Warning: Explicit sexual content
Chapter 3
"Taking this ghastly risk … is the condition of there being life. You see – for all, life is an act of faith, and an act of gamble."
xXx
She comes down with the worst cold in existence that week. A punishment, she's sure.
On Wednesday, after chugging a Pepper-up potion from Madam Pomfrey, she uses the Marauders Map, swiping and replacing it before Harry notices. She corners Draco in a dungeon corridor, his glare leaving little need for interpretation.
"Don't give me that look, Malfoy." Hermione gives the poorest attempt at a light-hearted smile as she approaches. "You look like someone spat in your pumpkin juice."
"What are you doing down here?" he grumbles.
"Do you think you can avoid me forever?"
"Not my whole life," he sneers. "Just until yours tragically ends early."
When his comment doesn't have its intended effect, Draco turns in the opposite direction. She tries to stop him.
"Wait –"
"You're obsessed," he snaps. "You and Potter, both. Is it some ongoing competition between you two – "
"I haven't told Harry … or Ron. Anything."
"There's nothing to tell," he says. "Other than how brutally delusional you are –"
"You kissed me."
"I was bogged out of my fucking mind."
"You weren't, though … The way you reacted – "
"Would make any sane person stay away."
"Bold of you to assume my sanity," she quips.
After what happened that night.
She doesn't finish the sentence aloud, and as if to prove her point, she walks towards him.
There's a shift – a softness to his eyes. Maybe it's always been there, buried deep behind dark scowls, but she's tossing petrol onto his embers right now.
But where does it end? When does she admit that no book captivates more than one stolen from the restricted section?
A group of fourth-year Ravenclaws walk around the corner; she and Draco jump apart as if putting distance to prove disdain.
"I … " Hermione stammers, the complete lack of control terrifying her as all confidence dissipates. "Nevermind ... Just forget it."
She's the one who runs this time.
xXx
Two weeks pass uneventfully.
It's her mind's trick; a way to distract from Ron and Lavender. She's sure of it.
She isn't looking at Ron as much. Her thoughts are preoccupied, to the point where she forgets to be excited when it's glaringly evident that Ron and Lavender's relationship is headed for ruin.
It's during Potions when it happens: a brush of hands when they squeeze past one another. Her eyes meet his. An imprudent urge – to kiss Draco in the middle of class with everyone watching – forces her back to reality.
Stop it.
She stares at the floor during Slughorn's lecture, daydreaming. Of flaxen strands like silk beneath her fingers. Of soft lips, and intense eyes, and a jawline resembling sharpened steel.
Stop it.
But it's like a sickness, unavoidable and detrimental.
Suddenly, she's eight years old again … with her first-ever crush on Bradly Barnes: the class clown who kept losing minutes off playtime for backtalking teachers and sticking gum under his table.
She's going to be like her mum's sister.
'Always picking the wrong men," her mum would shake her head and mutter. But Hermione thinks of her Aunt's massive home and self-made real estate company – no way being alone is that bad.
'Men are much better as friends – either with or without benefits. Always remember that, Hermione.'
Her Aunt's four-cocktail comment comes to mind, as do her mother's chides.
'Mum, relax; Aunt Linda's only joking.'
But a wink in Hermione's direction when her mum looked away said otherwise.
Maybe she's already turning into that woman. Ron, Draco, Bradley Barnes – maybe it's the same pattern, different stitchings. She likes what's opposite.
She wants what doesn't want her.
xXx
Hermione focuses her efforts on schoolwork, a coping mechanism more comforting than home. She visits the library every night that week.
It's late on Friday when he approaches her table.
No.
She almost begins gathering her supplies, almost runs. "What are you doing?" she asks nervously instead. Smooth.
"What does it look like?" says Draco, pulling out some loose parchment and a quill before sitting beside her. "You keep saying you want to help."
He needs help with homework. Figures.
"Let me see."
For some reason, she never refuses, skimming the parchment he hands her.
"My God, Malfoy. Let me see the rest; give it here."
She re-translates his runes homework in under fifteen minutes. It's sloppy, with small errors she can't imagine him making in third year, nonetheless now. Almost like they were dispersed throughout the pages on purpose …
No.
The idea is ridiculous. He's just distracted.
She tells herself a lie as they sit together. They can be friends – erase centuries of prejudice and years of contempt with bonds made over books.
It begins raining somewhere between translating runes and copying charms. She grows bold as if the shift in barometrics excuses her changing tide.
"Why do you keep meeting me?" Hermione asks suddenly, and he doesn't falter.
"Because you're a walking homework-charm. It's probably the only reason Weasley made it past first year."
"He's doing just fine without me now," she argues, her tenor more bitter than intended.
"Stop chasing him. It's pathetic."
She lifts an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"You two would never work," he continues, head buried within their charm's homework.
She tries remaining neutral, annoyed by the comment.
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Because. He's … ordinary."
And you're not.
But he'd never say it.
"You'd be better off with Potter," Draco doesn't miss a beat, correcting himself. "At least his blood isn't part troll."
"Harry's like my brother."
"And you're like Weasely's sister. There's a reason he didn't pick you – ever. For anything."
"That's not true!"
But Draco's translating her subtitles, reading her buried fears like a Legilimens.
She reads his right back.
"You know … there's a simpler way to say you're jealous, Malfoy."
His smirk falls.
"I would never –"
"What?" she interrupts. "Stay with me in the library until midnight? Talk to me like we're friends? Kiss me under the stars?"
Draco jumps to his feet.
"How dare you."
He feels it, too … He has to. His scent mimics intoxication, sandalwood and white musk reeking of pardon and poor choices.
There's an odd type of calm in the storm of his eyes, but she's drunk on adrenaline. "What would you do?" Hermione asks unexpectedly.
He stares, confused.
"If he wasn't back," she explains. "No Voldemort, no oncoming war. It's just us – like we're back in third year. You hate me; I hate you. Life is as it should be –"
"You've lost it, Granger."
"What would you do?" she urges. If our lives were different. "If you had another choice."
"Call you mad as a Mudblood and tell you to stay away from me."
"Funny ..." She fills space between them. "You haven't done either of those things tonight."
"Quite right – and it's unfathomable."
"Because you haven't called me a slur?" she whispers, breathless at their proximity. "Or because you don't want me to stay away?"
"Because ... I don't fucking care anymore."
The admission is permanent and messy, broken glass on a wine-stained floor. But with the crash comes freedom.
They join within seconds.
The kiss tastes of madness, triggering compulsion or clarity or maybe just hatred disguised as lust. It resembles the night outside the window, stormy chaos after winter's thaw.
It isn't sweet.
It's a roller coaster without a lap bar – hands in hair, stomach-lurching, holding tight for dear life. They grasp each other's clothing, their Hogwarts uniforms like safety harnesses, as if the fast-moving ride might stop at any moment.
Despite its mayhem, there's no sloppiness or overzealous movements. When their tongues brush, it's a tease, every so often, as if forbidden. He's a good kisser. Images of Cormac at the Christmas ball become distant memories, replaced now by this.
Their predicament becomes glaring and obvious: the warmth spreading between her thighs as she presses them together. The consequences of his hands roaming, of them kissing like this.
He's unhinged. And she's immobilized, wedged between the desk and an equally unyielding hardness prodding her hip.
She sips the sin, drunk off delusion and sparks from her legs clenching. It's the tiniest pivot, her weight shifting onto one foot as she leans into him. Against him, their bodies flush.
Reality blurs. One of them groans, and it takes her a second to realize the low tenor is him, right before he takes her lower lip between his teeth.
She sucks in a sharp breath as his hands hook behind her thighs and lift. Stray parchment and a charms textbook clamour against the floor, making space as he hoists her atop the desk. Her legs fall open instinctively; he settles between them, her skirt hiking up to the point of indecency.
Holy –
It's just snogging. People do this all the time, in public even, for hours …
– fuck, but she's never been this turned on. Not kissing Victor or Cormac, not late at night with roaming fingers as her roommates slept, not ever.
Even the most innocent touches seem sensual: fingertips trailing her arm, his thumb brushing her chin, a hand cradling the crook of her neck. The pads of his fingers trace her collar bone, down her chest; she leans into his touch as he cups her breast.
The ache grows unignorable. She needs to clench her thighs together, impossible with him standing between them.
It's the desk's fault, or maybe his height's … Whichever culprit, their groins align as she sits atop the table's glossy finish, his trousers and a thin layer of cotton separating them.
The most potent form of instinct takes reign. Rocking her hips, the hardness straining his trousers presses her just right, the movement somehow both alleviating the ache and making it worse.
He groans into her mouth, and she grasps a shred of sense, grabbing her wand from the pile of abandoned schoolwork and casting a silencing charm despite the library's emptiness.
He grabs her, freezes. Have they gone too far? Is he re-orienting reality, ready to run?
But reality blurs again as he forces her hips higher, dragging his hardness against her most sensitive spot. She meets him halfway – and again – the movements utterly mind-altering, mimicking sex.
"Draco."
It's a plea, though she doesn't dare breathe aloud for what. She hardly recognizes herself, self-control hanging by a thread of willpower. There's a pounding behind her chest, between her temples, at the apex of her legs.
He senses her desperation, reaching between them and pressing the heel of his palm into her.
"Fuck, Granger."
She's wet where he touches, soaked fabric radiating warmth and untold truths: how badly she wants this. How she likes the taste of his lips, the scent on his shirt, the hardness between them.
She bucks against the blissful pressure of his touch.
"Please …"
Her voice is unrecognizable. She's unrecognizable, delusional. A different person, place, pretence – for nothing makes sense anymore as their worlds invert.
He hooks a finger beneath elastic, sliding down and abandoning her knickers. White cotton, she curses her own practicality, but soon forgets as cool air breezes warm wetness, the blissful chill making patience almost painful. A curse and his surname fall between them.
He runs two fingers against her, massaging, rubbing, and pinching her swollen flesh. He parts her arousal and she clenches with impatience – wants him in – but he just brushes and presses the sensitive area, trailing wetness up her slit. He's playing with her, teasing through light touches and the gentlest circles traced.
"Draco ... please."
"Bossy as always, Granger."
The tease somehow sounds erotic when said as his fingers disappear inside her. First one, then two, and she's wrecked ... begging, moaning, shaking beneath the spell of gentle thrusts.
His touch feels better than her own, as if her body recognizes the newness, appreciates that this is something special.
He does something wonderful with curling fingertips, tension rising as both of her legs tense. She's thankful for the wait – for the tease of denial – because when his thumb finally comes down and massages her aching clit, stars form.
The combination is a precipice, and she topples headfirst.
A climax crashes, waves of tranquillity rolling through her in blissful succession. She drowns in the sea of endorphins, obscenities falling from her lips as she forces her eyes open, looking right at him during those final ripples.
The world settles, her high becoming a haze.
The severity of their situation evaporates – overshadowed by a shared inability to break eye contact.
He's feral. Blown pupils and half-hooded lids, the grey of his iris almost eclipsed entirely. She wishes for alcohol in her blood or potion residue coating her tongue, anything to front the blame come tomorrow.
But it's them. Just them. How can it feel like this ... like heaven meets earthly perfection, with him of all people. Turns out the universe has a sense of humour after all.
She tells herself another lie.
It's only fair.
She could claim spiritual possession, or madness, or sickness, but it's not. It's reckless abandon – feelings, not logic – and controlled chaos she craves.
Gryffindor bravery (or teenage stupidity) drives her hand below his beltline … drives her to palm him through his clothing, surprised by the level of rigidity that meets her fingertips.
Oh, God.
It takes her a moment to realize she whispered the thought aloud.
Draco smirks.
"I – er … Sorry," she stammers.
Her hand falls, conscious chiding; 'oh god' and 'sorry' really aren't the proper things to say when touching a boy's –
"For what?" he asks, breaths uneven.
It's definitely stupidity this time around. Or the kiss that comes next, consuming all thoughts like a black hole opening beneath them.
She soon replaces her touch, massaging him through tented fabric. Arousal battles adrenaline before they both team up, her hand shaking as she tugs open his belt buckle, undoing the top button below. Without a belt, it doesn't take much effort, and together they push down his loose-fitting trousers and pants against the only tension keeping them up.
My God.
At least she doesn't say it aloud this time.
"Granger," he echos her same plea from earlier.
She's curious, determined.
Draco sucks in a sharp inhale when her hand brushes smooth flesh. She watches his breathing stop when she makes a loose fist; his eyes flutter closed when she runs her hand up and down his length.
The rush is unmatched. No amount of reading or eavesdropping in on her roommates' late-night conversations could prepare her for this. For the surge and shifts between them, for the slickness spreading between her thighs. For how much she doesn't want to stop ...
Wading in arousal previously, now she's drowning in it.
It's curiosity. It's her, chasing a high with the guise of experimentation.
She stares down shamelessly, studies the smoothness beneath her fingertips, the veins and ridges and pearled fluid she swipes with her thumb.
She wonders what he would feel like inside her … The same as his fingers? Better or worse? Would the earth reverse and the universe implode? It somehow hasn't yet.
She swallows roughly. Looks up at him. There's a fire behind his gaze for the first time all year. A spark reignited. He's powerful and vibrant and wicked. A once snuffed flame now rages, burning them both.
They kiss again, and it's not like before. It's hunger, starvation.
Resistance melts like a candle, her fate sealed with hot wax in the shape of his crest.
Maybe she's the one who forces him closer, but a half-step is a world's worth of distance.
She has to steady herself, reground. Breathe. She clutches the desk keeping her afloat, her arse halfway off its edge. She breaks the kiss, gasping as if her lungs can't take in enough air. They're close, so close …
"We can stop," he says, tightness reverberating through his vocal cords.
"I-I don't … no."
"You don't know?"
"No," she corrects herself. "I meant … Yes, I know. And, er - "
Don't stop.
Her body all but screams.
"You'll regret it," he tells her, and she's surprised by his tenor. Not malicious, but like a confession. To her or himself, she isn't sure.
"Rather presumptions … that it'll be me holding all the regret."
He hasn't breathed in a while either. When he does, it's a question. "Have you ever –"
"No," she answers, shaking her head before he can finish. "Have you?"
He hesitates as if fighting the truth.
"No."
She nods, unsure why she's surprised. Pureblood culture instils traditionalism, and promiscuity is considered inherently Muggle, bred through loose morals and animalistic impulse. She's fulfilling the unfair stereotype beautifully ... Then again, so is he; rock hard and ready to bury himself inside the same girl he calls Mudblood.
But Draco Malfoy isn't supposed to lose his virginity to a Muggle-born. And she's not supposed to pass the milestone with her childhood bully turned terrorist, pledging allegiance to her demise or worse.
Logic screams commentary, a laundry list of reasons to run, silenced by something stronger ... It's biology and chemistry and an itch responsible for sins far worse than this. Shared desperation grows tangible; he wants this just as badly as she does.
There's an emptiness she can't stand – that ache, back with vengeance.
She'll never know who leans in first. It's that same rickety roller coaster, now derailed.
The hardest part of him grazes the softest part of her. It's that movement from earlier, mimicking what they both want. Except for this time – it's heaven without barriers. His length, nestled against her sex, slick and swollen and pleading with her frontal cortex: stand down.
Let him have you.
It's wrong, all wrong – person, place, time, situation.
But maybe it's not always true love or wedding nights … Maybe it's the wrong boy, on a stormy night, in the backseat of an old car. Or atop the back table of an old library. Their story isn't new.
He isn't pushy, and the paradox is blinding. This rude, arrogant boy is somehow the prodigy of respect with his prick almost pressing into her.
It's a paradigm shift. Cognitive dissonance.
Instinct takes hold like invisible energy – forcing her legs wider, angling her hips, arching her back. Good Godric … She could come just from this.
It's intentional; mutual effort cloaked with impulse. She rocks forwards as he thrusts his hips – at just the right angle, with just the right force – until he's poised at her entrance, with the start of a stretch.
She needs him to decide. To take her, to move.
"Draco –"
"Say it."
He needs the same, demanding it like she'll revoke permission.
I want to; I want you.
"Keep going."
Friction and fullness replace her innocence.
She waits for pain so adamantly promised – the flinch, or wince, or whatever else film and literature depict. But she's slick with want, relaxed from his fingers. It's new and all-encompassing, but the pressure provokes pleasure, and he's gentle, unmoving.
It's the same oxymoron. He looks at her like she's made of porcelain, mistaking her whimpers and her nails digging into his shoulder as something else.
"Are you alright?"
She clenches around him impatiently.
"Yes. Christ," she implores, uncaring how Muggle it may sound. "Just – move."
Her next noise is unmistakable: a moan of rapture when he moves inside her, back to where they started, before pushing back in. And again.
"Look at me, Granger," he growls, fisting a segment of her hair. She feels beautiful when their eyes meet, sexy when he can't keep his open, chin to chest through his next thrust.
"Faster."
The word slips from her subconscious, unsure where it came from, but relishing in its result.
Her hips dance off the table, meeting each stroke. She's thankful for silencing charms; sure they'd wake the entire castle from creaks against the flagstone floor, their untamed noises, the sound of them crashing together.
It's exhilarating – the risk, their sin, the air that smells of sex.
She can't take it. Her body pleads, and she answers its call, reaching between them and tracing circles atop her hood. He watches, enthralled as she touches herself, barking orders at him like a martinet: keep going, slower, there … don't fucking stop.
"So bossy," he teases against her ear.
"Y-you like it," she somehow gets out.
"I fucking love it."
His words send a second peak rushing through her, moans reaching a crescendo as she tightens around him, riding the high until her body goes limp.
Soaked and sensitive, the friction is mind-altering in the aftershock of orgasm. She wants it to last forever, knowing it won't. He's faster now, more undone than she's ever seen – blond hair in disarray, cheeks flushed with arousal, face twisted in a way that makes him look older. Gorgeous.
"Granger," he breathes, and she holds tighter when he trembles. "I – fuck."
He shudders, muscles rippling with one final thrust. It's the first time she's seen him like this: without lines in his brow, tension evaporating like a heavy cloak falling off his shoulders.
It's over, and she bites her lip at the sudden emptiness between her legs.
He cleans up with the wave of his wand, a far worse mess forming in her head. They adjust their clothing, and she wonders if silence has ever defended anyone.
What now? What do you say?
I hope my nails didn't leave marks down your back.
Or maybe …
Do you think it's always like that?
"Draco –"
"This means nothing."
Except for everything.
In a way, though – she expects it.
"I know." Hermione nods her agreement. "It doesn't have to."
He looks surprised, expecting her to fight it.
"I … I'll just go," she insists. "It's late."
Hermione gathers her belongings with record speed.
"Wait," he says.
She turns, schoolbag flung over one shoulder, ready to run for good this time. Back to safety, back to a world where she's smart and not outrageous. A world that's galaxies away from his.
He's about to say something but doesn't.
"Just … don't fucking tell anyone," he settles on instead.
"I won't tell a soul."
She's never been more serious, running back to Gryffindor Tower swathed in enemy fingerprints.
She didn't expect to practice her promise so soon.
"Did you just get back?" asks Parvati when Hermione finally tip-toes into bed, following a long trip to their adjacent en suite.
"No." But Hermione curses under her breath. "I just used the bathroom."
"Hm … to shower?"
"I …"
Another stupid idea. But she had to wash him off her skin.
"I smelled your shampoo," Parvati explains. "Good idea – and with the silencing charm, too … You reeked of cologne the second you walked in."
She's thankful for the darkness hiding her outrage.
"Didn't know your Animagus is a bloodhound," says Hermione. "But your nose needs checking – "
"If you and Ron are – "
"We're not."
At least that part isn't a lie.
But Parvati's unconvinced. She gives an indignant huff, muttering something that sounds a lot like 'liar' before flipping over in bed.
Hermione tosses and turns all night. Dawn peaks through her curtains before she realizes something.
Oh, no.
It's April 11h … Her Aunt Linda's birthday.
She falls asleep wondering if the date will ever pass without her remembering tonight.