Hermione's Flat
24 December 2004
Her hobby launches an era, and Hermione doesn't hesitate to monetise on the Wizarding World's shockingly untouched market.
"The books are terribly Muggle in essence," wrote one Daily Prophet review, "but they're better than the best-brewed daydream potion; the newest staple on every witch's bookshelf."
The comment is a backhanded compliment, but it doesn't change her sales, and the numbers speak for themselves. So who is she to disappoint a fanbase growing larger than Celestina Warbeck's?
She doesn't do it for notoriety, quite the opposite. Her current job is both underpaid and overworked, and those royalties and interviews from being a war heroine only go so far.
She needs the extra money.
There are only so many exposés she can do as Hermione Granger. Noah Clark, however — the Daily Prophet's award-winning, bestselling romance writer — maintains elusive appeal long after each publication date.
Hermione sends the bound and edited manuscripts by owl, to a man named Jack, who works for The Quill's Quintessence — a publishing company based in New York City with claws in most witches and wizards bookshelves.
No one knows, and she plans to keep it that way — forever.
Her decision to use a pseudonym comes even before the publication of her first novel, wrongly assuming a whopping four people might purchase copies. By her third award and translation into the thirteenth language, she knows it's too late to turn back. And while others might bask in the fame, she wants normalcy. Privacy. Hasn't she earned it?
She already knows what fame feels like; no part of her wants more.
What would Harry and Ron say? The Weasley's? Draco? They'd look at her, horrified, especially after connecting each glaringly obvious dot scattered throughout those pages.
But it saves her from the monotony of Ministry work. She doesn't find solace at the bottom of a bottle nor while brewing potions to make her not feel.
It's ironic because she doesn't know much about love, so she writes what she doesn't understand in hopes of decoding the mystery that makes pages turn and heads spin.
Hermione's night is interrupted by her Floo sounding.
Ginny stands at the entryway of her bedroom, knowing her peaceful evening is fated for chaos, when the other witch demands, "What are you doing? You're not even dressed!"
She should tell Ginny the truth. A better person would. But it feels like quicksand: the more she struggles, the worse she sinks, and each lie grows bigger and harder to crawl from.
She closes the computer tab containing her latest outline. "Just typing an email to my parents."
Ginny doesn't press. Instead, she asks, "You almost ready?"
As she'll ever be. She's been sitting like this for the past hour: hair done-up in an elaborate updo, makeup dusting her face.
"Let me put on my dress. I thought we were going to meet there?"
"I came to make sure you weren't going to skive off. Let's go. It started an hour ago!"
Hermione concedes, grumbling her complaints about the Ministry event that she's been dreading all week.
Her ballgown is formfitting and emerald green. She tells herself it's to compliment the olive tones in her skin and to match the holiday, knowing full well another reason flashed in her mind while making such a bold selection.
They depart with Ginny raving about how Ron will be speechless when he sees her.
"Wow," says Ginny upon their arrival, strolling inside the massive ballroom. "There's way more people than last year."
The Ministry is decked to the nines, transformed into a winter wonderland for its third annual Christmas Gala. Anyone who's anyone is in attendance, and it's marketed as 'charitable fun': dinner, drinks, dancing, and an auction to fundraise St Mungo's newly built pediatric unit.
She'd rather be back in pyjamas, writing her newest story Ginny nearly caught sight of, but she argues that stepping into reality and having a few drinks never hurt.
Besides, she has little choice in the matter given her boss's strong-armed insistence."You're going – the donations we received last year were unmeasurable."
Everyone wants a chance to speak with one of Britain's three war heroes. They're walking figurines, but all Hermione wants is her writing desk and a quiet night of peace.
"The boys are going to be late, as usual," says Ginny, coming back with drinks.
The decision for them to arrive separately is purposeful. They want to drive home the point that they're single — all of them.
"How are things between you and Harry?" asks Hermione, sipping champagne.
"Amicable."
They're still friends, and Hermione knows the dance all too well. She and Ron perfected it, despite his many hints about how he craves a rekindle of their shallow teenage romance.
If Harry and Ginny can't even make it, is there any hope at all?
"Hermione, are you okay?"
She nods absently. "Fine."
And it's true up until she sees him, her night turning from boring to wrecked.
She clings to distraction, chugging the remainder of her champagne and trying to engage in conversation once Harry and Ron arrive.
She's learned many things over the years, especially relating to Draco Malfoy. Wealth outweighs a sullied surname. Headlines can be bought, and people tend to forget about prejudice and hatred while staring at hand-woven satin and silk taffeta.
The woman beside Draco wears the gaudiest shade of pink, but the material looks more expensive than Hermione's Ministry salary. Pureblood and French, she recognises her from the latest Prophet article. The witch might be part Veela because she's gorgeous, to the point of earning a few gawking stares from Harry and Ron as she passes. Ginny rolls her eyes, wearing the same expression of jealousy now matching Hermione's.
But while they're focused on the witch standing in stilettos and tailor-made dress robes, Draco looks at Hermione, and she can't decide if it validates or makes her regret her attire's colour choice and low neckline.
A familiar voice interrupts her reverie with a request.
"Dance with me, 'Mione?"
She turns, and it's Ron who wants her hand. Unable to manage anything besides a dance, she gives him that, taking his invite and allowing him to lead her into the crowd.
They dance, and Ron kisses her cheek when the song is through. It's innocent enough, but she can feel the pair of eyes burning a hole through the back of her head.
When their eyes meet again, it's from across the Gala, and seeing him resembles that cliched nightmare of getting up in front of your classmates wearing nothing but undergarments. She's exposed. Vulnerable. He can see through her facade, and for reasons unbeknownst to Hermione, when he barrels towards the exit, she follows him — down and around an empty Ministry corridor.
Another wall falls victim to her back pressing against it, his arms barricading her on both sides.
"Draco."
It sounds of both plea and protest, but he ignores the latter. His kiss comes suddenly, and it's the furthest stop from innocence, making her forget prudence, and sense, and how to breathe.
"Wait," she heaves, her dissent coming out as a tremble. How can only one minute of kissing turn her to putty? "I —"
"Come with me," he says into the space between their lips.
"Where?"
He smirks. "I'll show you."
"But — tonight…" Is the most inopportune time. He's here with another woman, for Christ's sake! She's here on a work-mandate from her overbearing boss. "We'll miss the fundraiser."
"We'll be back before anyone misses us," he says with his fingers pressing her hips. "Besides — you followed me, didn't you?"
She did, so no excuse seems reasonable to fill the blank space between them.
"They won't even notice we're gone."
And she knows he's wrong, but excuses are already forming — the sickness she'll feign when her friends inevitably ask where she ran off to.
Nothing overrides his touch, how it burns, as he brushes back a segment of her hair. He's never held hers like this, and she forces herself not to dwell on the sensation too hard.
"Alright."
Her agreement meets the pull of appiration, and she blames the fluttering in her stomach on the flute of champagne she drank instead of the anticipation gathering between her thighs.
They land in the centre of an opulent bedroom, and she chokes out a question after realising where they are.
"You brought us here?"
She doesn't know why she's surprised. It's a far better option than an abandoned office, corridor, or bathroom at the Ministry. The room feels a degree or two colder, or maybe it's the hiss of his voice when he asks, "Is that a problem?"
Problem isn't the right word.
It's uncharted territory; she hasn't been to Malfoy Manor since the War, and she's never been inside his bedroom.
Their meet-ups have only ever been one of two places — Hogwarts or her flat — and this feels different. Like the secret weighs heavier because of the setting surrounding them.
"No." She sighs we he rejoins their kiss, his lips dusting across her jaw after she says, "No problem at all."
It defines luxury: the balcony of alabaster stone, a room larger than some people's homes. She inhales the indulgence, despite her best efforts to remain grounded.
The space is so magnificent, it almost lets her forget the horrors those walls have witnessed.
Almost.
But soon, she forgets everything — horror, hesitation, common sense. It's been too long, six months (their new record), and it shatters like glass under pressure as he pulls her in.
Draco leads her to the foot of his bed. He stands behind her, forcing them to stare at their reflections in a directly parallel mirror.
"Look how good we look together," he whispers from behind, kissing her neck.
She gazes at the mirror, trifold and framed by gold accents. The image staring back is rather picturesque: her shallow breaths, him shedding his robes, the tangible lust that coats them like a mist clouding the air.
"You'll be the death of me, Granger."
The shift is sudden. His hands tug down the top section of her dress, her breasts meeting the cold chill inside his bedroom.
"Me?" she asks, pushing her legs together as he touches her, gentle caresses of her bare breasts sending twinges right where she clenches. Her familiar objection, by that point, sounds like foreplay.
"Draco, we can't keep doing this."
"And why's that?"
"You're taken."
"Betrothed," he corrects.
"Same thing."
"It'll be a marriage of convenience, nothing more."
"How cliché," she chokes as he brushes her nipple with the pad of his thumb. "Married to a perfect Pureblood, when all you want is to bury yourself inside the same girl you called Mudblood —"
"And what about you?" he quips, hissing into her ear. "Dancing with Weasley, and then skipping away to fuck an ex-Death Eater."
"I did not skip."
"Fine. Hastily walked." His touch flutters across her stomach, and she can't look away from the mirror. "What would everyone say, Granger – if they saw you right now?"
If they saw her getting caressed with her dress pooling around her waist, with Draco Malfoy's hands tweaking her nipples in that perfect way she always likes.
"I don't know," she teases back. "I'm not 'everyone."
The second shift is slow, like the moment before impact as your mind prepares for impending wreckage. He pulls her onto his lap, and she sits, facing away.
"That's because you're mine."
Her body finds no fault, but her mind reels.
How many women has he brought here? Are he and pink-taffeta fated to sleep in this bed? Why is this antique mirror so perfectly placed?
"Not yet," he whispers when she moves to turn around.
Instead, he forces her to face forward. Her reflection stares back, sitting atop Draco's lap as anticipation turns from mist to downpour when he whispers a command.
"Open your legs."
She follows his order, the slit in her dress hiking to hip-level as her thighs fan above his.
She watches him in the mirror, smirking as he hooks a finger around her knickers and then tugs them down with her assistance, tossing the lace fabric aside.
"Look at you," he says, and she does, staring between open her legs. "See how pretty your cunt is; how wet you always get for me."
Her breath hitches, unable to form words as his following command is paired with his hand cradling her jaw.
"Say you're mine, Granger."
She'll speak in tongues, willing to do anything for the blissful relief of his touch.
"I'm yours."
The affirmation is weak, but wetness gleaming at the apex of her thighs doesn't dispute her headlong claim.
"What was that?" he asks mercilessly. "I couldn't hear you."
"I'm yours," she says, far louder this time.
"That's right. This is mine." His hand claims her neck; his lips brush beside it." And this is mine." He cups her breast, brushing his thumb against her nipple again.
One hand soon travels south, his other still on her throat.
"And this, Granger…" He reaches between her legs, parting her wetness for the briefest moment. "Is mine."
The quick swipe with no commitment is torture, and she moves to close her legs, needing to satiate the ache he just made worse.
He doesn't allow it, so she grinds herself on his thigh, desperate for the contact tauntingly withheld.
"Did you want Weasley doing this to you tonight? Is that why you let him kiss you?"
"Maybe."
"Are you sleeping with him?" His touch dances along her thighs, swathing her with fingerprints that leave warmth in their wake.
"Maybe." She goads again, trying to make him jealous. "You're a hypocrite for even askin – oh, fuck."
He commits this time, shutting her up by means of one finger sliding inside her core.
"Eyes open," he demands. "Watch how you look while begging for this."
She grinds against his hand, trying to brush the area screaming for attention.
"Draco —"
"What do you want?" he asks, sliding a second finger inside, curling them with torturous slowness.
She whimpers, grabbing his thigh and steadying herself as her back presses his chest.
"Please."
"You want me to make you come?"
He uses his other hand to undo his trousers, pushing them down just enough so he can free himself.
"Yes," she whispers.
Smooth hardness presses her backside, and she spreads her legs wider with readiness, wiggling against him.
He hoists her, and she aligns perfectly while atop his lap, sinking onto him and slinging her head back at the sudden fullness.
He stretches her from below, and she snakes a hand behind herself, grabbing his neck for support as she adjusts to him.
She begins riding but is halted in mid-motion.
"Ah, ah. Not yet."
He stills her hips, forbidding the friction that her body desperately craves.
Fuck.
The bite of her bottom lip tastes of sin and that Ministry champagne and him, and she knows, in a way, all those things are their own flavour of poison.
"I could stay like this all night," he teases. "Shhh, that's it. Patience."
Her attempts at wiggling and bouncing atop him are futile as he holds her.
He's deep like this. It borders on too much at this angle, and he feels huge. That girl in the mirror, with a fallen up-do and Draco's cock buried inside her, is hardly inconspicuous as they stay unmoving.
Whimpering in desperation and while gazing at the lewd reflection of herself — wet and ready and filled by him — the image imprints inside her memory. Her breasts sway, his strong hands gripping her thighs. He's gorgeous as he fists segments of her hair, pulling gently.
"Good girl," he praises, knowing it turns her on even more. "You love this, don't you?"
She nods, reaching forward to touch between her legs, but he stops her.
"Please."
She resorts to begging, anything to topple headfirst, clenching around him impatiently. She tenses her thighs, and then relaxes. And again. They aren't exactly moving, but at least it's something.
"You know that's not enough," he says, and she can hear the smirk.
She doesn't stop trying, her release so ready it's almost painful.
She tries touching herself again, and when he pins her arms down, frustration turns to pleas, "Draco – please."
"Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes."
"You want me to let you come?"
"Yes."
He reaches between her legs and drops his fingers to the swell of her clit, massaging a few glorious circles, stopping right as that bubble threatens to burst. She whimpers when his touch leaves, her curses sounding like someone possessed.
"You come when I say you can," he says. "Understand?"
"Y-yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
He lets her rock gently atop him, watching as his fingers play everywhere but where she needs most. It's utter torture, but in a way, she loves this. She loves when he teases her. How he makes her wait, edging her until the mere thought of what comes next makes her look down from the top of that peak. It hurts how badly she wants to topple headfirst, so when another pleading sound escapes, she lies.
"I hate you, Malfoy."
"Hm? Pity," he exhales, grazing her clit with the gentlest touch. "Because I love you."
He doesn't mean it. It's glorious manipulation, control.
It's a game to him, and he plays her well, finally alleviating that ache in earnest. With intent.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck …" Her body blocks out reason as he massages her clit with increasing pressure. She always speaks in threes when she's close, pleading for him not to stop.
"Please, please, please…"
"That's it, love. Go on — watch how beautiful you look, coming for me while fucking yourself on my cock."
Nothing can stop it. The breathtaking climax begging for its release tears through her, unstoppable like rolling thunder as she spasms atop him. She rides out each wave, forcing her eyes open and watching those final ripples rock through her, watching as she orgasms for the man who hates her in one breath and tells her he loves her in the next.
She goes limp for a second, and her mind short circuits, caught up in the blissful post-climax tenderness sending pleasure through her body as they continue.
Her mind argues, don't give him the satisfaction. Make him wait or beg or ache for her — maybe just leave him rock hard and let his hand handle the rest.
But she lets him finish. Let's him thrust into her from below as the image solidifies, watching their reflection in that mirror and pretending they're different people — maybe strangers who just happen to look good fucking each other.
He makes that noise signalling the end as every muscle in his face relaxes, spilling into her with a groan, her surname slipping off his tongue.
The haze dissipates, and rage is back. She rips herself off of him, adjusting her dress and grabbing her knickers from the floor.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Back to the Ministry."
"Granger —"
"You don't get to do that. Get to manipulate me; say you love me while we're having sex —"
"And what if I meant it?"
She startles, faltering from the thought. He's joking. But what if he isn't?
"Shouldn't you be getting back to pink-Taffeta-whatever her name is?" she asks bitterly.
"It's Apolline."
Right. But his come isn't running down Apolline's thigh right now, so she thinks the witch's name is somewhat superfluous.
"Never speak to me again." Her departing statement becomes one she doesn't trust. "This — it's done. Whatever this is, it's over."
For good.
She picks up her dignity and dusts it off, refusing to look back as he calls out her name.
When she arrives back at the Ministry, Ginny is nowhere to be found. She must have given up while looking for her (perhaps, she just got bored.)
Hermione goes home after showing enough face to make her boss happy, wanting desperately to evade Ron and his questions about why she disappeared.
Hours later, inside the comfort of her own flat (and while very much alone), Hermione is editing a sentence that she's already re-written three times when her floo erupts.
She wonders if it's Draco and tries to hide her surprise when instead she sees Ginny on her sofa, wearing an unreadable expression.
"Good," says Ginny. "You're awake."
"I… yes. Sorry… I left the Gala early —"
Ginny has to know. Hermione begins formulating excuses in her mind for her premature departure. Why did she disappear? She'll say a stomach ache. An emergency.
"I'm an idiot," says Ginny instead. "I fucked up. Bad."
And somehow, only then does it click: it's one in the morning, and Ginny is still dressed for the Gala.
"What happened? Are you alrig—"
"I slept with Harry."
Hermione closes her mouth, calculating what to say next.
"Oh. Wow —"
"I think I still love him," says Ginny.
Hermione is silent, thinking of her identical mistake so eerily similar yet completely different. So much worse.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I need you to tell me that I'm an idiot," says Ginny. "Tell me not to get back together with him."
"Just … do whatever feels right."
"That's your advice?" She hasn't seen Ginny like this. Like a light breeze could topple her and like one final straw might send her reeling into a heap on the floor. "He wants marriage and babies — I want to fly for the Harpies until they force me into retirement."
"Well, you know what they say about opposites," says Hermione.
But how long can attraction last? What keeps people together when love isn't enough?
"I can't, Hermione. I can't go down this same road again."
Something inside her snaps, and it isn't Ginny's fault per se, but she's the unfortunate victim of poorly timed projection.
"Go down what road?" scoffs Hermione. "The easy one — with smooth pavement, in a chauffeured carriage? Harry loves you. He'd scream it to the world; he'd marry you tomorrow if you wanted. Truth be told — it's rather selfish of you to keep putting him through this if you know there's no future."
Ginny is furious. Rightfully so.
"I…what?" She jumps from the sofa. "Excuse me?"
"You came here for my opinion; if you didn't want it, you shouldn't have asked."
"I came for a friend."
And Hermione feels guilty and starts back peddling, but it's too late. "Well. I didn't mean —"
"No. You did. And you know what? Ron and Harry always say they're worried about you; that you've sworn off all variations of love. That you're going to end up bitter and alone — married to your job." Ginny's next jab feels like knives digging into her. "And I've never agreed … that is, up until tonight."
He was the governor's son, nothing but a handsomer-than-most No-maj, and she was a witch planting her own stake, tying her own noose. The townsfolk would talk of this for generations.
She pictured herself standing at a crossroad, picking her path. Should she choose winding turns and jagged rock? Or soft earth and flat terrain?
Neither.
Because loving him didn't feel like a choice. It consumed her and felt like drowning: freezing and final — peaceful come that inevitable inhale. Her lungs would fill with water, knowing it was her fault. She took that dangerous plunge.
"Don't say it," said Sara. "Not until I tell you something."
Philip argued, "Nothing you say will make me love you any less."
That final grain of sand dropped, and she knew their end was now.
"I'm a witch."