[disclaimer: I own nothing. Sigh.]
Author's Note
This story is especially for my friend George (Georgina); a Draco obsessed chick who should probably think about seeking professional help. [giggle] Just playing with ya, George. She's Groupie Numbah One of the Draco Groupies—me, Miriam, Meg and George. I ranked us in order of obsession and weirdness. George, me, Mirri and Meg.
Dedicated to Groupie Numbah One!
Note: there is no explanation for Draco wearing leather pants. We just like Draco, and leather pants. Especially if there's chocolate sauce involved. Or whipped cream and strawberries. Umm. Yes, let's stop there. Also, I am aware that this would never happen, Hermione would never do this, nor would she have a hobby like this—to this I say, yes, and?
The R rating is just for safety, because I prefer to overrate rather than underrate. Paranoid I am.
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Masseuse
- by Adele Elisabeth
Summary: Draco and Hermione are locked in a bathroom. Whatever shall they do?
-
Hermione sighed, shifting slightly in the bath. She loved the prefect's bathroom, it was her sanctuary sometimes. She'd diverged from the usual bubble bath to try some bath oils Ginny had given her for her birthday, piling her hair up and clipping it to keep it out of the water.
She opened her eyes—and screamed, trying to cover herself.
Draco Malfoy was standing near the door, holding a towel and toiletries, clad in leather pants and not a hell of a lot else. He also appeared to be rather enjoying the view.
"What the hell are you doing?" Hermione glared daggers at him.
"I came to bathe, Granger," he responded urbanely. "It was merely happy chance that I got this wonderful opportunity for sight-seeing." He gave her a rather suggestive smirk.
Hermione made a valiant effort not to notice the candlelight playing across his bare chest, or the way those leather pants looked painted on. "Get out!" she ordered, glaring at him again. Just because he had the body of a god didn't excuse his…his peeping tom activities!
Not that he had the body of a god, anyway. Of course not.
She idly wondered what he'd look like without the pants, in his bath, or with the water running down his nude form as he—
The blush started at her toes and kept going.
He smirked at her and made to leave.
Then frowned, trying the door again. In a fit of desperation, he tried 'Alohomora'.
"Granger, we're screwed."
Forcing down all the fascinating images that flitted through her mind at his revelation, she demanded, "What do you mean?"
"I can't get the damn door open, that's what I mean." He turned back to face her—and she was momentarily disappointed for obvious reasons—and, to her surprise, looked her straight in the eye and no where else. "Either the lock's buggered, or some bastard locked us in."
She grabbed her towel—more for her own peace of mind than anything, it wasn't as though he hadn't seen it all already—and wrapped it around herself as she got out. "That's not possible," she stated, going to run her fingers over the door. Ignoring (well, trying to) his proximity, she looked up at him. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm bloody sure," he snapped, 'snapping' her out of her lustful reverie.
Mostly.
She tried the door, and the spell. Neither worked any better for her.
-
The mudblood's scantily clad body was not helping poor Draco's concentration. He'd overheard conversations about her, and never understood the attraction.
Well, ah, now he did. Watching her, in a towel that just barely covered her arse—and he had seen her, in all her glory…
She's almost as gorgeous as me, he mused.
"We're trapped, Malfoy, we're really stuck…"
Oh, of all—Draco Malfoy did not want to deal with a panicky female, especially if it was Hermione Granger, no matter how sexy she looked in a bath towel sarong. "Granger, get a grip. Someone'll find us, or I'll get desperate and try breaking down the door."
She looked a little hesitant, so he steered her over to the seat in front of the vanity by the small of her back. "Sit. Relax…what do you usually do to relax?"
He got a little worried—and intrigued—when she began to blush.
"I'm a bit of an amateur masseuse," she admitted, looking down at her hands. "It tends to calm the both of us, it's very soothing." Was it her imagination, or did he look a little disappointed?
"What, you practise on Potter and Weasel?" Okay, now he just looked disturbed.
"No! Lavender and Parvati get me to do it for them," Hermione wasn't sure she liked the wicked gleam he got in his eye when she said that.
"Well, if it would help you, you could give me a massage," he offered.
Had Draco Malfoy just asked her to give him a massage?
Sweet Merlin.
-
"H—Granger?" he paused, and waved a hand in front of her face. "You in there?"
She appeared to snap out of it. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, you in there," he repeated. Perhaps she was deaf?
"Before that."
Oh, that. He smirked. "I suggested you could give me a massage."
"I, er, thought so…"
"So will you?" he prompted her, still smirking. "It could be…fun." He wiggled his eyebrows.
-
Oooh, that egotistical—
She'd show him.
"Why not," she agreed pleasantly. "I'll just transfigure a table, shall I? I left my oils in here from last time, they should be in the cupboard."
He looked a little surprised, she noted triumphantly as she transfigured the seat into a proper massage bed.
Well, well, well, the estimable Ms Granger was just full of surprises. He chuckled inwardly as he selected a bottle of oil. "Ready for me, Granger?"
She murmured something he didn't quite catch, and nodded. "Umm, could you take off your trousers?"
His eyebrows climbed into his hairline.
Blushing furiously, she hastened to add, "And put on the towel. I won't peek."
He shrugged, and began to undo the aforementioned leather pants.
Hermione gasped and spun around, face flaming. "Draco!"
"What?"
-
When she turned around again, he was lying on the table, face down, a towel wrapped around his hips. Hello, Draco's arse—no! Bad Hermione!
About half an hour later, Hermione was straddling Draco's arse to 'get at his back easier'.
Yeah. Uh-huh. We believe ya.
(For the record, it was Draco's idea. – Hermione)
(I didn't hear any complaints. – Draco)
-
"Draco?"
"Mmm?" the feel of her hands sliding all over his (incredible, and now oiled) body wasn't exactly 'soothing'. If she—
"My hands are getting a little tired," she told him.
And her voice wasn't helping, either. She sounded so…
It wasn't all that difficult to switch their positions, pinning her to the table. "I'm sure we can find something else to do," he purred at her.
"Draco!"
-
Draco's body was pressing her into the softly cushioned table, and the interesting things he was doing to her collarbone with his tongue weren't really helping her in the 'thinking straight' department.
"Draco, what are you—"
"Hermione, if you don't know what I'm doing, then we have a bit of a problem," he replied dryly, and his warm breath on her skin felt absolutely delicious.
"That's not quite what I meant," she managed after a pause. "I meant why are you…with me?"
"Because you're gorgeous, you have magic hands, and I can." He ticked the reasons off on her fingers, then swooped down and kissed her thoroughly. "Good enough?"
It took Hermione a moment or two to string a coherent sentence together.
-
Let's just say, the towel's didn't stay on long after that—and that, in the spirit of Murphy's Law, was when Professor McGonagall found them.
"Professor! It's not what it looks like!"
"It's exactly what it looks like, Hermione, what the hell else could it be? 'Sorry, professor, I lost something and I was looking for it up her—'"
"DRACO MALFOY!"
"Will this affect my marks, Professor?"
A/N
I hope you're happy, George. [grin]