Alpha'd by jamethiel
Beta'd by Pidanka and jamethiel
Set from Draco's POV and follows after the events of Chapter 6
But one must know how to colour one's actions and to be a great liar and deceiver. Men are so simple, and so much creatures of circumstance, that the deceiver will always find someone ready to be deceived.
– The Prince, Niccoló Machiavelli
"Explain." Hermione pressed the tip of her wand into his throat. "Now."
She really did look pissed off, and astonishingly beautiful.
Merlin, she suited angry. Her eyes were glittering like cut gems, and there was a streak of colour on her cheekbones. Her mouth was a hard line, and as level as if it had been measured with a Gunter's chain, as was common for the British Empire even after it became obsolete.
She had him backed against the marble countertops of Blaise and Luna's kitchen, and the edge of stone was digging into the base of his spine. While there was a smidgen of pain from where she had him pinned, being held at wand-point by Hermione was unbelievably...well, hot. It wasn't the nuance of phrasing he would have liked, and it contained a level of plebian crassness, however he could conceive no other word to describe this situation.
Hot like a flame. Hot like spice. Hot like a chilli pepper. (On the Scoville scale she would be Trinidad Moruga Scorpion Chilli.) If he reached out and touched her, she'd scold him like the naughty boy he was.
When he and Blaise had been discovered, Hermione had dragged him from the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. No one had come after them, and Draco felt a twinge of betrayal. He was wounded. He was sure to have at least said something if Luna forcibly removed Blaise from a room with an intention of murdering him. Because there could be no doubt that Hermione had briefly considered ending all her troubles with a well-placed curse. He could tell by the way she had pushed him into the kitchen, slammed the door, and stalked towards him until she had him backed into a theoretical corner, or, in this case, the marble counter.
"Why were you listening at the door?" She shot the question at him like a spell.
Her head was tilted back as she glared into his face, and her chest heaved distractingly under her plain t-shirt. If she pressed herself any closer to him, then she was going to feel exactly how much of a turn-on he was finding this.
He couldn't stop the smirk that touched his mouth.
"Why were you," he countered, "discussing our sex life so freely? I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for the fact you never speak so frankly to me, and I am the one you are sleeping with."
"As you were listening in," she said between gritted teeth, "then you'll be aware of how uncomfortable I was during that conversation."
Draco ignored her. "Quick, am I?" he said, getting to what he considered the heart of his grievance. "You never seemed to have minded before." He leaned down so his words could kiss her lips. "Now I know what you want, I'll make sure to take my time."
From this proximity, he could see her eyes narrow. Wait for it –
Her breath hissed as it escaped her lips. "You self-absorbed, narcissistic, bastar –"
"– bastard," he finished. There it was. "Yes, I know. You often describe me as such. On the other hand, you, my dearest Granger, are an absolute delight. Perfection incarnate." He lazily rolled his eyes down her body. "It's just a shame you don't have the personality to match."
The hand holding her wand twitched, and a tiny spark flashed from the wand and jolted into his neck.
The effect was electric. Like two animatronic dolls been given a voltaic shock, they jolted to life.
He slapped her wand away with the back of his hand, and her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
"Bloody hell." He pressed his palm over the spot on his neck.
She gawked at the tip of her wand. Her expression was stunned and stupid, and another time he might have enjoyed the picture of comic astonishment on his wife's face, but right now his neck hurt like she'd pressed a lit match into his skin.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I – I didn't mean to do that."
As if they had been pulled by an invisible string, Draco's eyebrows shot up. She'd lost control of her magic. The realisation was simultaneously satisfying and disconcerting. It was satisfying to know he had some kind of effect on her; however it was disconcerting that all it apparently took was the implication that they'd have slow, unhurried, and drawn-out sex. Which was a lie, of course. Tonight he didn't think he'd be able to build his seduction. There would be no three course meal of Comté cheese soufflé, followed by assiette of lamb, and to finish Maman Blanc apple tart. No. She'd be lucky to get a bread stick.
He was likely to be as brisk – or, he darkly thought, as quick – as he usually was.
She might have hit him with a spark, but that hadn't dampened his arousal one glorious inch.
He quickly glanced at the door.
Yes, it was closed.
Professor Snape – an unusual man by anyone's standards – had a habit of lurking behind corners, doors, statues, suits of armour, and other objects which could obscure his lanky frame, including, at one time, Goyle. The man – Snape that is – was as silent as the proverbial grave. However, as Draco was by nature a cunning – to use Granger's turn of phrase – bastard, he'd developed a sixth-sense for when his potential shags were about to be interrupted. It was a useful skill in a castle which contained so many dark corners for dark deeds.
Therefore, he could, with much self-assurance, confidently say that no-one, not even his beloved best friend, was lurking and listening outside the door. Even for the sound of his impending death by his wife's hand. No one would want to incriminate Granger, and therefore the others – such as the snake Zabini – were all preoccupying themselves with cake and reasonable alibis.
Blaise was bound to be annoyed if Draco had sex with Hermione in the man's pristine, expensive, and hardly-used kitchen. This was only more of an incentive for Draco to grab Hermione around the waist and hoist her up onto the countertop. It wouldn't be difficult. She barely weighed anything. She was off guard – still staring at her wand as if it had sprouted roots – and it would be a simple matter for him to swap their positions and slide his hand down the waistband of her jeans. She wouldn't be wet, as he highly doubted she was finding this scene as stimulating as he was, however, with the right pressure in the right places he could make her forget they were having an argument in her friend's house.
"It's been years since..." she petered off and frowned as if she had answered a question incorrectly in class.
"Honestly," he said, amusement lurking in his tone like a grindylow, "does everyone today have to take out their displeasure with me physically. I have mastered the power of speech. We could be like every other married couple and have a normal verbal argument. One of your lectures would have more than sufficed."
Hermione leaned towards him, and there was a wooden noise as she laid her wand on top of the counter.
It was a clear, diplomatic signal, and he had enough gumption to recognise a peace offering when it happened before his eyes.
To a witch or wizard, a wand was more than just a mere piece of wood. Simply, a wand developed a magical bond with their owner. That was unless a wand swapped allegiances. Abandoning their wizard like a used handkerchief for a more prestigious caster. He was not bitter, he swore.
Draco could, even now, remember the whispery voice of Ollivander when he'd gone to buy his first wand at age eleven. The wand chooses the wizard. Although he'd obviously been second choice to Potter with that particular stick of ungrateful wood.
His current wand was a ten and three-quarter inch wand of Acacia wood with a core of Antipodean Opaleye Dragon heart string. It was beautiful, rare, and temperamental. Such as many things in his life.
When Hermione had lost control of her wand, it demonstrated that her emotions had overwhelmed her. Judging by the pain in his neck, these were emotions of anger and possibly humiliation. He highly doubted they were ones of lust or love.
Yet, with that little spark, she'd revealed herself to him as effectively as showing her hand in a game of poker. Her bluff was gone.
Draco relaxed, loosening his shoulders with a roll. He moved his hand away from his neck.
He watched her, through half-lidded eyes, as she stared at the side of his neck. Her wand tip had probably left a mark, but it would not hurt Granger to see some results of her anger on his physical person.
"I'm aware that I've asked you to be...quick, and I appreciate your" – Hermione paused and raised her eyes to the ceiling as if running through a mental thesaurus in her mind – "swiftness."
Draco kept his face consciously neutral, but he died, just a little bit, inside.
She made a pitched noise as she cleared her throat. It sounded like she was trying to dislodge a tin whistle that had inexplicably got stuck in her windpipe.
"I never," she said, before giving up and coughing again. "I never actually said you were bad at what you do."
"High praise." He pointedly rubbed the side of his neck again. Maybe he was not done drawing out the sympathy vote. All's fair in...well, war in this case. Love hardly came within a mile of the matter for Granger.
She didn't take the bait or pay any attention to his neck. Instead, she threw him the most knowing look he'd ever seen. "With your experience," she said in icy accents, "I don't believe you need my validation on your prowess."
Her implication was as transparent as glass, as fine as a cloudless day, and as plain as the nose on Kelpie King's face.
He adjusted his stance, pulled his own wand out of his back pocket, and placed it next to hers.
"So." He turned back to her. "Which has you most annoyed? That I eavesdropped, or that, due to this, I overheard you admit that you enjoy sleeping with me?" He leaned against the counter so that his hips were angled forward.
There was also her illuminating speech about their wedding night.
I will not take that choice away from him. I will not be the one responsible for putting him back into Azkaban.
His little Granger had been sacrificing herself that night, and all to save his skin. That was a piece of juicy information.
She hadn't been able to bear the idea of him languidly rotting in a cell. Or, at least, the thought that she'd been the one to put him in said cell. It was an interesting notion to consider that her motivations for 'saving' him by sleeping with him had been selfish, to allay any guilt she might suffer. How almost Slytherin of her. She could hardly play the wounded martyr if she'd brought him down with her. No saint desires blood on their hands, or innocent blood at any rate. His was hardly innocent. More mildly corrupted. Like a tarnished piece of bronze, or blackened silver.
A bit like an abandoned pond that had developed its own ecosystem and new species of amphibian, the events leading up to and after his wedding night were a bit murky in his mind. This may be due to the quantity he'd drunk later that night, or, then again, it could be because of the dizzying lust he'd been valiantly suppressing. The actual consummation he remembered with alarming clarity.
Her protestations that she didn't want any pleasure from him. The sight of her arse as she'd paced their hotel room. The feel of her when he'd pushed himself in.
At the time, it had taken a disquieting amount of self control not to jump, strip, and shag Granger the moment he'd had her alone. Even fully clothed, the woman had the ability to deprive him of all his reason.
His eyes wandered down her face.
Merlin. She was sucking her lip. White teeth covering and enclosing. The slight undulation in her chin. The pink pout of her upper lip. He didn't think she comprehended how her mouth moved when she had her lower lip inside her mouth. He did, however.
"If it is the former, then you have a right to be a touch put out," he said and pushed some of the more sexual deranged thoughts out of his head. "However, if it is the latter, then you are deceiving yourself." He added a certain amount of arrogant swagger to his tone. "Because I already know how much you enjoy us." He reached out and ran his index finger down the side of her face. "I can feel you, Granger."
"My anger at you, Malfoy, is not limited to just this occasion." She jerkily moved her head away from his hand. "I only said the sex was good."
He wanted to roll his eyes. "You know it is more than good. It is great, and on occasions excellent. I could start grading your efforts if that would help you get into the swing of it." He cocked a smile at her. "I would be delighted to instruct you on how to get an O."
"You didn't have to spy on me." She let out a sigh that tickled the fine hairs on his neck. "If you wanted to know anything, you could have asked me."
This time he did roll his eyes. "Yes, because our marriage is all about open communication."
"Our relationship should be."
"And how would you define our relationship?"
"Victims of circumstance."
"What circumstance? Marriage, law, sex?" He briefly pressed his lips together. "I would like to know how you would describe what we are doing?"
"All three," she said. Her eyes darted away, and she seemed to become fascinated with something on the other side of the room. "We are all – every person paired together – victims of circumstance. But it's what we do about these circumstances which will define us."
"You're doing a wonderful job of lying back and taking it," he said, his sarcasm leadened.
"Don't be crass." Her nose wrinkled. "This is more important than you or I as individuals –"
"We're not individuals," he said. "We are an us." He slapped his hand on the counter, and there was a cracking sound which reverberated around the room.
He watched her blink and focus in on where his hand was flattened on the counter. His palm burned from the contact, but it was a good pain. A pain which grounded him.
"And, as long as there is not anything amiss," he continued, breathing heavily, "we will soon be a they."
She didn't say anything, but she started to twist her wedding band, turning the ring like she was trying to unscrew it.
"A family." He curled his fingers into the marble, but his nails couldn't make a purchase on the slippery stone. "You, me, and our child."
She looked down, and her hands continued to play with the ring he'd given her. "You know that isn't going to be how it is. I told you."
He was scowling; he could feel the pressure in between his eyes, but he tried to not sound angry. He pushed his feelings of hurt to the front of his voice. "You cannot be serious in taking our child away from me."
"I would never deny you our child. We'll just have to work something out." She seemed to shrink. Her shoulders tightened, and her head dipped even lower until all he could see was the flutter of her eyelashes as she blinked. "Please – this is all very hypothetical at the moment."
"Then when am I allowed to present you with these questions? And, more importantly, when are you going to give me answers?"
She lifted and tilted her head to the side, like a curious dog, before frowning, ever-so-slightly, up at him. "Everytime you've asked me a question, I have answered."
"Oh!" He groaned, dramatically. "You have got to be kidding." He planted both his hands on the cold marble and hoisted himself closer to her, so all her vision would be taken up by his expression. Steel-coloured eyes. Twisted lips. His nostrils flaring with anger at the injustice of his position.
He wanted her love, her devotion, her admiration. All he got was her scorn. He was exhausted at living up to her expectations. If she asked, he would be her slave. Or, as far as a Malfoy could be a slave to anyone. He'd worship her, however. Shower her in jewels and pretty things until she could see her value; the worth he saw in her.
"You can barely keep the loathing out of your eyes," he said, softly like a carving knife. "How can I risk asking you a question when you regard me with so much contempt? Even when you come, you are disgusted with me."
She was also disgusted with herself, he thought but didn't say. He could see it in her body. How she'd curl away from him, curve her body out of his reach, and wind her arms around herself.
Most of the time when she climaxed, she was turned away from him, either by volition of their position or because she twisted her head. He'd caught her expression a few times. Her eyes tightly shut as if they were sewn together, and her brow furrowed as if struck with needles.
When he'd made love to her earlier in the week, he'd been too late to study her face as she came. He'd felt her climax as he hovered over her: his mouth on her breasts, and his hands on her skin. She'd cried out, but just a noise and not a word, a curse, a call to some ancient god, or even his name. Just a cry. Too breathy and pitched to be pain, but low and long like the call of the wind through a thicket of bare aspen trees.
Her face would have been bare like her cry. Not exposed like silver branches but stripped, stark and unveiled, and free of concealment. Bursting with disgust, he was sure, but beautiful in its cruelty.
"I see," she said. Her face went objectively blank: unlined, her eyes lowered. "What vexes you is that I haven't fallen to your feet in awe of your sexual abilities."
"No –" but he'd answered too quickly.
"I was coerced into this marriage." She stepped back further, and her shoe made a little scuffing sound on the tiles. "Unlike you, I didn't just conform with what was ordered of me. I fought. I'm not done fighting, and I won't be until this 'law' – this dehumanising piece of legislation – is dissolved. You didn't even try to contest what was happening to us."
"I did not want to." He swallowed hard. "I want – I want –" he tried, but he couldn't push the words out.
He shook his head and watched as her outline flickered, flame-like, as she backed away from him.
"What you want," she told him, her voice rising, "is a woman who will agree with you and will be available whenever you wish her to be."
He blinked, but he couldn't quite focus on her. It was like he was viewing her through a smeared glass. Or a cracked mirror.
"Gods," he said, "you really have no idea if you think I want a seen but not heard wife."
"This was highly implied this afternoon."
Take away my choices.
More than your equal.
Watch you burn.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes so he couldn't see her. "This is not how I dreamed my marriage would be."
"That's because this isn't a marriage."
"No, you are right about that," he muttered. "It's a fucking nightmare."
She is yours. Can you honestly conceive of letting another touch her? You'd be likely to go mad. Eaten eternally by your own imaginings of her.
The mental outpour of possession ricocheted around his brain like a misfired spell.
Fuck. Even to himself, he sounded like a possessive bastard. This wasn't him. Well, it was him. He was the type of person to grab her chin, and squeeze her until she was forced to look at him and only him. But he wasn't going to do that. That would turn him into every person he'd sworn not to become.
No, he wasn't going to give her up. She was his. Branded with his name, despite it fitting her like an off-the-rack wedding dress.
Her own wedding dress had fitted her like a glove. White, like aged ivory, silken, overlaid with lace, and when he'd chosen the material, it had slipped between his fingers like water.
Thank the gods he'd made her wear his bespoke dress to their wedding. He'd taken one glance at the monstrosity of black crêpe which she called a 'dress' and had been tempted to set the thing on fire. He would have simply been doing the world a service.
"I refuse to be seen with you if you wear that," he'd said and pointed to the dress hanging on the back of her office door.
It was long, cut to the throat, and the back was held together with enough buttons to stock a haberdashery. They were small buttons, covered in black cloth, and they looked like they would be a bugger to undo.
"You say that like it's a problem," she'd said. She'd refused to meet his eye, and she started to restack the papers on her desk for the fourth time since he'd entered the room. "If you refuse to be seen with me, then that would make it a trifle difficult to get married."
He'd crossed his arms. "I will marry you by proxy. I'll hire some blind bastard to act in my place who won't cringe at the sight of you." He'd stalked over to the 'dress' and begun to pull at the layers upon layers of fabric.
"Because I am going to marry you, Granger," he'd called back over his shoulder. "One way or another. And not even this heinous abomination is going to stop me."
He'd given the buttons an experimental tug. Nope. He'd come to the conclusion that the only way he was going to get her out of this dress, without help, was if he ripped it off her body. Not an unpleasant prospect, but he'd been able to easily envision Granger glaring at him and ticking him off with that particularly shrill tone she seemed to use around him.
"It has ruffles." He'd bent down and put his hand under the skirt. "And – by god – is that a bustle?" He'd turned around, his mouth gaping. "Is this Victorian-esque dress meant to hide your physical appeal – to discourage me?"
She'd jerked her chin up and coolly looked down her nose at him. "The ceremony isn't until tomorrow, and until that point, I don't have to tolerate your presence, so would you please leave me in peace."
Her hands had been busy 'tidying' her desk, and she hadn't touched the parchment she'd been working on since he'd walked into her inner sanctum of the Ministry. A piece of hair fell in front of her eyes, and she touched her cheek as she quickly pushed it back.
"Stand up."
She'd frozen, her hand still by her face.
"Stand up, Granger," he'd said, "or I will make you." He'd tapped his foot a few times before adding, "I am not going to do anything." He'd snapped his fingers and a measuring tape appeared in his hand. "I just want to take your measurements."
If he hadn't been studying her so closely, then he would have missed the imperceptible flicker of her eyebrow.
"Dare I ask why you know how to magic a tape measure?" she'd said, and if it hadn't been Hermione Granger – whose knickers were probably white and cotton and containing a chastity belt – then he'd have sworn there was a hint of an innuendo behind her words.
"I run an import company. Measuring often comes into it." He'd flicked the fingers of his free hand in a beckoning movement. "Now, stand up."
"If I do," she said, suspiciously, "will you go away?"
He plastered a smile on his face. It was as bright as the lighting in St Mungo's Hospital. "You have my word."
"Fine." Her chair hit the back wall as she stood up.
"You will have to move out from behind your desk," he advised, grinning. "It would be a tight squeeze if I joined you back there."
Oddly enough, at that observation, she'd moved very quickly into the middle of the room.
"Arms up."
He'd knelt down beside her and started to measure and mentally record the numbers. He'd slowly slid the tape up her legs, and had purposefully needed to refix the end of the tape on the side of her hip three times before he got it perfectly straight.
She'd not protested, but she'd shuffled from one foot to the other like a crab that knew it was going to be on the dinner menu.
"I am thinking something white," he said, his tone conversational as he enclosed her in the tape. "How do you feel about lace?"
He'd tugged the tape taut, and she'd stumbled forward. He'd placed both of his hands on the tops of her thighs to help her keep her balance.
"I have no preference." Her muscles had tensed under his palms.
"Venise á Rose lace would be delightful on your skin." He'd practically hissed the end of sentence against the slip of skin below her skirt. He'd watched, fascinated, as her legs broke out in gooseflesh under her sheer stockings.
"Malfoy." She'd said his name so sharply that his head had snapped up, in response, to look at her. Once she seemed satisfied that she had his complete attention, she'd continued, "If I could wear a bin-bag tomorrow, then I would."
His mouth had warped into something which, at a pinch, could be described as a smile. He'd risen to his feet, the tape measure still encircling her body.
"My dear one," he'd narrowed the tape around her waist, "all the easier to tear off you."
Her body had tightened, and, like a coiled spring, he'd imagined each of her muscles contracting and tensing under his bare hands.
"Or," he'd said, generously, "you can allow me to create something which you can remove yourself. Because if you wear that dress," and like an old adversary, he nodded to the black apology for a dress, "then I'll strip you."
Her eyes flashed. "You wouldn't dare."
"I'll enjoy it." He'd snapped the tape towards him and, as if to demonstrate the efficiency by which he'd peel the clothes of her back like a chef stripping an artichoke, he wrapped the trap around his three middle fingers until only the metal tag remained. "On second thoughts, wear the damned thing, Granger." He met her eyes and simmered in their heat. "Just give me a reason."
"You have to realise that we're not a good fit for each other," she said, and he could hear the exasperation in her tone.
He opened his eyes.
She was standing away from him, her back to the kitchen door with her feet planted on the tiles. She wasn't running, but she'd backed off sufficiently. To give herself room to breathe, or for him?
"I wouldn't consider us bad either." He inhaled and slotted a smile on his face. "We may bicker like a couple of teenagers, but we are well-matched in wits." He drummed his fingers a few times. "You can't deny, Granger, I give you a run for your money."
She snorted. "For someone who is so intelligent, you can be obnoxiously narrow-minded."
He decided not to comment on her accidental compliment. "Perhaps," he glanced up at her through his lashes, "I just haven't been given the right example."
She pursed her lips into a tight knot. "You're an adult."
"Even in your contrary opinion?"
He let the question hang between them until, he thought he saw, a twitch of something – maybe amusement – which unpinned her lips. Slightly.
"It does alarm me," she said, crossing her arms loosely over her chest, "how beyond the age of seventeen, some are regarded as fully functioning adults."
"I completely agree, my dear."
Those dark eyes of hers. Intoxicating. Rich and deep with inflections of light like amber liquor. He could get drunk of those eyes. Drown in them.
He pressed his advantage and slid closer to her. Just a few inches, but enough for him to get a deliciable hint of her perfume. "Really, I do not know how I coped before you came into my life and showed my the error of my ways."
"Don't mock me."
"I would never dream of mocking you."
"I," and she added yet another layer of coolness to her voice, "have done a poor job if this is you correcting your ways."
He clicked his tongue, and delighted when her eyes flashed down to his mouth.
He did it again.
"We cannot have you failing at anything, Granger."
Distract her.
"Regarding each other's failings. Or, really, my failings, if we're being honest with each other." He smiled and took one long stride towards her, "I feel the need to redress a point which you expressed displeasure in earlier."
He was expecting her to retreat. Those juxtaposing actions which seemed so quintessentially her. She'd retreat into her brain, her intellect, her academic vocabulary, shutting off her mind to him. Yet, she'd also approach him. Face him down with her metaphorical claws out. Or maybe not so metaphorical. He resisted the urge to touch his neck again. She normally wielded her words like weapons.
But this time – this time, she didn't move.
Still as a sculpture. Beautiful and as still as the classical Greek statue, Aphrodite of Knidos. All long, carved limbs and subtle modesty. Unequivocally sensual nonetheless.
"Which point, Malfoy?" she said, and her eyebrows flickered.
Draco closed his mouth. He wasn't even aware when it had fallen open. Possibly about the time when he was mentally comparing Aphrodite's and Granger's breasts. He'd actually spend more time ogling Aphrodite's, given that he'd only seen hers a handful of times. He'd only had them in his hands just the once. Granger's, that is. Not the statue's. Although, he thought, darkly, he might have more luck with the statue.
He tilted his head to the side as one would survey Classical art.
There might be more cuppage on the Ancient Greek bird, he idly thought. It would really help if Granger unfolded her arms. Then he'd be able to properly assess. Of course, he would need to examine more closely. You know, really get a feel for it.
Ah.
She lowered her arms.
Merlin's beard.
On reflection, his wife won on pertness. Hands down. Down, around, over. Goodness, the possibilities were endless.
"What is the point?" She pronounced the 'what' with a double 'h'. He wouldn't be surprised if she started tapping her foot.
She put her hands on her hips.
Oops.
Maybe he hadn't been as low-key as he thought in his appraisal.
"Apologies," he said and coughed. A little verbalisation of embarrassment was necessary to demonstrate the contrition, he felt. "Where was I?"
"A point." Her t-shirt bunched as her fingers tightened.
"Ah, that point. I wish to show you" – he drew himself towards her, allowing his breath to linger over her mouth – "how quick I can be."
She responded with a predictableness which was reassuring. "No."
"Yes, Granger."
"No –"
"Yes."
"We're in –"
"Yes, before you ask, I am well aware that we are in the Zabini-Lovegood abode."
"We aren't having sex here."
"Who said anything about sex," he said in a tone which mimiced hurt at the injustice of her prostests. "I shall clarify, as you obviously will not let me into your knickers without a full explanation. Although it'll have to be a verbal clarification because I am not taking the time to put one in writing." He took hold of her t-shirt and pulled the material out of the way, revealing the three buttons of her jeans. "I'm going to make you come."
"I," and her eyes flashed like amber liquor, "am not having sex in Luna's kitchen."
"We're not going to have sex." He popped the first button. "Well, not sex in the conventional way. I, for instance, will not be getting my jollies off except on the wonderful image of you orgasming."
"Then there's no point in us doing anything."
"Yes, yes. Because according to you there is no conceivable reason why we should have sex unless I come. I know." He crooked his finger into the empty button loop and hoisted her closer. "I more than know." He bared his teeth. "However, as you have pointed out: I am a bastard."
"This is ridiculous."
He paused on the third button. "Really?" He dug his thumb into the single metal circle that now held her distractingly tight jeans together. "If it helps, think, Granger," he slipped the button through the loop, "an orgasm might help conception."
"You know that's not how it works," she said, but her voice caught on the last syllable. Her reaction might have had something to do with his hand. With her jeans undone, he had just enough room to wiggle his hand and cup her through her knickers. Cotton. Black. In case anyone in the ether wanted to know.
He pressed the heel of his hand and jimmied it up and down. It wasn't the sexiest of descriptions, but, yet if he employed the car inspired Americanism, then he was technically jacking her off.
"Tell me to stop."
With every rotation he'd change the pressure. Push, then release. Push. Release.
"I will, if you tell me to."
He caught her eyes. Or, rather, she caught his. Swallowing him into their intoxicating depths.
Gods. He could die a happy man in those eyes when they were deep and dark with pleasure.
"Tell me to stop."
She blinked, and then her eyes slid closed. Shutting him out, no doubt.
"I'm desperate for you," he said, desperately, and moved her underwear to the side
She was worrying her lip. Sucking the plump pink centre into her mouth. He wanted to kiss her. So badly. With any other woman he would have. When he slid a finger inside of them, he would have taken their bottom lip between his teeth. As he started to thrust, wet quick pumps, he would have worshiped their mouth with his tongue. Hot, short kisses to match the speed of his wrist when he added another finger.
But as this was Granger, he contented himself to watching and listening and fucking. It was easy to fuck her. She'd made it easy for him. With her sweet wetness, opening thighs, and shuffling hips as she tried, without the use of her hands, to wrestle her jeans lower.
She probably was not even aware that she was meeting his thrusts, and he wasn't going to be the one to burst her deluded bubble.
No, she'd do that herself in a few minutes time. When her orgasm lifted and the hazy pleasure past. She'd blush oh so prettily and pull up her jeans oh so modestly. All the while he'd watch her, his fingers sticky and warm.
"You can keep denying yourself –"
Burn, would she?
"– telling yourself that you don't feel a thing –"
Set herself alight, would she?
" – and for me, you might not."
Just to watch him burn.
"But what I do to you. This." He twisted and kept going. "And, this." Frantic, yet his fingers operated smoothly out of her. "You feel."
Cinder to ashes and die in the easy breath of wind.
"Fuck."
He grabbed her around the waist, catching her as her knees buckled. She fell, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder, and he felt the wetness of her mouth as she muffled her scream with his skin.
His fingers paused even as she tightened.
"Fuck."
Her hands came up. One around his neck, grasping. The other over her mouth, silencing her heavy breaths from his ears as effectively as a sugar teaspoon.
"I have you."
Her shoulder blades flexed; jutting through the thinness of her top.
"I've got you," he said, more to himself than to her as he splayed his free hand across her waist.
They stood like that, locked in their false embrace, as she pieced together her shattered body.
She regained her equilibrium quicker than he had expected and faster than his ego would care to admit. Before he knew it, she was pushing against him. Not out of lust, but out of a desire to be away from him. Rid of him.
"Let me go," she said from between parted fingers. "I'm fine now."
Her hips moved upwards, but she could not creep high enough. She sunk down, back onto him. A synthetic pump; a faux stimulation. Her cunt might cling to him like a resurrected prophet, but she wanted him gone.
"Remove your hand," she said, her voice husky and hoarse and like she had been chewing on gravel.
"Do I have to?" and he did whine that question. She felt warm and molten against his palm.
"Yes."
"Fine."
She rocked a little as he withdrew his hand from inside her jeans.
He watched her right herself. Her posture and her clothes. She adjusted her shoulders and re-buttoned her jeans with an efficiency he didn't believe a Ministry of Magic employee could achieve.
"Will you relate this interlude to your friends? Inform them of your quickness."
"No, of course not." She did, however, blush.
"Is that because it happened in said friend's kitchen? Or because I got you off in said friend's kitchen which is below, if I have the layout of the house correct, the sitting room, where said friends currently are? And" – he let the 'and' linger in the air – "they probably heard you."
The red rioted her face like the 1381 Peasants' Revolt. "Really?"
He looked down at the blush, which was now blotching down her neck. "No," he said. "On second thoughts, I am sure they didn't hear a thing."
"We're never doing that again."
"On the contrary, we are doing that again and often."
"No."
"Then I guess, I am forced to savour this moment." He briefly touched his index finger to his lips. He should probably clarify that it was the index finger that had been inside of her only moments ago.
She darted past him, grabbing the end of the kitchen roll. The roll spun on its metal holder, unravelling and waving in the air like a flag of surrender.
"Use this." She shoved it, unceremoniously, into his hand.
He loosely held the paper towel and smiled. "Is there a problem, my dear?" She hovered over him, wearing an expression like a packing hen. "You are treating me like a child with sticky fingers," he said and ripped off a few sheets and wiped down his hand. "One day, you will ask me. And, of course, I will. Just long as you ask nicely."
"That," she said, peeping up at him with eyes that sparkled with determination and naivety, "will never happen."
"So, you do know what I am referring to?"
"Newts in the bottom of ponds know what you're referring to." She started re-rolling the paper towels. "You're not exactly subtle."
"Neither are you." It was a basic retort, but he still went there.
"I," and she turned with an eyebrow cocked, "don't pretend to be."
"I'm sorry," he said, screwing up his face and squeezing the words out as if he was drinking undiluted lemon juice.
"What?" She sounded genuinely shocked.
"I apologise." Gods, that felt an unfamiliar word on his tongue. Particularly as it was said sincerely. It wasn't an 'I am sorry I did not call/owl [delete as applicable]. My phone/owl [delete as applicable] died, and I have not had a chance to buy a new one yet'.
She looked suspicious. As in, she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips just like she did last week when he'd lied and said he'd bought fresh milk when really he'd done a corrective spell on the sell-by-date. His facade lasted about as long as it took Granger to open the lid and smell the fermenting dairy product. The congealed lumps didn't help either. They looked very suspicious, bobbing between her Bran Flakes.
"What are you apologising for?" she said, suspiciously.
"I –" There was a loud rip as the paper towel he'd been playing with tore in two. He hurriedly bent down and picked up the pieces he dropped, balling them his fist as he stood. "I...for –" He threw the paper clod at the bin. It missed. By two feet. "For the wedding night."
"Which bit?"
Merlin, she sounded frosty.
"The part with the lack of orgasm."
"I didn't want one."
"I know. Not from me." Even with the memory of the heat of her still on his palm, the words stung to say. "But, I never considered the gender presumptions to the legality of the consummation."
"Why would you; they didn't affect you."
It was like fighting with a brick wall. The harder he hit, swinging blows, trying to find a weak point to lay into, the more he grazed and cut his knuckles. He'd leave streaks of blood on her stony surface.
"Then I vow, Granger," he said, trying for a smile, but from the way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth it was probably more of a grimace. "On my oath as a Slythein, I shall start considering and cogitating more upon the important issues of life."
Her returning smile was equally as dubious on execution. "What you and I define as important bears no resemblance."
"However, we both agree that the Dark magic trading, or whatever it is," he said, thinking back to the stunts in Paris and Berlin and his wife's small form in a hospital bed, "has to be stopped?"
She threw him a look which he couldn't read, but her affront at his insinuation was clear in her voice. "Of course," said Harry Potter's Best Friend.
"Will you let me help you?"
It was an immaterial question – the punctuality of princes – as Potter has already strong-armed him into being amenable, but this symbolic oath of fealty seemed to please his wife.
Well, she looked slightly less annoyed with him. The blush, which he'd given her, was draining from her cheeks. She appeared worn, and the skin under her eyes was getting paler and the veins bluer.
"We should go," he said, reaching for his discarded coat and holding it out to her.
"We should." She stared at the proffered coat like he was offering her a very large and very dead slug. Still. She took it. Wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape.
"Granger," he said once he'd stepped out of the Floo network and into the fronthall of her house.
Once the goodbyes, or, rather, the glares from Ginny and the awkward winks from Blaise and Luna, were over (and they'd taken over bloody half-an-hour), he'd swiped the magic lamp where Blaise kept his Floo powder (yes, the magic lamp. The man was a walking parody) and practically shoved Granger into the fire with a final cheery wave.
He didn't think Blaise was aware of his sexcapade in the kitchen. Then again, Blaise knew him well enough to know that if there was Draco Malfoy and a beautiful woman in the same space for more than five minutes, then he was probably going to seduce her. Or try, at any rate. Perhaps Blaise was working on the assumption that because the woman was Hermione Granger, that she was un-seducable. Well, ha! More fool him. That'll teach the man to essentially rat him out to his wife and her friends.
"Yes?" she said, perching on the edge of the sofa.
"I was wondering..." He ran a hand through his hair, hoping the feel of the familiar silky locks would bring him comfort. It didn't. His hair, for once, felt like what he imagined Professor Snape's felt like: greasy and unkempt. "I was wondering, did you tell your friends," he paused on the word 'friends' because she-devils seemed impolite, "about that night of five times?"
Her eyebrows shot up. She looked like a startled pigeon. "No. There has been no night of fives times." Her eyebrows shot down. "You must be thinking of someone else."
"Really, you don't remember?" He touched a finger to his chin and tapped a few times. "Ah," he said, brightly, "that's because it hasn't happened yet."
He grabbed her wrist in lieu of her protests, and marching her up the stairs, shouted, "Remember, Granger, orgasms are good for conception."
She swore. And, maybe just this once, her ill temper wasn't directed directly at him.
She was allowed to restart work this morning. He felt a pang of disappointment at this. He had rather enjoyed playing house with her this week, although his paperwork had sufficiently suffered because of it.
He reached for her, finding the curve of her waist. She was asleep, lying on her side and facing away from him. He crawled over to her and curled his body next to hers. She stirred when his hand slipped below the waistband of her knickers.
"Good morning," he said, purring into her ear. "I have to inform you that I have every intention of thoroughly seducing you before you go to work."
She kept her eyes closed, but, half asleep, lazily pressed herself up and into his hand.
He took that as a yes, and sought her clit.
She was wet. Scratch that. She was drenched. Hot stickiness flooded his hand.
"Granger," he said, and his suspicions were confirmed when he pulled his hand out of her knickers and looked at it. "Your period has started."
She opened her eyes and dully looked at his bloody hand.
"I'm sorry," he said. It was inadequate, but she'd never let him hold her.
With his unsoiled hand he fleetingly touched the birthmark on her shoulder; the one that looked like a sideways smile. Then he got up and went to take a cold shower.
References:
Labyrinth (1986)
Friends – 'The One With The Princess Leia Fantasy' (1996)
Tumblr is the best place to reach me under the name stargazing121