The soft click of the hotel room door woke him and Malfoy immediately regretted opening his bloodshot eyes as the gentle light coming in through the curtains sent sharp pains bolting through his poor abused brain. He turned over with a groan, buried his head in the pillow to block out the light and made a futile effort to go back to sleep. He might have managed to block out the throbbing in his head if his bladder hadn't decided to urgently demand he get out of bed the moment he shifted.
Bloody woman. Why did she have to be up at the crack of dawn and wake him? He grumbled all the way to the loo, and had to brace a hand on the wall to keep himself upright while he took care of urgent business. Finally, he ran dry and was able to make his way to the medicine cabinet over the sink and dig through the potions available. Hotel potions were usually shit but they were better than nothing at all.
He downed three horrid lemon flavored hangover potions and a mind clarification potion in quick succession, washed it down with a bit of water, and gratefully made his way back to bed, crashing dramatically in the middle and hugging the fluffy pillows. At this point after an all night binge he would usually sleep it off until afternoon and wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for a late breakfast. Today however, his brain was kicking into overdrive.
Usually his perfect recall after a night of debauchery was a terrible curse. Remembering yourself singing in public, or making out with the forty year old bartender, or vomiting in one's own shoes was never necessary and never pleasant. This morning however he was singing his blessed memories praises as he found himself going over every single second of his evening.
It was a lot to process and he was glad he was alone.
Granger was hardly the first muggle-born that he'd slept with and the forbidden thrill of stepping outside of acceptable blood status lovers was long worn out. But Hermione flipping Granger was hardly your usual muggle-born. She was on an entirely different level of forbidden. He'd spent all his formative years suppressing a brimming attraction that had evolved into downright obsession by 7th year. For years he had laughed at himself for immediately sitting up and paying attention every time she was on the news, every article about her in the paper, every time he saw her on the street. Her engagement announcement was met with a three day bender in Las Vegas culminating in being drugged and robbed in a seedy hotel room by a pair of prostitutes.
He'd woken up naked, hungover, and convinced that his life was over. No matter what he had told himself he had always hung on to this half formed fantasy of Hogwarts head girl looking over at him and finally noticing him as a male. Finally seeing him as worthy of her attention. Her forgiveness. It was a stupid dream. He'd sobered up, gone home, and torched the box of prophet articles and photographs he had collected over the years and decided to get on with life. For the first time he started dating seriously. His mother wanted a grandchild and he had responsibilities to the family. He forced himself to go on second dates, and third dates with girls who didn't measure up. Holding the female population up to Grangers impossible standard was just sabotaging any hope of having a real meaningful relationship.
Besides, he was sure he had just built her up in his mind. She was pretty enough but there was no reason to look at other beautiful women and find them lacking because they didn't have wild curls and impossibly big eyes and beestung lips. Sure she was intelligent but there was no reason to cringe every time another woman made some ignorant comment, there were more important things than brains. Sure she was brave, but what did he need bravery in a future wife for? Compassionate and kind and loyal. But never towards him. For him she'd never had anything other than angry words and icy stares. He needed a wife who would be compassionate and kind and loyal to him, not Ronald sodding Weasley.
If she wanted to lower herself to being a brood mare for that redheaded ignorant twit then she couldn't possibly be all he remembered her to be. She had to be duller than his vibrant memories to settle for that self-involved moron. She had to be less pretty than he imagined to pair herself with that gangly freckled fuck. She had to be more common and low than he had believed in order for her to settle for a man who was mediocre in every measurable fashion. She had to be.
Draco had turned a new page in his life. Put his boyhood obsession to rest. He quit longing for her forgiveness and started trying to be the type of man who might one day forgive himself. He grew up. He worked on himself. He was satisfied with his life and his family and his place in the world. He was considering proposing to Daphne Greengrass and his future was bright and unencumbered by the past.
Until Hermione Granger crashed back into his life with all the subtlety of a raging storm. He remembered a pretty young girl with youthful apple cheeks and a kind smile. The woman had ripened into a stunning beauty. Girlish barely contained wild curls had become waves of rich mahogany. Bright intelligent eyes had been steeped in wisdom to become soulful and warm. Round features had matured into striking cheekbones and a heart melting smile. He remembered a girl who was just a little too easy to rib about her nonconforming looks and a shy smile. Time had polished her confidence and presented him with a self assured intelligent wit. Nothing had prepared him for the reality of a Hermione Granger who had grown into a breathtakingly beautiful woman.
The entire evening felt like a very vivid dream. There was a purple and blue bruise on his inner arm to attest to the multiple times he pinched himself to make sure that he hadn't slipped into unconsciousness and fantasy. He bought her drinks she accepted with a heart-stopping smile. She laughed at his jokes and leaned into his touch. She let him dance with her, and flirt with her, and spent the whole evening seemingly charmed. It was fairly early on when he began to suspect polyjuice. The real Hermione Granger would never allow his hand to rest so casually on her thigh. The real Hermione Granger would never allow him to brush up against her so close while they danced. The real Hermione Granger would never let his hand slide over her backside like he had every right.
By the time she let him lead her off the dancefloor to an unoccupied corner and kiss her he was downright convinced this was an imposter. He grew increasingly bold with his advances as his mind ate at the problem ferociously and he started drinking. He watched her like a hawk but saw no potions pass her lips, saw no charms or wandwork to explain her witchery. Who knew about his secret obsession? Who knew that Hermione Granger was his weakness? Why would anyone impersonate her to seduce him? He changed their location and she went willingly. He plied her with drinks and questions and shameless lustful innuendo. She rose to the occasion and kept pace with him every step of the way.
He was damn near mad with lust by the time he decided he didn't care who this was or why this was or what the objective was. Consequences be damned. This masquerader had lips that burned with passion and hips that rolled with desire and a husky voice that sounded just right panting in his ear. Who cared what the daylight brought? He wasn't going to get this chance again. To hell with care and caution. He wanted this. He wanted to indulge the fantasy of a Hermione Granger that wanted him.
So he showed no restraint. He apparated them to a hotel and devoured her. If she really had been Hermione Granger he probably would have held back. Been sweet and suave and tried to make some effort to not frighten and overwhelm her. But since this woman was nothing but an imposter who wanted to use his personal weakness against him he let himself go and gave her exactly what she had bargained for. He covered her in kisses, sucked and bit his way from lips to knees to her sweet quivering sex. He indulged every fantasy he'd ever had. He had her in the shower and on her knees and up against the wall. He surged up into her while she sat astride him letting him tug and bite and worship her nipples.
He fucked her till he was sore and wrung out and exhausted and then cast a charm to give him the fortitude to do it again. He mapped her hollows and dips and curves with kisses and committed them to memory. He wrung signs and moans and screams from her and seared the sounds into his brain for recall on cold winter nights. He steeped himself in her scent and her taste and let himself drown in her pleasure. He didn't allow his eyes to slide shut while he abandoned common sense and luxuriated in the feel of her silken heat wrapped around his almost sore aching cock. No, he kept eyes on her, memorizing the look on her face as he surged inside her, claiming her.
Despite his best intentions he eventually gave into exhaustion. He was weak and allowed himself the pleasure of wrapping her in his arms and holding her naked body like she was really his girl and they would wake up tomorrow and make love again. Just for five minutes, he had told himself, only to wake at the sound of the door closing right back where he had started: naked and alone. He had never thought sleeping with Hermione Granger would make him feel so empty.
He supposed at some point he needed to get on his feet, find his wand, and get on with the business of finding out just who the hell had shared her skin with him. But right now he just wanted to lay there in sheets that smelled like sin and sex with limbs that were relaxed and slightly sore and let the fantasy ride out just a little longer before the harsh light of day intruded and broke his heart all over again.