Tomorrow evening's trip to the ballet was not a date. Hermione repeated this to herself the entire week leading up to Saturday. Malfoy had only agreed to go with her because she'd practically begged him to way back in November. He was only fulfilling this social obligation as a favor to a friend.
It was very much not a date. They weren't even having dinner or drinks before the show, just meeting outside the theater.
Then why had her stomach been in knots all week? Why did she feel jittery at the thought of sitting close to Malfoy in a dark theater? And why couldn't she decide on what to wear? Hermione owned a number of lovely dress robes and gowns, and normally before a formal event, she'd pick one at random or let Ginny choose.
For some reason, Hermione hadn't asked Ginny's opinion this time, nor had she decided for herself just yet. Merlin, she hadn't even thought about what to do with her hair! These decisions plagued her day after day, and at the end of her internal struggle the same thought kept rearing its head: this is not a date.
They'd come upon their parting point for the morning and Hermione felt a restless sort of energy coursing through her. The next time she'd see him would be the following evening, presumably all dressed up and among the wizarding public.
"I'm looking forward to the show tomorrow," she offered tentatively. Malfoy let out a small sigh and refused to meet her gaze.
"About that..." he began and Hermione felt her stomach drop. "Are you sure you still want to go?"
Hermione couldn't believe his words. After all that petulant angst he'd given her over choosing to honor her date with Anthony over a night out with him and now he's trying to squirm his way out of their… their… non-date?
"Malfoy you promised! Are you seriously trying to back out now?"
He shook his head swiftly and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Hermione waited while he looked down at the ground and scuffed lightly at the sidewalk with one of his expensive shoes.
He's nervous.
"No, it's just… are you sure you still want to go… with me?"
The anger left her body as Hermione's heart clenched in anguish for him. He was clearly worried about people seeing them together and damaging her reputation. Being friends with Malfoy the past year, she learned that his self-confidence manifested in peaks and valleys, and that in this moment he seemed to be in quite a deep valley.
"Malfoy," she began gently, and didn't continue until he looked her in the eye. "I want to go with you. As my friend you should know that I will hold you to your promises. And as your friend, you should know that I do not care one bit about what other people will think or say about the company I keep."
After a beat, he nodded and offered a small smile. "All right then. I suppose I'll see you tomorrow night."
"I'll hold you to that."
Not a date. This was not a date.
Draco paced back and forth along the cobblestones at the entrance to the theatre district of wizarding London. He'd arrived early, not being able to stand the deafening silence of his home while he waited for time to pass. Why hadn't he thought to suggest dinner before the show? A little wine might have helped take some of the nervous edge off.
Except there was no reason to be nervously on edge because this was very much not a date. Not a date. Yes he was dressed in very fine black dress robes, but he only owned the finest of robes, so that really wasn't on purpose. Was it on purpose the amount of time you spent in front of the mirror, wondering if Granger preferred your hair a certain way?
Draco let out a frustrated sigh and ran his hand through his pale locks. He'd kept it short and parted to the side the past several years and no longer slicked it back as he had in his schoolboy days. Perhaps looking like his schoolboy self would have been a horrendous mistake, as far as Granger's memory of him was concerned. Besides, if he'd gone to the trouble of styling his hair, would that look like he wanted this night to be a date? This was not a date.
I am in control of this.
Draco finished his current route of pacing and turned quickly to pace back the way he came only to come face to face with Granger herself.
"Hello," she said with a bright smile.
"Hello. You look nice." It was a complete and total lie. Hermione looked absolutely exquisite and it stole the breath from his body, but that was hardly an appropriate thing to say to a friend.
She had on a touch more makeup than she usually wore for work, her lips painted a tantalizing shade of burgundy. Her hair, often so impossible to tame, secured in a tight bun atop her head, but already a few of her curls made an escape and the overall effect was lovely.
"Thank you, so do you." She beamed and Draco wondered if he'd said too much, or if his expression had been the giveaway. It seemed that as of late he'd lost the ability to keep his less subtle emotions in check in her presence.
They walked together along with a small crowd toward the theater entrance and Draco sensed Hermione's excitement for the performance.
"I suppose you're familiar with the story? Of the ballet?"
Draco nodded in answer to her question. He'd been dragged to this one several times over the course of his childhood by his parents. But ballet or no, every magical child knew the tale of The Phoenix and the Veil.
"It was one of my mother's favorites."
Hermione's face flushed as they reached the lights of the lobby. "I'd never read it. Not until you agreed to take me tonight. Obviously it wasn't a tale from my childhood."
She seemed slightly embarrassed by that admission, and Draco quelled the urge to tease her, as he normally would have. Muggle parents obviously didn't have access to ancient wizarding fairy tales, there was no reason for her to feel ashamed.
"Now that you've done the proper reading for tonight's performance, what did you think?"
That wiped the blush from her cheeks as she put on her best thinking face: brow slightly furrowed, eyes alight, and lips drawn in as she chewed the inside of her bottom lip. If there was one guarantee about Hermione Granger it was that she had an opinion about everything. She would never simply answer "Oh, I like it." She was going to have reasoning and theories and arguments to support whatever she said.
"Obviously, the underlying message of true love overcoming an evil obstacle is quite powerful. And I did do some research on historical wizarding folklore outside of the ones written by Beedle the Bard, and I know this particular story is theorized to be more than 1,000 years old, so I suppose I can forgive the simplistic message in that regard, however," She paused for breath here. "If you view it through a modern lens, I find myself frustrated and disappointed with the character of Friedrich."
"How so? Most witches consider him the ultimate romantic hero."
"But why? See, that's where the story falls apart for me. Alexandrina is the real hero of the tale. The entire story is incumbent upon her making this life-altering choice in order to save her true love. But what bothers me is we, the audience, never learn what makes this man so worthy of her sacrifice! She literally goes willingly into the land of the dead to save him, and what is her reward? She's turned into a phoenix and made to live the rest of her days dying and being reborn from her own ashes over and over," Another pause, another breath.
"But Friedrich? How does he come out of this the hero? All we know about his character is that he is supposedly very handsome and is enamored with Alexandrina. That's it! He just exists until she rescues him and then he gets to reclaim his family's household, his magic, and goes on to find love again. And then he keeps Alexandrina around in phoenix form… as a pet! That part set my teeth right on edge, ugh!"
Draco chuckled at the way the story seemed to get under her skin.
"So you don't find keeping your former lover around as a large bird and handing her down to your children like an heirloom to be terribly romantic? I'm shocked, Granger," he drawled with a smirk.
Hermione playfully rolled her eyes and removed her cloak as they reached their seats on an aisle in the orchestra section. Draco cursed himself for not being quicker in offering to help her remove it. Clearly he was out of practice as a well-bred gentleman on a date if he'd already failed to help his female companion with her cloak. Except this was not a date. So it didn't matter. Because this was not a date.
But then the removal of Hermione's cloak revealed the stunning dress robes she wore underneath and Draco forgot how to breathe temporarily. Again. They were a bright, periwinkle blue, set slightly off her shoulders, meaning Draco was treated to a view of the bare skin of her neck, collarbone, and a good portion of her shoulders.
He busied himself with removing his own cloak and shrinking it so as not to be caught gaping at her. Before they could strike up conversation, the lights went down to signal the ballet was ready to begin and the stirrings of the orchestra could be heard in front of them.
Unable to resist and feeling braver in the dark, Draco leaned in close towards Hermione's ear, close enough to breathe in her mysterious floral scent, and murmured, "Despite your misgivings about the plot, I think you'll find yourself quite taken with the Russian version."
"Oh? And what makes you say that?" She whispered back, head turned slightly toward him, bringing her cheek mere inches from his lips.
"Because they use a live phoenix."
She let out the softest little surprised gasp and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lean forward and swallow it with his mouth. Instead, he sat back in his seat and gripped the armrests far tighter than was necessary.
Maybe he would end up liking the ballet after all.
Draco hated the ballet. In mere minutes, he was transported right back to his childhood, being bribed with sweets to sit still and stay quiet through the entire performance. But all the sweets in the world couldn't keep the child version of Draco from finding the ballet mind-numbingly dull. Adult Draco had to agree. This was tortuous.
How long was this thing?
Of course his night out with Granger would be an activity that prevented them from talking or interacting in any meaningful way. His flirtatious little whispering before the curtain rose had undoubtedly been foolish, but she hadn't seemed to mind.
On stage, the prima ballerina playing the part of Alexandrina pirouetted mournfully over the death of her lover. Next, the evil sorceress would make her grand entrance, disguised as a benevolent savior eager to help the grieving girl. Then Alexandrina would flail gracefully about while she considered the choice presented: move on with her life or take the option of going beyond the veil to rescue her love.
Granger was right, this woman was an idiot for thinking Friedrich was worth the trouble. And did Draco mention that he hated the ballet? He hated the ballet. He was bored to tears.
Chancing a glance over at Hermione, he noticed her rapt with attention at the performance unfolding on stage. Draco let his eyes rake over her face, aglow with interest at the dancers, down to her slightly parted lips, further down to her slender neck, and down to the exposed skin of her throat.
Another curled tress escaped her delicate hairstyle and trailed beckoningly along the shoulder closest to Draco. He realized with a jolt that they had never had prolonged closeness like this before. There was always an entire table between their bodies in the morning.
The little brown lock of hair tickling her bare skin continued to taunt him. He no longer had any awareness of what occurred on the stage because reality began and ended with Draco mastering his impulse control. He could not tear his eyes away from the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. All it would take was one quick movement of his arm. Just a gentle caress of his hand as he brushed the lock of hair aside for her. Would she recoil at his touch? Was it worth the risk?
A large part of his brain screamed "abso-fucking-lutely" but his more rational side was putting up a good fight. Draco contented himself with simply observing how the soft curl moved slightly with each rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It would be so easy; just to reach over, brush it aside, trail his fingers lightly across her back and secure an arm around her. Plenty of other couples were sitting that way.
Except this was not a date. They were not a couple on a date.
Draco still couldn't remove his eyes from her, but focused instead on not breathing too loud. Merlin, if the entire theater couldn't hear him practically gasping for air then they probably could hear the way his heart seemed to be slamming against his chest. He was going to suffocate by just looking at her, he could feel his blood pounding in his ears and felt suddenly feverish.
But then Hermione let out a small, surprised exhale, and Draco's gaze flicked up to her face. She stared intently up at the stage and tears pooled in her eyes. Wondering what could have prompted such an emotional display, Draco tore his eyes from her and faced front. The stone archway containing the tattered veil that led to the land of the dead had just been revealed and Alexandrina flitted towards it. As the ballerina gracefully twirled herself through it, Draco was alarmed to see several tears tracking their way down Hermione's cheeks. She then fiddled with something in her lap, and Draco saw her pull a piece of fabric out of the sleeve of her robes. It was a white handkerchief. His handkerchief. The initials D.L.M. clearly visible in an elegantly stitched monogram on the edge as she dabbed at her eyes. She'd kept it, and not only that, but deemed it important enough to carry on her person.
Perhaps thinking he had noticed her quiet tears, Hermione turned to him and gave an embarrassed, watery smile, paired with a small shrug of her shoulders. Draco attempted to smirk back in what he hoped was a teasing expression but honestly had no idea how to operate his facial muscles at the moment.
When she turned her attention back to the performance, Draco resumed his covert staring at the side of her neck. Hermione's hands returned to her lap where she clutched his handkerchief, occasionally twisting and fidgeting with the small scrap of fabric. Draco then realized he'd committed another selfish faux pas that evening: his arm completely hogged the armrest between their seats. Another failed opportunity to act the gentleman. She had nowhere to rest her hands except in her lap. It was also another failed opportunity to have her closer. With her delicate hand resting inches from him, it would be all too easy to "accidentally" brush against it, then perhaps keep it there and clasp it in his own.
The shrill, haunting melody of a phoenix pierced the air but it was nothing compared to the excited gasp that left Hermione's lips, a sound that ignited rather salacious thoughts in his mind. I would pay obscene amounts of gold to be the one eliciting that noise from your mouth…
Hermione's reverent gaze followed the flight of the phoenix as the live bird made its triumphant ascendance, signifying the finale of the ballet. As the audience rose to applaud the performers, Hermione turned to beam at Draco.
"Thank you so much for taking me."
I sincerely wish you'd say that to me in an entirely different context.
"Of course, Granger," he brushed off her thanks.
As they filed out with the rest of the crowd, Draco's mind raced. Now what? Should he suggest a night cap somewhere? What was the protocol for a non-date with a friend? Unsure of how to proceed, he made a stab at conversation, hoping to draw out the evening.
"So," he began as they walked along, wandering aimlessly down the street. "May I ask what brought such a non-romantic soul such as yourself to tears?"
She gave him a playful slap on the arm. "I am not non-romantic! Ugh! Why do people always assume that about me? Just because I find it troublesome that, as a female, I'm expected to be enchanted by the story of some wimpy excuse for a wizard that renders the witch's ultimate sacrifice utterly meaningless as it applies to her own self-worth and agency does not mean I don't appreciate romance! I do! I'd love to have someone who thought of me as more than a brainy bookworm, who would bring me flowers or take me out on dates…"
She trailed off abruptly and flushed spectacularly, and Draco didn't know how to respond in an appropriate manner. What he wanted to do was list off all the fantastical fictional romantic scenarios he'd imagined in his head in the past week alone. He'd romance the hell out of her, if that's what she desired. But he did not start spouting off all the ways in which he'd very much like to romance Granger because Draco was a pragmatist. Coward. It's spelled coward.
"You avoided my question Granger."
Hermione sighed and Draco saw a slight shadow cloud her features. "I guess I hadn't expected the veil to look that way."
"What way?"
She shrugged and let out another sad sigh. "So realistic. That's almost exactly how it really looks in the Department of Mysteries."
They had stopped walking and faced one another. Draco felt a cold stone drop into the pit of his stomach. All Draco knew about Potter and company's Fifth-Year escapade in the Department of Mysteries was that his father and Bellatrix bungled it so badly that it was the reason for Draco being called up the ranks, so to speak, to take Lucius's place in the Dark Lord's inner circle. The details of the scuffle were unknown to him, but he had vivid and nightmare-inducing recollections of the Dark Lord's rage following the failed mission.
"I didn't know it was a real artifact," he offered cautiously.
Hermione stared off into the mid-distance and chewed on her bottom lip. "It's a difficult object to describe. It radiated this other-worldly power and reeked of ancient magic, but for me, it felt foreboding and dangerous. Some of the others… it seemed to call to them, to entrance them. I didn't like how it made me feel," she paused here to shiver. "I was passed out during the dueling. I never saw how Sirius… how he went through…"
She trailed off but then returned her gaze to Draco and offered a small smile. "Anyway, apologies for falling apart like that in public. Thank goodness I had this little thing to assist me in my time of need!" She pulled out his handkerchief and waved it tauntingly in his face.
Draco chuckled. "Must have been quite the chivalrous gentleman, offering you such a fine keepsake to ease your distress."
"Hmm," she feigned a pensive face. "I'm not so sure I'd call him a chivalrous gentleman as much as a pompous little aristocrat convinced that this mere trinket is enough to make up for all the times he quite rudely stole a bite from my scone."
Draco pretended to be wounded and put his hand over his heart. "Why Granger, that is a shocking and unfounded accusation! You could really ruin a man's reputation with that sort of slander."
Hermione rolled her eyes at his theatrics but lost the battle with the grin that overtook her face. Her grin eventually faded as they stood staring at each other for a moment, and Draco felt a sudden surge of impulsivity, emboldened by the intensity of her eyes.
"But if it's a gentleman you want," he trailed off as he stepped closer to her. Draco reached down and took her hand firmly in his own. Lifting it up in front of her wide eyes, Draco pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles, and then brushed over them once with his thumb before gently letting her hand drop.
"Goodnight Granger," he murmured as he took a step back, then disapparated.
He'd kissed her hand. He'd kissed her fucking hand.
Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Salazar fucking Slytherin. What was wrong with him?
"Fuck!" Draco yelled the second he'd reached his bedchambers. Loosening then ripping off his bow tie, he flung himself into an armchair and buried his face in his shaking hands. Sweet fucking Circe, he had to be the most embarrassing person alive. This called for whisky. The glass of amber liquid was halfway to his mouth when he remembered exactly where his lips had just been. He'd tasted Granger's bare skin and it had been fucking divine. I am in control of this.
He set the undrunk glass down and rested his head against the back of the armchair, closing his eyes and reliving the last few moments with her in his mind. He'd been looking for any excuse to touch her all evening and after missing opportunity after opportunity he'd gone and made one for himself.
Maybe he'd been too forward. Maybe he'd misread everything in her eyes. Oh fuck, maybe she thought he was creepy and was too shocked by his behavior to react at all. It wasn't like he gave her a chance to respond, he'd just apparated away like an idiot. I am in control of this.
There was nothing for it, Draco was besotted with Hermione Granger.
An interesting twist in his young life, and he hadn't even needed a drop of alcohol to arrive at this particular epiphany. Thinking back on the past year, he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that his feelings had moved beyond platonic. But the longer he sat in his chair in his empty bedroom of his empty home with nothing but the sound of a crackling fire, the louder the thought became in his head.
Since the complete crumbling of his entire life after the second war in which the Dark Lord was once again defeated by a prat with glasses, Draco had endeavored to live only in facts, not beliefs. Fact: his father had been wrong about most everything. Fact: water was wet. Fact: Draco was completely enamored with Granger.
Draco didn't really know what to do about that last one. The best course of action, especially after his mortifying display of slobbering all over her hand, was probably to bury these feelings deep, deep inside and never reveal them. Yes, that sounded healthy. Pragmatic. Cowardly.
Call him what you like, but Draco was apparently good at surviving. He'd survived a bloody war when he had no right to, and by Merlin he could survive caring about Granger in a way that made him physically ache.
But what if she brought up his behavior on Monday morning? "Look Malfoy, I'm not sure what kind of game you're playing, but you had no right to snog my hand without my permission and I'd really appreciate you disappearing from my life forever."
Fine, so she probably wouldn't be that harsh, but she would find a way to let him down easy. And then Draco would become the first wizard to discover how to Crucio himself with his own wand.
He needed a plan if she wanted to discuss this. Draco would only acknowledge the hand-kissing if she did first. Then he would wave it off as some weird, outdated pureblood custom. Granger probably thought that anyway, so he could simply lean into her preconceived notions about his dysfunctional heritage. Growing up, he'd witnessed his own father kiss many a witch's hand at social functions, both in greeting and in farewell. It was polite and proper for a young wizard of Draco's upbringing to briefly press his lips to his date's knuckles upon parting. Except this hadn't been a date. And Draco's kiss hadn't been brief by any definition.
Perhaps he was overreacting about the entire situation? Having gone so long without pleasant or pleasurable female company, maybe his feelings for Granger were simply nothing more than a crush driven by lust? Let's consider the facts again.
Fact: Granger was an exceptionally beautiful woman. Fact: Draco was a young, red-blooded male who was not blind. Fact: Draco enjoyed Granger's company. Fact: Granger was an intelligent and engaging conversational partner. Fact: Granger was his friend. Fact: Draco would very much have liked to have pulled her closer and apparated her straight into his bedroom.
Draco groaned and ran this hands through his hair. Facts were clearly of no use to him this evening. Instead, he succumbed to the vision of Granger slowly letting her robes fall open while she straddled his hips and tried not to dwell on the fact that this was the second time today he'd needed to touch himself while thinking about her.
He'd kissed her hand.
Hermione was completely unaware of how much time had passed after Draco disapparated, leaving her standing in the middle of the street. She blinked a few times, then remembered how to apparate and arrived home. With slightly shaking hands, she managed to remove her cloak and dress robes and somehow got ready for bed. She tossed and turned for almost an hour before Crookshanks got fed up with her restlessness and sauntered grouchily out of the bedroom with an angry swish of his tail. Eventually, her body surrendered to exhaustion, and she fell into a fitful sleep.
Whatever he was doing with his tongue to her, Hermione hoped it would never, ever stop. Soft feathery kisses followed by a long lick up the length of her entire slit had her trembling all over. And now his tongue was inside her and Hermione felt like screaming until her vocal chords snapped from over exertion. He abruptly pulled his mouth away from between her thighs and began kissing his way up her body. She whimpered against him, and he finally acquiesced to her breathy demands and slid his cock inside her with a groan. Hermione looked into his silvery, lust-filled eyes for a moment before capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. He pulled away roughly as he thrust in and out and moved his lips' attention down to the side of her neck. One hand clutched at his back while the other tangled in his silky, platinum blond hair, and she urged him to please, please, please go faster, go harder. She was so close. He growled into her ear. "That's it, Granger, come for me."
Hermione's eyes flew open. With a strangled cry, she realized her own hand was inside her knickers and had been working herself over in her sleep. She removed her fingers swiftly and sat up in bed, still panting. "Honestly, what is wrong with me?" she mumbled in shame. Throwing aside her covers, Hermione stalked to the bathroom for a glass of water, hoping to calm her very aroused body down.
Looking herself over in the mirror, Hermione thought she looked thoroughly hot and bothered. Her breathing was still rapid, her cheeks flushed, her hardened nipples poking through the fabric of her camisole, and she could still feel how wet she was between her legs. How desperate was she if all it took was one kiss on the hand from Malfoy to spur such an explicit sex dream starring him?
But what a dream it had been, she thought with a sigh. If she were being honest with herself, something Hermione tried to do most of the time, she had been more than a little aware of the pull she'd felt toward him all evening. It had begun almost instantly; with how dashing he looked in his formal dress robes. Then, when he'd leaned in close to whisper in her ear just before the ballet started, Hermione had fought her body's instinct to shiver. For a wild moment, she'd envisioned Malfoy lingering there, then closing the distance to place a kiss below her ear. She'd worked harder than necessary to dismiss that fantasy and had tried to focus on the ballet, though most of the time she'd remained acutely aware of how near his body was to hers.
And when she wasn't crying over the veil scene (how mortifying, by the way, Merlin) Hermione observed in her peripheral vision the exact location of Malfoy's hand. Innocently resting on the arm rest between them, it would have been so easy for her to pretend not to notice and "accidentally" go to rest her hand there, only to find his waiting. That man's hands were more attractive than should be allowed. What would they feel like running all over her bare body?
Hermione had a strange affinity for men's hands and personally felt that they were an underappreciated part of the male anatomy.
Ron's hands had been strong and supportive. Made for comfort and, throughout their entire romantic relationship, Hermione always appreciated their warm familiarity. His touch had made her feel safe and could always soothe her in times of distress.
Viktor Krum's hands had been rough. Not in an aggressive or violent way, more that they were calloused from years of quidditch playing and when he grabbed her during the throes of passion, it would always be firm and purposeful. Physicality had been the foundation of their brief relationship after they reconnected when she broke up with Ron, but they hadn't had much in common outside of that, and it resulted in another amicable breakup for Hermione.
Daniel's hands had been gentle. After Viktor, Hermione took a brief detour from dating wizarding men and dipped her toe in the Muggle dating pool. Much to the delight of her parents, Hermione accepted a blind date with the son of one of their patients, and the relationship lasted several months. But Hermione always felt like his hands caressed her in such a tentative way; as if he were afraid of spooking her, and perhaps it was a metaphor for how Hermione could never truly give herself to him in an emotional sense. When the relationship reached the point where she would have to decide if this person was worth divulging her biggest secret (the whole witch thing) Hermione ended things. She swore off Muggle dating after that, knowing that if she had to hold back this essential part of her life, she'd never attain true intimacy with that person.
Cameron's hands had been hurried. Mostly because he and Hermione were simply taking care of mutual sexual needs as quickly as possible when they were together. He was a Muggle as well, but Hermione wouldn't exactly classify their time together as "dating." They'd fooled around a handful of times, generally calling one another up for a night out when neither had plans. It had been fun for a while, no-strings-attached quick sex, but Cameron put an end to the late-night phone calls for company once he'd met his new girlfriend, and Hermione wished him well.
Which brought Hermione to Draco Malfoy's hands. She hadn't really experienced this particular set yet and already she felt they might snag the number one spot in her rankings. His hands were elegant in a way that made Hermione bite back a sigh. They appeared confident and capable, most of the time, but especially when he absentmindedly traced the rim of his coffee mug with those striking, long fingers.
From the brief two instances experiencing his grip, Hermione had noted that no callouses were to be found there, he clearly had the unblemished palms of an aristocrat who'd never completed a day of manual labor in his life. She decided not to hold his pampered childhood against him on this one point.
Her thoughts moved to the way his lips had caressed her hand several hours ago, followed by the gentle pressure of his thumb along her knuckles. That low, rich baritone of his farewell coupled with his intense gaze and then disapparating before she could react? Smooth, she had to admit, and unfairly so.
Hermione noticed her reflection in the mirror was now biting her lip and she was once again made acutely aware of the wet arousal between her thighs. She steeled her shoulders and marched back to bed. There was absolutely nothing wrong with sexual self-gratification. It was normal. It was healthy. And when Hermione came a few minutes later to the ministrations of her own fingers, she had to bite down on her tongue to prevent herself from crying out the name of a certain male friend she'd have to face on Monday morning.
A/N: Unfortunately real life responsibilities need to take priority for me this week, so the next chapter will be posted on 6/29. I plan to return to my normal schedule of 1-2 updates per week once I return. I'll still reply to comments and you can always come yell at me about dramione things or ask me questions on tumblr ( heyjude19-writing), but I just won't have time to properly edit the next chapter for posting. Thank you thank you thank you to anyone who stumbles across this story and considers it worthy of reading!