Returning home meant slipping back into the stream of her work schedule, more closely resembling whitewater rapids. Professionally, Hungary was something of a spectacular failure, though Portugal had been successful enough that Hermione had several more back-to-back trips written into her calendar over the course of the next two weeks. She spent less time in Britain than she did traveling.
She had no time to see, speak to, or even think about Draco.
Nor did he accompany her on her next three trips, much to her disappointment. The Ministry assigned Hermione a different interpreter for her trips to Italy and Germany, and she was told to make do with translation spells or default to English while in Croatia. As much as she wanted to meet her colleagues in their home countries and work with them in their own languages, her visit to Zagreb ended up mostly conducted in English.
She assumed Draco's absence on these particular trips meant she could cross three more languages off her potential list of the five he spoke. At least, she hoped a lack of familiarity with the languages was the reason he didn't attend, not because of some sudden regret over the night they'd spent together.
In the eighteen hours she had back in Britain between two of her trips, she got so far as to address Draco a letter, but she stopped, rife with self-consciousness. An unfamiliar flutter of nerves. He hadn't reached out either.
Perhaps there was something about this thing of theirs that was distinctly foreign, happening on neutral ground. Maybe it didn't belong at home. Maybe it couldn't thrive there.
It all seemed so much easier in other places, like she didn't have a massively overburdened schedule hanging over her head, or niggling worries about professionalism, outside opinions, and all the baggage that came with being who they were. If she was honest with herself, she liked him. She liked him a lot. Too much. More than she knew how to handle. More than she knew how to work into her busy life and not feel overwhelmed by the space it took up.
It wasn't until she landed in Denmark, found her way to her hotel room, unpacked all her things, and answered a knock at her door, that she realized Draco was once again interpreting for her.
With her hotel door swung open between them, he stood looking nearly as uncertain as she felt. He was dressed downright casual, though still inexplicably expensive. Maybe it was the cowl necked jumper likely made of cashmere, or the dark trousers that probably included a bespoke anti-wrinkling charm. Or maybe it was the monk strap style shoes with hardware so shiny Hermione couldn't help but wonder if solid gold was involved. She wouldn't put it past him.
Rather than comment about his downright proletariat styling choices, the thing that came out of her mouth was: "Danish?" She blinked, partly surprising herself. "You speak Danish but not German? Or Italian?"
"I learned what my tutors taught me."
"Did they pick European languages out of a hat?"
He smiled, posture shifting closer to her open door. "Possibly," he conceded, smile slipping to a smirk. "I certainly had no say in the matter."
Hermione's hand flexed against the door as she held it open.
"I wasn't sure—"
"I didn't know—"
"You go first," Hermione said, trying to smile through a sudden riot in her stomach.
"I didn't want to overstep," Draco said. "In the event you had regrets. Since I didn't hear back from you, I just wanted to stop by before our meetings and let you know that my intentions are to be entirely professional. I would never do anything to—"
"Since you didn't hear back from me?"
"I left you a note."
"The one under my door before I'd even left the country?"
"I—yes? I'd intended it as something of a gesture of intent."
"A gesture of intent?" Hermione wasn't sure which of them looked more embarrassed or uncomfortable.
"I suspect now that the specific practice might be limited to pureblood circles." He cringed.
Hermione swallowed, watching this finely pulled together man look uncertain on her doorstep. She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside her, then back at Draco.
"Our first meeting isn't for another hour," she said.
"No, it's not."
She swung her door further open, ushering him in.
Draco was on her the moment he passed the threshold into her hotel room. Hermione only distantly registered her door clicking shut when her back slammed into it. These kisses, these touches, they weren't slow and sweet like they had been in Budapest. There were no precious consent conversations following long dinners luxuriating in each others' company.
This was overflowing want, uncertainty boiling over, becoming certain. It was a gnash of teeth and a theft of breath. It was Draco's hands rough against her ribs as he pulled her shirt up, pausing to palm her breasts through her bra, groaning as he pressed himself against her.
It was a push and pull of frantic hands tearing away clothing, teetering on tangled legs towards the bed, only for Draco to stop them in front of the floor length mirror by the dresser.
He pivoted, pulling the desk chair over and positioning it at an angle, directly in front of the mirror.
"Have a seat, Granger."
Hermione's skin prickled, flush with anticipation at his request, which had been more of a command. He'd already stripped her down to her knickers, so sitting in front of a mirror in barely anything at all was something of a novel experience.
She wasn't used to seeing herself like this.
Red splotches traversed her chest, blooming high on her cheeks too. Her hair, which had been in a low bun when Draco knocked on her door, was a loose mess spiralling wildly away from her head. Her nipples were hard and tight, moving with her chest as she gasped when Draco sank to one knee, then to both, in front of her.
With her focus torn from the mirror, she watched the man before her, rapt. His hands skimmed the tops of her thighs before coming to rest at her knickers. He indulged in a pause and a smirk before pulling them down.
"Hips forward," he said, as he dropped her knickers to the floor.
Hermione's shimmy to the edge of the chair was shy, but she did as he asked, overcome by desire. Draco leaned into one of her knees, encouraging them open.
The sight of herself, naked and spread, made her want to hide, but any impulses she had towards modesty were hijacked by the look on Draco's face as he twisted to watch her reflection in the mirror too.
"Fucking perfect." His face was all admiration. Adoration. It ran hot beneath Hermione's skin.
She much preferred watching him to watching herself. His mouth opened slightly, tongue wetting his lips, focus zeroed in on her. He cupped himself through his pants, clearly aroused.
"Have you ever watched yourself come?"
Hermione thought she might simply combust if he kept talking to her like that. Her mouth dried out, tongue stuck in a desert dried by desires elsewhere. She shook her head, still fighting the instinct to press her legs together and hide from her reflection.
Draco turned his gaze from the mirror, looking directly at her. "Should we try something new?"
She had very little time to process the glorious threat in that question before he lowered his mouth to her. She had to grip the nearby desk with all her strength to keep from sliding out of the chair.
"Keep watching yourself, Hermione." The switch back to her given name devastated her nearly as much as his tongue and fingers, pushing her higher, harder, faster.
But she did as he said, watching more red bloom in patches across her chest, as her face tensed, as she came clutching the desk with one hand and Draco's bright blond hair with the other.
—
Later, Draco kissed his way up her stomach, over her breasts, and to her neck. While she was still a bit fuzzy from pleasure, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all, maneuvering her such that she straddled him while he sat in the chair. At some point, probably while she'd finally allowed her eyes to shut, limp from her orgasm, Draco had rid himself of his clothes.
Positioned like this, it only took a small tilt of their heads to see the mirror.
"I want to watch, too," he said, hands digging into her arse as she lowered herself onto his length.
Hermione struggled to think of a time she'd ever been so overwhelmingly turned on in her entire life. It was heady, intoxicating, watching herself sink onto him, seeing the way Draco's gaze darkened as he followed her every movement.
Draco's hands slid over her hips, down her thighs, and then dropped from her skin entirely, dangling by the chair legs. Hermione met his eyes in the mirror and found the silent permission there: take what she needed.
She wrapped her arms around her neck, blissed out in a way that had her feeling entirely drunk in the middle of the afternoon, and lifted herself up, clenching to drag out as much pleasure as nippled brushed his chest. Bright spots of ancillary pleasure every time she moved. She descended again, breath whooshing out of her, disproportionately pleased by the way Draco's head dropped back as he groaned.
Inspired, Hermione sought her own pleasure in a consistent rhythm: up and down and up and down. She hardly noticed the quiet, panted sounds escaping her every time her hips met his, grinding her hips to his pelvis. She tilted her head to the mirror again.
Draco's gaze hadn't wandered once, eyes fixed on her chest and her hips and her face, roaming over every inch of her skin, entirely focused on her.
She tightened her grip around his neck, nails scratching at his scalp. "Please touch me," she begged. She'd never felt so needy, so undone in her entire life. The begging was something of a novel experience as well.
Tearing her gaze from the mirror, she looked directly at him in time to catch the smirk, the satisfaction, and the flash of desire before Draco's hands found her hips again. He helped guide her back down, pulling her hard against him. When she lifted again, his hands didn't waver from her hips and arse. He thrust up into her: once, twice, before slamming her hips back down on his.
It only took several repetitions of that motion, striking fresh heat inside her at a new angle, for the pressure to reach a boiling point.
"Are you close?" Draco asked. "Tell me you're close."
Hermione's throat had run dry, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She couldn't respond, but she could nod. She pulled one of her hands from its anchor around Draco's neck and snaked it down her body, circling her clit for the added burst of pleasure required to send her over the edge.
She collapsed against him as she came, breath coming in fits and spasms like the rest of her body, contorted and liquified and lit up by a flood sparkling in her veins.
Draco's grip on her backside intensified, maneuvering to piston up into her and find his own end. He came with a groan against her shoulder, fingers digging into her flesh. If she didn't treat it with bruise paste, she imagined she would have difficulty sitting through the next three days of meetings.
She wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of wearing that reminder.
Hermione entertained her lazy, meandering mind by tracing the constellation tattoo on Draco's shoulder with her tongue while her heart rate returned to normal. Eventually, Draco's grip on her loosened. He cast a tempus.
"It's only been fifteen minutes," he said. "How long do you need to prepare for our meeting?"
Hermione's brain moved through tar, sluggish and slow, as if Draco Malfoy had quite literally fucked her wits from her. Still clutching him, savoring the way his fingers kneaded and danced across her skin, roaming her backside and spine and shoulder blades: a much softer touch than it had been before.
"A half hour, at most."
Draco's hands meandered around her ribs, up her breasts, to her throat. Finally, her chin.
He gently guided her face from his shoulder, bringing her level with his gaze. "Time for one more, then."
Her sluggish brain didn't connect is words with reality at first, still lost in a pheromone fog comprised of sex and lust and desire. It caught her by surprise when he stood, lifting her, before depositing her on the nearby bed.
Her gasp became a giggle, and then a gasp again.
—
After three days of meetings, sex, negotiations, kisses, number crunching, and a single night of delightful, wine-drunk dancing followed by some daring snogging in the middle of Copenhagen, Hermione had no desire to return home. She'd discovered something wonderful about being away with Draco Malfoy. About exploring places foreign to the both of them, pretending they were different people with different pasts who could seek pleasure in each others' company and bodies.
Time slowed for no wistful wanderers, forcing the end of her trip. For once, Hermione's portkey was set to leave before his. She clung to him in his bed as she indulged in a series of goodbye kisses with her leg hitched around his hip, canting against an extremely tempting morning erection.
"I have to go," she whispered against his mouth, swallowing back what surely would have been a moan. He pressed against her, tipping them so that her shoulders fell back against the mattress. Hermione let her hand skate across his jaw, sliding into his hair, so delightfully dishevelled while barely awake. Even through a blur of sleepiness, she saw the want behind his eyes.
"I have to go," she said again, feeling less resolved by the second.
"Just take my portkey with me."
"Mine takes me back to my office where I'm supposed to write a report for my supervisor."
Draco frowned, dipping to pepper her décolletage with kisses. "Sounds boring," he muttered to her collarbones.
She flexed her hand against the nape of his neck, grabbing hair for purchase. "It's not my favorite part of the job."
"What is your favorite part of the job?" Draco's mouth wandered, from her chest to her pulse point to the sensitive spot just below her ear that never failed to rock shivers through her.
"You," Hermione said as if compelled to honesty by the way he kissed the side of her jaw. "This."
"And what is this, Hermione?" he asked, mouth at her ear again.
"A dream, I think."
"Not real?"
"Maybe it could be."
"Where?"
Despite the draw of lust, the luscious way Draco wound her up when she was meant to be sneaking from his bed, a spike of anxiety shot high in her throat. Almost a chokehold. Where was certainly the question here. She felt landlocked.
Her fingers flexed in his hair again, soft white-blond strands she'd grown intimately familiar with. She tried to push away the unwelcome bolt of fear.
"I really do have to go," she finally said, opting for avoidance. Cowardly, she imagined she was something of a shame to Gryffindors everywhere.
Draco relented this time, rolling off her after one last kiss to her temple. He watched from the bed as she quickly gathered her things and scurried from his room, having to prepare for the workday, pack, and catch her portkey.
It was only as she pulled her return portkey from her bag that she found the note. When Draco had snuck it in there, she didn't know.
Elskede, it said. Please consider this a gesture of intent.
She struggled for air as her portkey spun her away, heart stampeding inside her chest.