The second Thursday came at an achingly slow pace. I thought surely by the time 10 o'clock arrived Draco Malfoy would simply turn me away.
I died a little every time I spoke to him at work, only to be met with business casual responses and less than half of the light in his usual warm gaze. When we spoke, I failed to feel special as I used to. A part of me wondered if that's just how any witch feels when she must act professional around the same man who bent her over a mahogany desk and fucked her like the end of days was near. The price you pay for fucking your boss, right? But this was different–I had enough sense to understand that. Draco Malfoy still bantered with the other witches in the office, his hands still lingered on his employee's shoulders a little too long and his smile never failed to resemble a smirk. He was no less of a tease to the other women than any regular day.
It was just me. He was just phlegmatic to me.
And the worst part of it all, was I could never accuse him of acting cold or offstandish; only different to the way he used to behave in my presence. His innuendos were all but nonexistent and the gleam in his eye no longer felt as if he'd summoned the sun–just a reflection of the artificial light bulbs above. In fact, he conducted himself like a proper boss who had no trace of sexual interest in his employee. Following the handbook after all.
And it made me want to scream. It made me want to stomp up the stairs to his office and burst down the door and vilify him for the way he had begun to treat me. It made me feel like nothing –like another hole in one–another check mark on his to-fuck list. It made me wonder if deep down, Draco Malfoy truly did request every woman he shagged to return to his office–if the same desk he'd fucked me on was in use at any given moment–and I would only exist on Thursday, if he still felt up to a proper shag. Like I was a dark secret; like I was a mistake. Like I was never special and would never be anything more than a warm cunt to finish in.
Then I was in his office again. And I was not telling him how shitty he made me feel; I was moaning his name while he was two fingers deep inside me.
"What's my name Granger?" Malfoy swirled his index finger around my cunt as if he were waving a wand and transfiguring a wildfire inside of me.
"D-D-Draco," I managed to croak out.
"Good." He slid a second finger inside of me.
The third Thursday passed like clockwork. We barely spoke until the morning of, only to confirm our weekly meeting. 10 o'clock, in Draco Malfoy's office, bent at the waist. He had me stand as he ate me out. Called it variety. He held my hand when he fucked me. It felt like he stared deep into my soul when he laid me on the loveseat behind his desk and we shagged in missionary with both of my feet over his broad shoulders.
I started putting perfume on my ankles. Lathered every inch of my body in that sickly sweet cake scented lotion. He never commented on the way I smelled but it was a fun game to imagine him walking home and getting a whiff of faint traces of vanilla and buttercream on his skin and then closing his eyes and thinking of me– thinking of sex–thinking of next Thursday. I mastered the art of shaving every follicle of hair on my body–became skilled in contorting my torso in the shower to reach every hidden patch of skin between my legs and on my thighs. I considered getting a brazilian wax at a muggle esthetician shoppe, but I had enough logic left in my little brain to know no self respecting woman should endure that much pain for a man who only fucks her one day of the week.
I began to analyze the way Draco Malfoy spoke with every witch in my general vicinity. I gathered Pepper Knock had likely earned a spot on his to-fuck list. She laughed a little too much every time he spoke, and he did the same for her.
The rendezvous on the fourth, fifth and sixth Thursday were even better than the first, second and third. Thursday had become our routine. Our thing. It always felt better, lasted longer than last Thursday.
Malfoy met with me on the sixth Friday, in a public setting of course, never in his office alone. He asked me to oversee design of those stupid little posters; it was a throwaway task but it made me feel like a proper leader–a step up from slaving over my typewriter to draft proposals I'd already written a thousand times. "The Director of Operations would supervise tasks like these, Granger. We're interested in watching how you handle this assignment."
Business casual.
As usual.
But I thanked him for the opportunity and returned to my desk.
As usual.
My team of design techs drafted three example posters by Friday afternoon, none of which garnered my approval. The team was obviously miffed by this of course, but I needed perfection. I needed awe–I needed to impress Draco Malfoy.
I called a meeting on the seventh Monday. My lineup consisted of Alanza Alves, Tessa Boot, and of course, Pepper Knock. I tried my very hardest not to picture the way Malfoy looked at Pepper every time she spoke, or remember the way Tessa had been the first to start the rumor that Draco Malfoy's penis was 25 centimeters long.
"I know you're all likely frustrated that I haven't immediately approved the designs you drafted. I believe they're all wonderful, but not yet perfect." I announced once the girls had settled into the conference room. We sat at a round table, twelve times too large for a group of four witches. The table rested between us all like a divider. Almost fitting, metaphorically , of course, for a group of women silently competing for the attention of one singular man. I wondered how many of them have had a taste. I wondered what they would do if they knew I'd had one too.
"It's a little disheartening, yeah." Alves nodded. I blinked.
"I've got an idea. Malfoy has been ignoring my proposals regarding this, and I believe a new cycle of posters could be my way to convince him my ideas are valid." I said.
"So what are you saying, Granger?" Pepper jibed. Her tone was always two spoonfuls of honey too sweet to cover the sharp, bitter edge to her words. Maybe that's what Malfoy prefers. Maybe he likes sweet girls. "I know we're all here to impress Malfoy," She chuckled, "But what's your angle here?"
"We're going to do something different, if that's alright with you all." I answered as politely as possible. Women are not competition. I remind myself. Women are not competition. I cleared my throat of spit, and my thoughts of spite, before continuing. " I want to try something not centered around a man flying on a tiny broom whooshing through the sky."
"So what–we're going to put a woman on a Puddlemere United advertisement?" Boot inquired. "That's unheard of."
"Aren't you tired of taking pictures of Viktor Krum?" I returned.
"Honestly, yeah." Alves conceded. "But it's what we've always done."
"I think it is time for a change." I stated.
The seventh Tuesday I made a call to Pansy Parkinson. Influencers, unlike regular wizards, had adopted the use of muggle technology like cell phones and digital cameras and even computers. They uploaded their every move to the internet–every outfit, meal, vacation, shopping trip. I'd always known the era of influencers would be good for business. The entire new generation of witches and wizards followed their every move. They were like gods on a handheld screen.
"Hermione, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Parkinson chirped. We'd formed a bond after she started dating Luna Lovegood three years ago. Luna had grown to be my closest friend, aside from Ginny, whose company became slightly complex after her brother and I ended our relationship. Luna would take me to hippie parties and do psychedelics and set up picnics and easels in the park so we could paint the beauty while it lasts. Pansy, of course, was the grey area in Luna's bright yellow life–the voice of reality; if they were celestial, Pansy would be the moon and Luna would be the sun.
Pansy would blow hundred of galleons on birthday gifts and carry a hairbrush and hairspray in her bag anytime she felt like taking pictures because her friends were always pretty on camera. Pansy bought me the grey skirt, and ten pairs of heels and told me I should wear them to go and get back out there.
"Would you be interested in posing for a quidditch poster?" I inquired.
"Puddlemere United?" Pansy returned.
"That's the one." I chuckled.
"Blue and yellow do look good on me." I could hear her smile through the phone. "When is the photoshoot?"
By the seventh Wednesday, Alves, Boot and Knock had crafted twelve variations of the Pansy Parkinson poster. Pansy wore a jersey shirt cut off below the breast and a blue miniskirt, and posed like a vogue magazine for each and every one. I approved five of the twelve and we prepared the posters for shipment. The other witches in the office cooed over the posters:
"Finally, a woman in quidditch!" "This is bloody beautiful, Granger, truly."
This would surely make Malfoy proud.
