glancing around again.
"I think I could lose myself inside you," he said.
She forced herself to think of something from one of her scripts. Something that was sexual but not intimate. He was always forcing her off-book, which was as frustrating as it was enjoyable. Like a new, unsolved puzzle each time.
"Your cock is so hard," she whispered.
"Only for you," he said. "Just for you."
Yeah, she thought, this was definitely very fucked up.
He had an evening ritual now. He got in the shower, got off to the thought of her voice, and then air-dried before lying on his bed fully naked. Typically he'd pour himself a glass of Ogden's—without ice, ever since the previous debacle—or occasionally some sherry. He'd drink it while he spoke to her, staring down at himself and imagining her with him. Beneath him. Astride him.
"Tonight you're fucking me with a view of the sea," she said. "You've faced me towards the window while you thrust into me from behind, harder and harder."
"Oh god, Granger, yes," he exhaled, curling his hands into his duvet. Something about her fantasies always made him feel the need to hold on tight.
Unfortunately he hadn't meant to say her name aloud, and he registered at her pause that her silence meant she hadn't enjoyed it.
"Athena," she reminded him tightly.
His eyes fluttered open.
"I know who you are," he said. "You know I'm not calling for some nameless fantasy."
She was quiet for several moments.
"Then what are you paying for?" she asked blandly.
He hung up, furious. He stalked around the room for a second before remembering he was starkly nude and somewhat cold.
Then, instantly remorseful, he called again.
"Lady Revel's House of F-"
"Athena," he said. "It's Draco."
He felt nearly positive he could hear her moment of hesitation over the phone.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For… I don't know. Everything." He fell onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. This, he thought, was almost certainly a new low, which he hadn't even known he could conceivably reach after having been through so many of them. "It just… it felt safe. It didn't feel wrong."
"What didn't?"
"This. With you. I don't want to ruin it, I just want—" He exhaled deeply. "Sorry. I guess I'm just realizing that maybe this means nothing to you."
"This is my job," she told him.
"I know. I… I get that, I do. I guess I just thought—"
"It's my job," she said again.
"So you want me to stop calling you?"
"Stop calling Athena," she said flatly, and hung up the phone.
She was at work when one of the other assistants stepped in from the corridor. "Hey Granger, there's someone here for you."
"Is it those event forms for Kingsley?" she called back without looking up. "Because it's been nearly three days now, and if I don't get them soon—"
She broke off when she saw who her visitor actually was. Her mouth clamped shut of its own accord upon his entry.
"Not event forms," said Draco Malfoy, hands outspread and empty. "Sorry."
Hermione gestured him into the chair across from her desk, pointedly choosing not to make a scene. He seated himself carefully, glancing around.
"So," he said, observing their surroundings. "You don't actually have an office."
She glared at him. "I'm an assistant. None of us have offices." And keep your voice down, she thought brusquely, suddenly enraged at the thought of him actually thinking he could climb under her desk to go down on her in real life. At first it was difficult to tell whether it was because she doubted the ten or so other people working in this office would appreciate that very much, or because he was still thinking of her sexually.
Her, and not her incorporeal alter ego.
"Look, I won't keep you long," Draco said, folding his hands in his lap. "I wanted to call you, but I wasn't sure how to reach you."
"You could have sent an owl," she said irritably, "rather than accosting me at work."
Another assistant walked by her desk and she forced a smile, nodding to him.
"Well, clearly I'm not great at this," Draco replied, equally snappish, though thankfully he was speaking in a deliberately hushed tone. "It just seemed like maybe I needed to say some things to you in person."
"Such as?"
"Such as I'm sorry I'm such an arse," he muttered. "I'm sorry I'm so generally disgusting, both as a person and as a man. I will quite literally beg your pardon for everything I am, if you'll let me."
Her hand stiffened over a pile of paperwork. "And what would be the intended outcome if I did?" she asked, pretending to glance over a page of budget calculations.
"Look, I'm—" He glanced around again before dropping his voice even lower, leaning towards her. "Fine, you're right," he exhaled, "I clearly shouldn't have come here. I don't know what I'm doing, I'm just—"
He shot to his feet, suddenly agitated.
"Forget it," he said. "I won't bother you again."
She read the same paragraph ten times after he left.
He got the first owl while he was reading alone in bed, three days later.
What you're doing is really messed up. You know that, right? You called me for sex. There's an inherent problem with you knowing it was me the whole time. Power balance and all that. Also, just because you paid me to carry your emotional burdens doesn't mean any of it was real intimacy.
He considered it for several minutes before replying, I know it wasn't, and then, at the last second, added: but wasn't it?
The response arrived within twenty minutes.
It was entirely one-sided. You confessing things to me just makes me a receptacle for your thoughts, which is patently unfair. Women are more than just vessels.
He rolled his eyes, replying, This isn't really an issue of gender roles, is it? This is about you and me.
This time, ten minutes: There is no you and me.
He picked up a quill to reply, then thought better of it. Which was all well and good, really, because another owl arrived ten minutes later.
And another thing, she'd written. What on earth gave you the idea that you should come to my place of work?
Then, five minutes later, You absolutely do owe me an apology. You should beg for my forgiveness. You called me names, you mocked me for years, you belittled and upset me—and now you think you deserve even one moment of my time?
Then his phone rang.
"You had no right," she said when he answered. "No. Right."
"How did you get this number?"
"All the numbers that call in are tracked," she snapped, before continuing, "Why on earth would you choose to confide in me, anyway? Did I seem safe to you or something?"
"No, actually you seemed distinctly unsafe," he said. "Which I suppose is why I kept doing it."
"That makes no sense."
"Well, even I will admit it's a fallacy on my part," he sighed, leaning back against his pillows. "I thought if you hadn't hung up on me, then maybe there was still hope I wasn't total rubbish as a human being after all."
"I didn't hang up because you were paying me not to hang up."
"Yes, I grasp that, but you could have refused my calls," he pointed out. "You almost did more than once, but then you took them anyway."
"I needed the money," she said, voice clipped.
"Right," he said. "Well, either we can move past that or we can't. Up to you."
"It's unethical," she said vitriolically.
"Are there actually vocational ethics involved in phone sex?" he asked, doubtful.
She hung up on him and he sighed, setting the phone down on the receiver and closing his eyes.
Then, a moment later, it rang.
"Hello?"
"What happens if we move past it?" she said. "In your mind. Which is obviously very troubled."
"Oh. Um." He settled against his pillows again. "I guess we would try just… talking? Without an exchange of currency, I mean."
"Talking about what? About sex?"
"Well, I guess if you wanted to."
"Do you not want to?"
"No, I… I do," he said uncertainly. "But there are other things, too."
"Like?"
"I don't know. Feelings," he said lamely.
"I'm not a counselor."
"I know."
"And if you're not paying me, I'm not… I'm not that, either."
"I know."
"I'd just be me."
"Yes."
"And that's not weird to you?"
"Not any weirder than the alternatives, no."
"Why not?"
"I like talking to you," he said. "About anything."
"Fine, so you like talking to me," she said restlessly, "but will you like listening to me?"
He made himself more comfortable on his bed, adjusting his position.
"Try me," he said.
She told him about her cat. She told him about her parents. She told him about how hard it was to find a job in this economy and how ridiculous it was to still be considered a child even after everything she'd fixed that adults couldn't solve. She told him about how disappointing sex was in real life. She told him how she didn't mind talking about it anymore, how it was the same as talking about anything: potions, history of magic, blow jobs. Actually it was worse because it was boring, because cocks were all basically the same. Oh, your cock is so hard, blah blah. Nothing really got her going anymore except for the fantasies, so really it was more like erotic storytelling and there was a little bit of creativity in that, which was soothing. She told him that she hadn't been on a date ever, basically, since she and Ron hadn't "dated" so much as flirted badly for seven years and then fooled around for two more. The sex part was fine, but the romance was lacking. And it wasn't that she was some sort of woman who needed rose petals and grand declarations—she wasn't, and she wasn't afraid of being alone, either—she wasn't one of those girls who didn't know who she was and therefore needed a man in order to divine it—but she had at least loved herself enough to walk away when something didn't fit.
"What's that like?" he asked.
"What, you've never been in a bad relationship?"
"No, the other bit," he said. "Loving yourself."
"Well, ironic that I would have to explain this to you, but it was close to impossible while we were at Hogwarts," she told him. "Largely thanks to you."
"Right," he said. "Understandable."
"But eventually it occurred to me that if I didn't love me, then I'd be waiting my whole life for someone else to do it properly, and I've learned a lot about waiting," she said. "I waited for nearly a year. For horcruxes, for death. Either or, from my perspective. And I realized I was done waiting to find reasons to like who I was. So I stopped waiting and decided to do it."
"And that worked?"
"Not immediately," she said. "And not all the time. But yeah, I think it did, for the most part."
She fidgeted in place, waiting to see what he would say next. He was quiet for a very long time, though she could still hear him breathing. She wondered for a moment if he'd fallen asleep.
"My cock is so hard," he said unexpectedly.
She bit back a laugh. "Seriously?"
"It's really hard, yeah. I don't know, maybe it's Pavlovian."
"Me talking about my emotional distress gets you off?"
"No, just you talking. And it's not distress," he said. "You're just talking about you, and I like it."
"Gross," she said.
He chuckled from the other end of the line. "Honestly, though. I do like it."
"Am I supposed to talk about your cock now?"
"Only if you want to."
She nudged a hand under the button of her jeans, sliding it below her knickers for curiosity's sake. "I'm a bit wet, actually."
"Are you?"
"Don't get too cocky," she said. "Just a bit."
"Could help with that," he offered. "If it doesn't interfere too much with your personal ethics."
She thought about it, weighing her options.
"Maybe it's about time you begged my forgiveness," she said thoughtfully.
"On my knees, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Dirty, Granger," he said in a low voice.
She bit her lip, imagining his mouth as she slid a finger inside her.
"Yeah," she exhaled, "I know. Keep going."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"You mean later today?"
"Is it that late? Shit. Yeah, I guess."
"Work. The usual."
"Can I call you later?"
"You're asking while you're still on the phone with me if you can call me later?"
"Seems like the polite thing to do. Worked for me yesterday."
"Yesterday I was off the phone by midnight. Now it's… bloody Christ, it's nearly three."
"Ah, my fault. You should get to bed then."
"Yes, I really should."
"But that's a yes for tomorrow?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I mean… yeah, sorry, it's a yes. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"I don't know. What are we doing, I guess?"
"I don't know, Granger. Talking."
"Isn't it a bit weird?"
"Does it feel weird?"
"No. But it feels like it should feel weird. And anyway, aren't you sick of me yet?"
"No. Are you sick of me?"
"This version of you? No."
"Then that all seems reason enough to keep going, doesn't it?"
"I… suppose so."
"So that's a yes for tomorrow night?"
"Yes, fine, alright Malfoy. You win."
"Excellent. Talk to you tomorrow."
"You're not going to bed now, are you?"
"Hm? No, probably not. Might read a bit first."
"What are you reading?"
It seemed inevitable that they would run into each other in person. You can only exist in someone's distant orbit for so long before developing a casual paranoia that they're somewhere around the corner, taking their coffee to go from the same cafe as you. It's something magnetic, knowing they exist somewhere and it might as well be here.
In this case, the event was a matter of strolling through Diagon Alley, her with Harry and Ron and him with Theo and Blaise. Their eyes locked briefly as they passed and they nodded to each other in greeting, politely, before disappearing in opposite directions.
"What was that?" said Ron, bewildered by what was by all accounts agreed to be mild amicability.
"Oh, nothing," Hermione said. "Malfoy called into a sex hotline I was working and now we're the best of friends."
"There's no need to be sarcastic," mumbled Ron sullenly, though they were on their way to eat ice cream, so he wasn't terribly injured for long.
Draco, on the other hand, was a bit strange that evening.
"Don't you think we ought to see each other?" he asked over the phone. "Like, in person."
"I don't know," said Hermione listlessly. "Don't you think it might be weird?"
"I don't think it's not weird if we confine our relationship to phones."
(This being a thing he said after they'd both gotten each other off for the first time that evening, so naturally she was inclined to agree with his point.)
"We could have dinner," he suggested.
"Is that a euphemism?"
"We could fuck too, but I'm specifically asking about dinner."
"I really don't think this is a relationship."
"That's not an answer."
"Fine." She chewed her lip, sighing out, "Okay, dinner. But it's going to be weird."
"It's never not been weird, Granger."
He chose a decently sized restaurant and arrived early, watching her take a seat at the table he'd specifically selected by the window. It had a balcony looking out over Diagon Alley, and he watched her observe her reflection for a moment, frowning at her hair, until the waiter brought her a phone. Her brows knitted in confusion, bewildered, and then she finally caught a glimpse of Draco where he was seated at the bar, her expression turning from puzzlement to half-mocking laughter as she picked up the phone from the tray and waved the waiter away.
"You're an idiot," she answered in a low voice, turning away from the crowd to take the call more privately.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "Just thought it might be easier this way. Familiar. Less weird."
"It's still weird."
"Maybe a script will help," he offered. "What might you be looking for this evening, fair stranger?"
He watched her suck in a breath, fighting a smile.
"A little conversation," she said. "Maybe some sex."
He tilted his head. "Am I to understand that you would like me to make you come?"
She turned towards him, hesitating a moment before rolling her eyes. She crossed one leg over the other, drawing her skirt pointedly up on her thigh as she moved.
"Maybe later," she said.
"Dessert after dinner, I take it?"
"Precisely."
"Right, of course. So should I join you?"
She observed him for several moments from across the room, drumming her fingers on the table.
"Yes," she said eventually.
"Yes?"
"Yes. Have dinner with me, Draco," she said.
He made a show of hanging up the phone before stretching to his feet and sauntering over to her table, pulling out the chair across from hers.
"Hi," he said, sitting down.
Her eyes were bright and cynical and lovely. "Hi," she agreed.
"Some things you should know before we start," he said, smoothing his napkin across his lap. "I dislike olives," he said, glancing up at her, "and I'm told I have intimacy issues."
Her smile quirked. "Me too."
"Well, nothing wrong with that," he said. "Now that's out of the way, shall we split some tapas?"
She gave a little laugh, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe anything he'd just said, but she wanted to. She really, really wanted to.
"Why not?" she said, shrugging.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
a/n: Wrote this from my sickbed this morning so if it's not good don't tell me, I can only summon so much energy. Happy Valentine's Day lovers!
