Dinner
7th of December. Somewhere in the Dolomites.
Cooking had never really been her forte.
Sure, if she had to feed someone else, it was no problem for Hermione to spend hours over the stove to make sure her loved ones were eating properly. But when it came to herself? Honestly, a bag of chips sometimes was more than enough. Or a sandwich, those few times she felt particularly daring. She had noticed that her laziness was worsening with age and stress—something that Harry was utterly unable to comprehend, given how he, on the contrary, cooked every time stress got the best of him. Ginny welcomed it as a blessing.
"To be honest," she'd said one night laughing while getting the table ready, "it was a nightmare to be around my mum while she cooked, so I never really learnt anything besides the basics. But that man?" She'd brought her hands to her chest, sighing delightfully.
Hermione's laugh had come out as a half-snort. "I wonder what exactly was keeping him from cooking for me, all that time we spent together," she'd replied, raising her voice to make sure Harry could hear from the kitchen.
"Desperate times!" he'd called over the sizzling noise of whatever it was that was frying in the several pans he was using to make dinner.
"Oi! Are you calling my cooking 'desperate'?"
"Well, if you really want to go there…" Ron's voice had risen from the sofa.
"You are a spoiled twat who can't even boil an egg and should just keep your mouth shut," Ginny had intervened before Hermione could give the older Weasley a piece of her mind.
It surely was an easier diet to follow in London: most of the times, she ordered something and had it delivered at her place, or she grabbed some take-away on her way back from the Prophet's offices, or just showed up unannounced at her friends' places and stayed over for dinner, which no one really minded. When she was alone, she had some go-to recipes that had become her lifeline but, generally speaking, her diet was not made of award-winning meals.
And yet, after seven days of eating like a 1st year undergrad, Hermione was missing real food; something warm, possibly with texture, something to really lose herself in for a few minutes to forget the never-ending storm outside. And, not less important, to forget the fact that Malfoy kept having luxurious lunches and dinners which she could smell perfectly but was never allowed to taste. So much for chivalry.
She was desperately looking inside the half empty fridge as she waited for Harry to pick up his phone. In the living room, the TV was broadcasting yet another chick flick she had seen a thousand times over, and when Hermione overheard Amanda Seyfried say her iconic "On Wednesdays we wear pink" line, followed by something that must have been Malfoy's snort-laugh, she grabbed her wand and silenced the room in the blink of an eye, muttering all sorts of foul things, directed at no one in particular.
"Happy to hear from you too, Hermione," Harry's loud greeting made her startle.
"Sorry. I was talking to myself." He chuckled on the other end of the call. "But hi! Everything all right?"
"Yep, pretty much. Have you heard from Gin?"
"Not yet. We have a call scheduled later in the day to talk about… well, you know," Hermione said, waving a hand around. "Why?" she asked then, frowning.
"Oh, no, nothing," Harry said, and Hermione's frown deepened. She couldn't quite pinpoint his undertone. "I was just asking. Anyway," he added before Hermione could inquire more, "did you need anything? What's wrong?"
Her stomach rumbled as she went back to the fridge. "Uh, yes. Could you, um… oh, dear, this is embarrassing," she lamented rubbing a hand on her face.
"Oh yeah? I'm interested, go on."
"Idiot." She sighed. "Could you… could you give me your lasagna recipe? Step by step, possibly?" There was a moment of silence. "Harry?"
"Godric save us all!" he exploded then. "Are you actually asking for my help?! I've got to write this down on the calendar, could you hold for a moment?" Hermione rolled her eyes with a groan that was supposed to mask a laugh while listening to all kinds of noises Harry was making on the other end of the phone. "This is unbelievable—I might actually have to reach out and thank aunt Petunia for having treated me as their own house elf…"
"Harry!" Hermione reprimanded him half-heartedly. "Come on, please, I'm really desperate," she pleaded. "I know none of the restaurants around here and I'm getting tired of eating salad every other day."
"About that, how's the blizzard going?"
"Oh, you know," terrifyingly. It hadn't stopped snowing and hailing a second since she arrived, and the avalanches had multiplied all around the mountains. The owners of nearby ski facilities were desperate, and rightfully so, given that they had no idea when they would be able to re-open safely, and the full winter season hadn't even started yet. After a week, the mayor hadn't lifted the lockdown yet and Hermione didn't even bother going outside, resorting instead to a quick relocator spell to transfer food directly from the supermarket to the kitchen. "It's not like I was planning on going outside anyway."
"Ginny said the cottage is nice, at least," Harry tried. "And you've got reception, how about that!"
"Yeah, that's actually a communication spell because apparently my operator works like shit here—but yes, the cabin is quite nice." The company wasn't as nice, but Harry didn't need to know that. "And it comes with a beautiful oven, too! Recipe, please?"
She wrote down the ingredients and the steps as Harry spoke, making a precise note of quantities and times and everything she might need to craft the perfect meal. It shouldn't be that difficult; she'd always been a great potioneer, after all, and cooking wasn't that different from brewing, was it? There are ingredients and there's a recipe to follow. Piece of cake. Or, in this case, of lasagna.
Hermione promised to send Harry a picture of the final result, "even though I should be keeping your ego in check," and started sorting out what she needed to get the cooking started. She was dedicating her attention to the sauce when a knock on the door made her pause and sigh.
"What?" she said, not even turning around.
She heard the fabric of Malfoy's pullover rub together as he shrugged. "Nothing. What are you doing?"
"You've got eyes. Use them."
"Right. Was that Potter on the phone?"
Hermione snapped her head around. "How did you hear my call?"
"You silenced the living room but not the kitchen. And the door was open," Malfoy explained, meeting her scowl with a smirk and plopping down on a chair after turning it backwards and crossing his arms on top of the backrest. "I've got to say, this development of The Boy Who Lived into The Boy Who Cooks is quite intriguing. Could you tell me more about it?"
She rolled her eyes. "Go back to your film, Malfoy. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from Regina George, there. You've lost your edge," she muttered as she turned back to the stoves to stir the ragù sauce.
He chuckled, but didn't move. "Do you need help?"
Hermione faltered in her movements. "No." Why on Earth would he even ask? "I told you, go back to your movie."
Malfoy hummed. "Suppose I will," he said then, standing up and pushing the chair back in its place.
Hermione kept stirring the ragù as she listened to his steps on the floor; she listened to the noises the sofa made as Malfoy fell back on it; and she kept listening and stirring absentmindedly as he resumed watching Mean Girls without a single care in the world.
After her outburst on their third day of forced cohabitation, things had started to get… different. Not necessarily better, just different. They still had their own, very separate lives, but at least now they were both mindful of the other, and it seemed like they were both trying not to be too much of a burden.
This, of course, didn't mean that Malfoy wasn't still listening to music while showering, or watching movies day and night, or even leaving the balcony's door ajar when going out to smoke. He just asked Hermione every now and then whether it was all good for her, too.
(Well, not about the smoking—he just did that—and it wasn't like Hermione had any interest whatsoever in the state of health of Malfoy's lungs anyway—but still. Actually, the fact that he always headed outside instead of just smoking indoors and then magically clear the air showed thoughtfulness: this way, he wouldn't leave some unpleasant stench behind.)
They were slowly and begrudgingly growing into some sort of coexistence. Both focused hard on the mission of getting through the dreadful experience they were being forced to live, and both regarded the indefinite day of freedom from the other as some sort of miraculous deus ex machina that couldn't arrive soon enough. And yet, blame it on general common sense or on pure and simple human emotion, the details showed that their sharp edges were, if not exactly smoothing down, at least learning how to fit together.
If Hermione understood this, though, she definitely didn't want to acknowledge it, lest she actually grew used to being around Malfoy and to Malfoy being around her.
She realised she was lost in her thoughts when the ragù started boiling in the pot and a sudden drop of tomato sauce squirted on her face, making her hiss under her breath. She lowered the flame and moved to get the rest of her meal ready, keen on occupying her mind with anything but the man in the other room.
Her wonderful dinner was coming together rather well until, suddenly, a handful of hours later all the lights went out, the TV shut down and the only noise Hermione could hear was the storm on the other side of the cabin's walls. Well, that, and Malfoy's litany of colourful curses.
"Chill out, will you?" Hermione screamed as she rushed to the oven, where her beloved lasagna had stopped cooking. "Where is the power generator? Go look for that and stop whining." Discouragement filled her as she turned off the oven and looked helplessly at the half-finished meal. Was there a spell to cook it? Could she manage with a fire, or something like that?
"What the fuck is a power generator? Lumos," Malfoy grumbled as he entered the kitchen and lit his wand.
Hermione was herself trying to mutter spells to finish cooking her dinner, but nothing seemed to work well enough. "It's that thing with the switches for the electrical current… do you reallynot know? How do you think the lights stay on?!" she exclaimed then, growing more and more irritated by the second. The last thing she needed to face was Malfoy's pretentious purebloodness and his complete lack of knowledge about the Muggle world.
"I haven't got the slightest idea what you're talking about," Malfoy replied, not looking exactly at ease himself. "Let me see that," he offered then, kneeling next to Hermione in front of the oven.
In response, she took out the baking pan, closed the oven shut and rose to her feet to put the lasagna in the freezer. "Don't bother. I'll have it tomorrow." She proceeded to set a spell on the fridge to keep it chilly, lest they had to throw away all of their stock. She didn't allow herself to think about why he was so keen on trying to help her in the first place. Who did he think he was, Merlin reincarnate?
"I do have a high opinion of myself, thank you very much, but that sounds a bit too much even for me. You just seemed particularly passionate about this lasagna," Malfoy said, somewhere in between annoyed and amused, startling her. She hadn't realised she'd spoken with her outside voice. "However will Potter take this affront, I wonder?"
"Why are you so obsessed with Harry? Grow up," she mumbled, and started opening all the pantry doors and drawers in the room. "There should be some candles around, look for them."
"For Salazar's sake, Granger," Malfoy said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "And to think you're supposed to be a witch."
Hermione snapped a drawer shut, pointing her flaming eyes on his shadowed face. "What is that supposed to mea—"
"Accio candles," he flatly stated, flicking his wrist. A door on the top right of the sideboard opened and the candles flew right in front of Malfoy; another flick, and they moved to each corner of the room; a last flick, and the space was illuminated again, all dim light and orange-red colours. He clicked his tongue. "Now, wasn't that easier? Nox."
Unsure of her feelings about the whole situation, Hermione fell on a chair, holding her head between her hands. "I was really looking forward to that lasagna."
Her lament was met with the ticking of typing on a phone. She couldn't feel more stupid than this: sharing her misery with Malfoy while he was ignoring her. Less than a minute later there was the clicking sound of the phone being locked and then, out of the blue: "I can grab dinner for two, if you'd like."
Hermione opened her eyes and stared at the table, her mind blank. She blinked, then opened her mouth to say something but stopped herself with a quick hand when she realised she didn't know what it was. She frowned, feeling her head eerily light and blank. Was Malfoy actually trying to be… nice?
Raising her head, she met his eyes. "Sorry, what?" she asked, more to stall than anything because she'd heard him loud and clear. Which Malfoy knew.
"There's this place nearby that makes canederli al formaggio, do you know what that is? It's a traditional dish—"
"No, no, no, no—hold on," she cut him off with a raised hand. "What?"
Malfoy's eyebrows quirked upwards. "Would you prefer another bag of chips?"
"Piss off, okay?" She hated his smirk with every fiber of her being, but after a moment of consideration she had to concede. "How much is it?"
"It's fine, it's on me." He grabbed two plates from the sink and cleaned them with another easy flick of his wand.
"You're not going to buy me dinner, Malfoy," Hermione rumbled, before going to her room to fetch her wallet. "How much?"
"I don't know, Granger, I don't remember. I just make some money materialise in their cash register, it's fine."
Hermione fumbled with her wallet, muttering to herself. Something was wrong—something was incredibly wrong. But wasn't everything wrong, after all? Was Malfoy trying to buy her dinner in some way more wrong than the two of them living together? To the very least, he was putting his hideous money to some good use.
And she was really hungry.
And his meals always smelled so delicious.
Ideally speaking, she would have preferred the lights to be on—the actual lights, and not some candles that risked to create an intimate atmosphere (she shuddered at the thought), but she couldn't have her cake and eat it too, could she?
She dug out a 20 euro bill and marched back into the kitchen to give it to Malfoy. "I don't like having debts," she told him with her arm stretched out in front of him.
He sighed and pocketed the money. "Fine. Sit down, will you?"
The table was already prepared, but Hermione still shifted on her feet for a while. She didn't even know why she was nervous. Without saying a word, she went to grab two stem glasses and a bottle of red wine, opened it and served it generously while Malfoy made food appear on their plates.
Already sipping on her glass, she sat down while wearily eyeing her plate, something inside of her wondering if she was supposed to expect it to be a trick.
"Cheers," Malfoy said sarcastically, grabbing his glass and bringing it to his mouth. The signet ring on his left hand clicked against it, and Hermione shivered. "You okay, Granger?" he asked, frowning.
"Yeah, it's, um… the heating system." She pulled down the sleeves of her jumper and cocooned herself on the chair. "It's fine, I'll just grab a blanket..."
Malfoy flicked his wand again, and Hermione felt a rush of heat embrace her. He moved it again, and a new fire sparked up in the living room's fireplace, its warmth already spreading in the small cottage. A content sigh left her mouth, and she immediately shut it by shoving a forkful of food in it.
"Since when are you this good at domestic charms?" she asked after swallowing her first bite. The pasta was nothing short of absolutely wonderful.
Malfoy shrugged. "Learned here and there. Feel better?"
Her cheeks pinked. It was the heating spell, it had nothing to do with his sudden concern for her wellbeing. She scoffed inwardly: Malfoy surely did not worry about that.
"Yes, 's okay," she mumbled in between bites.
Silence fell between them as they ate. Malfoy, as per usual, seemed as relaxed as he could be: sipping on his wine every now and then, he was savouring the food with such nonchalance that Hermione almost felt invisible. And yet, every nerve in her body was on high alert: she downed her glass so quickly that she was already about to finish her second serving while Malfoy had barely drunk his first, and she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. It was no use taking in the homely image they seemed to create together anyway—because it was anything but homely.
A faint chime from the bedroom broke the uncomfortable lack of conversation.
"That's Harry," Hermione thought out loud, turning her head towards the noise. "He probably thinks I've burnt the house down."
To her horror, Malfoy chuckled. "Can't help you with that, I'm afraid."
She narrowed her eyes at him as he finished his wine and poured himself some more. The candlelights played funnily on the pointy edges of his face. It wasn't like in school though, Hermione noticed. His face. Back then, it was harsh, constantly deformed by a sneer. But time had been benevolent with him: it had evened out his features, leaving behind chiselled shapes; a defined sort of beauty, but somehow gentle in its traits.
"Harry's fine, by the way," she heard herself saying after clearing her throat.
Malfoy lifted his head, his face a neutral mask of politeness. "Good to know."
"You know, since you insisted on asking," Hermione added before silence could fall once again. She decided to blame it on the wine.
His lips twisted in a slight smirk. "Yeah, well, it's a funny thing—living for years knowing exactly what Saint Potter is up to, and then having it all disappear from my life. Not that I'm complaining," he was quick to add, "obviously."
Despite her best intentions, Hermione didn't stop talking. "Right. Well, not that you're interested or anything," she said, and found she wasn't surprised when his eyes twinkled, "he's actually—well, they're actually pregnant."
Making conversation with Draco Malfoy. And they said life stopped surprising you after your 25th.
His eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Really?"
"Uh, yes," Hermione confirmed, ignoring the part of her brain that was yelling at her that it was Malfoy, why on Earth was she talking about Harry's future child with Malfoy?! "I just got the news today."
It was right after putting the lasagna in the oven, earlier in the evening; she'd gone to her room to try and write something while dinner cooked. As soon as she'd sat down at her desk, though, her phone rang, displaying Ginny's number.
Hermione had replied earnestly, remembering just then about the work call they had scheduled. After she greeted her friend, Ginny's voice had pitched a higher note than usual and she'd said, "Listen, um, could we switch to a video call for a second? I want to see your face when I tell you this."
"Sure," Hermione had agreed with a light frown, turning her camera on. She was busy smoothing down her curls, trying to give it some kind of shape when Ginny appeared on her screen, all smiles and freckles and spaghetti-straight hair. Lucky woman. "What is it, Gin? Should I be worried?"
"No, no, absolutely not," she'd reassured her, waving a hand around. "On the contrary, I… well, um, we…" Ginny had paused, closing her eyes and exhaling a strengthening breath—which obviously did nothing to calm Hermione. She hadn't even had time to say something, though, that the youngest Weasley had exclaimed, "We're pregnant!" smiling from ear to ear.
Hermione had gaped at the screen for so long that her friend thought she'd frozen. "Sorry. You're… You're pregnant?"
Ginny's smile seemed to grow bigger by the second. "Yes! I've actually known for a while, but we didn't want to say anything because… well, you know, it's just superstition, but… Anyway, I'd hoped to tell you in person but you're stuck there and, well, it is what it is, so here we are!"
"Oh, Merlin," Hermione had exhaled, the news slowly but irrevocably growing bigger into her brain. "Oh, Merlin, Ginny! What the fuck?! You're pregnant!"
"I am!" her friend had beamed into Hermione's phone, her eyes shining with happiness.
"So—um, sorry," Hermione had coughed, trying to swallow the lump of pure joy forming in her throat, "how long have you known?"
"Three months. I—well, we found out the sex today."
"And?" Hermione had urged when Ginny stalled for a moment.
"And it's a boy!" Harry's voice had boomed suddenly while he crowded the screen, his face upside down as he bent over the phone to look into the camera. Ginny's laugh was the most endearing sound Hermione had ever heard.
"You absolute wanker!" she'd scolded him as he sat down next to his wife, one arm going around her shoulders like it belonged there. "We literally talked to each other just hours ago and you didn't say anything!"
"Wasn't my secret to share," Harry had shrugged while Ginny left a kiss on his bearded cheek. "But, what I can tell you now is the name! Do you want to guess?"
Hermione had rolled her eyes, pretending to be annoyed but actually feeling every bit of love for the two idiots smiling and giggling and beaming on her screen. "Harry, I know you like the back of my hand. You're calling your son James, obviously."
Ginny had burst out laughing at Harry's forlorn expression. "I told you it was predictable, babe."
"Okay, fair," he'd admitted. "But it's not just James, it's going to be Jam—"
"James Sirius," Hermione had anticipated. "James Sirius Potter, right?"
"Oh, sod off, okay?!" he'd thrown his hands in the air. "Yes, we're calling him James Sirius Potter and we're going to scream it from the top of the roofs because the whole of London needs to know and he's going to be the greatest kid ever!" He'd started rambling and gesturing all around, making both Hermione and Ginny start laughing to the point of tears, and in the end his hands were around Ginny's waist and his mouth inches from her belly, talking directly to the little life forming in there.
It had been the perfect picture of a happy ending, and Hermione refused to believe that it made her sad. It didn't. She was the happiest godmother-to-be in the entire world.
"Hm," said Malfoy, back in the present. "A Potter-Weasley in the world. Isn't that the best."
Hermione rolled her eyes, mostly to hide her confusion at his playful tone. "You could just say 'good for them', you know. It won't kill you to be nice for once."
"Oh, yes, absolutely, good for them," he repeated, pouring her some wine—which Hermione didn't acknowledge for the sake of her own sanity. "Do you reckon it's going to be another redhead?"
She snorted violently, silently thanking Merlin she wasn't drinking. "You arsehole."
"I mean, they do have strong genes," Malfoy laughed, raising his hands in defence.
Hermione shook her head, smiling. "Well, actually," she began, knocking down some red liquid to ignore the voices in her head loudly asking why she was still making conversation with Malfoy, "Harry's mum was a redhead herself, so… you never know."
His eyebrows shot up. "Potter's mother was a redhead?"
"Yes, she was—"
"Merlin's beard—and you don't think that's creepy?!"
"Why would it be?"
"I don't know, his mother's a redhead and his—whatever they are—is a redhead too?"
"It's just a coincidence, Malfoy," Hermione laughed at his dismay. "Are you telling me you'll never fall for a blonde because your mum is a blonde?"
"That's completely different—it's different with redheads," he retorted seriously, pointing a finger at her while something that looked too much like mischief glinted in his eyes.
"Oh, 'cause you're such an expert on it," she teased.
"No, but, please, do offer your opinion as an expert on it," he answered, raising an eyebrow eloquently.
Hermione closed off immediately, her smile suddenly vanishing from her face. It was one thing to share a nice dinner and a good bottle of wine, another one altogether to have the conversation steer towards their personal lives.
Malfoy was quick to catch the instant change in her demeanour. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."
"It's nothing." She stood from the table and took her empty plate to the sink. "I really am no expert on redheads, despite common opinion." She washed the dish, wondering why she wasn't using magic but unable to put down the washing-up liquid. No matter how much time passed, it still stung when she had to think about Ron in that way.
The fact that it had been none other than Draco Malfoy to make her mind take that path was only adding to the desolating feeling of it all.
She heard him shift on his chair, probably to look at her and say something when, almost by magic, the lights turned back on.
"Oh," Hermione commented, looking around. "Good."
"Ah, yes, I texted Giacomo." Malfoy grabbed his phone and read what must be the host's reply. "He says there was a blackout in the entire village, so this must mean it's over."
"Right," Hermione said, closing herself in her arms. There was a very uncomfortable kind of sensation growing in the middle of her chest. "Well, I guess I'm just going to…" Her eyes moved towards the bedroom.
"Yes, right," Malfoy agreed, standing up himself and cleaning the table. She moved to help him, but he stopped her. "I got this."
From up close, Hermione noticed that there were flakes of green in his grey eyes.
She nodded in thanks and left the kitchen without another word, before closing herself in the bathroom to go through her night routine.
Minutes later in her bed, Hermione was struggling to fall asleep. Twisting and turning in the sheets, it felt like her mind refused to click on the off switch. She listened to the noises coming from the bathroom—the toilet lid being shut, the water running in the tub, random teeth cleaning sounds; for some reason, she couldn't ignore them like she usually did. At the same time, she stupidly refused to cast a silencing spell, because she didn't want to pass off as the ungrateful one who wanted to pretend Malfoy didn't exist after he bought her dinner. (Technically, she had paid him back, but—it was more of a conceptual thing.)
In the living room, the sofa shifted and creaked under Malfoy's weight as he slipped under the covers, and Hermione clung to the duvet as she kept listening to the sounds he made. The heating system was working again, but when she willed her eyes closed, she found herself wishing she'd asked Malfoy about his warming spell.
She wrapped her arms around her body, her fingers digging in the plaid fabric of her pyjamas. Absent-mindedly, her hand moved underneath the shirt, palm splaying over the bones of her ribcage. Laying on her side as she was, she could count them.
Eyes closed, Hermione focused on her breathing. In and out, a constant motion that could have lulled her to sleep, if not for the presence of something gnawing at the back of her brain—let it be Ginny's pregnancy, let it be the trail of thoughts the second-to-last Weasley always brought with him, or let it be the general restlessness that had accompanied her for the past seven days—whatever the reason, Hermione's mind still failed to slip into unconsciousness.
She rolled on her back, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. There had been a moment, while packing, when she'd had to decide whether or not to bring some sleeping draught along with her; eventually, she'd resolved to use her insomnia as a chance to write and make the best out of the situation. Except that now, the very thought of crawling out of bed and facing the white light of the still-blank page was just… depressing. Incredibly depressing.
Maybe she would read something instead. Or watch something. Did she feel like it, though?
Hermione closed her eyes again, exhaling slowly and forcing herself not to think about her life. Think about the book. What was she going to write about, tomorrow? She could outline the first meeting. Or a dance scene. Was there going to be a dance scene? Maybe. Yes. Or she could write the fight between the main characters. Or, even better, the final plot twist.
There were no more noises coming from the other side of the wall.
Tomorrow's writing would have to be tomorrow's problem, Hermione concluded when she felt her heartbeat falter, and she squeezed herself tightly in her own arms. One thing she had yet to decide was whether her heroine, too, was going to sleep in a cold, empty bed at the end of the book.
Nope, she thought resolutely, we're not going there, we're not going there, not tonight, we're not, and she flipped on her other side.
It would have been nice, though—she found herself thinking against her own best interest—if it wasn't just her hand skimming her skin, and if it wasn't just the duvet keeping her warm. It had been too long now. She didn't exactly miss it; or, well, she wasn't sure what exactly she was missing—whether it was the physical presence of a man next to her or the pleasure she might derive from it.
Still.
It would have been nice.
Hermione shifted on her back again and stared at the ceiling. There was always that one way to effectively silence her mind and put her to sleep in a snap of her fingers. After all, Malfoy was already asleep, so—no, wait, maybe it was best not to think about Malfoy.
Her eyes flicked shut, and her hand slid between her legs.
The best thing about masturbation, Hermione had found out in her teens, was that it completely, totally and irrevocably cleared her mind. It left no room for troubling thoughts, there was no time for overthinking—there were only jolts of physical sensations that made their way straight from her core to her brain and needed to be let out. In those moments, her mind was finally free to paint an impressionistic picture of everything and nothing at the same time: against her closed eyelids, there were reels of hands, fingers, mouths, tongues, nipples, muscles, all summing up to bring her inexorably to a perfect climax.
She stroked herself slowly, purposefully but languidly, and when she caught herself wishing her fingers were a tongue instead, she quickened her pace, squeezing her eyes in concentration. One hand went to her breasts, massaging the soft flesh, tweaking her nipples. Flashes of different lips overlapped in her mind—lipstick-coloured and lipstick-stained, smooth and bearded, smiling and pouting and gasping and grinning.
Then, a very detailed image arrogantly elbowed its way to the front of her imagination, suppressing all the others: a glass of red wine brought to a smirking mouth. Long, slender fingers holding it. A signet ring adorning one of them.
Hermione bit the pillow to stifle the loud and throaty moan that risked echoing in the room as she suddenly fell over the edge and came.
She didn't give her breath the time to even out that she hastily pulled her hands away from her knickers and apparated into the bathroom, her knees feeling no better than cheap jelly. In less than a minute, she was back in bed, tightly curled up in a fetal position, shocked and appalled with herself for reaching one of the best orgasms of her life while thinking of Draco bloody Malfoy.