Chapter 34: Renaissance
May 19, 2018
The Royal Suite at the Goring Hotel
A Change in Tides
The repeal of the Royal Marriages Act was eclipsed in popular media by a combination of Royal Baby Fever, a period following the birth of Willow James Potter, and, shortly afterwards, the now-infamous Gilderoy Lockhart scandal. The act was replaced by a new succession law which included a surprisingly progressive stance on royal inheritance, including the provision that female heirs—including Prince Harry's daughter—would not lose their place to future sons. Given the times, one could hardly call it a controversial move; however, it did signify a great deal of social momentum, as the Succession to the Crown Act garnered a unified expression of support from Duchess Pansy, Princess Narcissa, and Lady Bellatrix Lestrange.
Yes, you read that correctly. The unholy trinity of Pansy, Narcissa, and Bellatrix did briefly become a disturbing alliance, and perhaps unsurprisingly, its origins were even stranger.
But, of course, to get there, we have to wade through quite a mess.
July 31, 2015
Godric's Cottage
"Okay, seriously?"
"Yes," Hermione said firmly, shoving Draco onto his back and tugging at his belt. "Unless you'd like to chance going another six months—"
"Yes, fine, noted," he growled, nudging her away long enough to fumble with his trousers himself. "Though, I'd hoped for—"
"Yeah, yeah," Hermione muttered, slithering out of her underwear and pulling him into her. "We can be romantic on our second-second time. Look, we gave it a good try, but some things—" She broke off, hurrying to return the pressure of his lips and the hasty slip of his tongue. "The point is," she gasped, hazily recalling the point, "perfection can wait. This can't."
"Fair," he rasped; still not entirely out of his trousers, but close enough. "Though we have what, ten minutes? How long is it supposed to take to find a cake knife?"
"I—"
"New Tracey," came a voice on the other side of the door, and Hermione gave Draco a warning glare as he froze, one hand wrapped around her thigh. "Are you in there? Silly question—yes you are, we can all hear you—but be that as it may, I do have to talk to you quite urgently about this manuscript."
"Blaise," Hermione managed, digging her nails into Draco's hip, "this really isn't a good time—"
"Minus ten for forcing me into such an inelegant confession, but I'm aware," Blaise said drily. "Unfortunately, given the calamity downstairs, I don't think I'm going to have much for spare moments. Lady Seven-Names is, as you know, consumed by lunacy, which isn't even to mention the inexplicable looming presence of Lady Bellatrix—"
"Just do it," Hermione hissed to Draco, who grimaced.
"I didn't really picture Blaise's voice being present," he said in a gruff undertone, "much less any mention of my father's mistress," but Hermione, who had had quite enough of waiting, wrenched one leg up and slid her palm over his cock, prompting him to a violent shudder.
"—the point is," Blaise continued, "I've finished it, and I really think we should discuss—"
"Oh, fuck," Hermione sighed, Draco sliding inside her with a moan he was forced to muffle into her shoulder. "Ignore him," she whispered, in what she hoped was a coaxing tone but suspected was more of a demonic one.
"—it's well-written, obviously, twenty points in the direction of your vocabulary; who knew 'defenestration' was a word you could employ so frequently and with so little effort—"
Fortunately, even with the ongoing distractions, the sex was as promising as it always was (particularly in that Draco's dick, beautifully resilient, was as pleasing a shape as it had always been), and in all honesty, the days leading up to this had certainly been foreplay enough. Hermione had already been hovering on the brink of orgasm for multiple days, and she doubted it would take much; she had suspected even a little clitoral friction would send her reeling, and it did.
The unfortunate news, aside from Blaise's voice on the other side of the door, was that Draco's zipper, flayed open as it was, was digging into her leg. She shifted to reach her hand underneath her, tugging his trousers down lower, and then motioned for him to continue.
"—and while I'm aware this has been… some effort, on your part—"
"Talk to me," she whispered to Draco, teeth clenched. The angle was good—she was certainly close enough that orgasm would build in minutes—but her brain hummed with the knowledge they could be interrupted at any moment, and that she was allegedly supposed to be doing something else, like attending to a madwoman. "Just, I don't care, say anything—"
"Jesus, you feel spectacular," Draco gasped in her ear, and Hermione closed her eyes, sinking her nails into the back of his neck. "Hermione, you're so—I'm, I can't—"
"Draco," came Harry's voice, and briefly, Draco went rigid, prompting Hermione to stifle a groan in frustration. Things had been building so promisingly, that itch of near-orgasm growing closer and more tantalizing, and if he just didn't move—"I know you're in there, mate, and I get it, I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important, but—"
"Frankly, catching me like this would be classic Harry's birthday," Draco grumbled, and Hermione shoved him onto his back, climbing on top of him and resolving to manage this herself if she had to kill both of them in the process. "My goodness, Miss Granger—"
"Shut up," she said, closing her eyes and sliding her fingers along either side of her clitoris, intent on making quick work of it and putting off quality for later. She wasn't typically such a procrastinator, but seeing as it was this or madness, good sex would have to wait another day. "I'm close, Draco, so just—"
"You know, I was speaking, Prince Harry, so minus ten—"
"Sorry, Blaise, but I don't give a fuck at the moment, my wife urgently requires tranquilizing—"
"Oh, Christ, Hermione—"
"Just—okay, everyone stop talking," she panted, her legs now tiring of their precarious near-shaking, almost-there-but-not-quite effort and the rest of her on the brink of the bad kind of pain. She picked up one of Draco's hands, set it ungraciously on her breast, and gave him a warning grimace. "Tell me you like my boobs or something."
"Oh, I do," he said quickly. "They're very—"
"Don't say spectacular," she growled, only to be cut off by the sound of a loud, angry scream from somewhere downstairs, and then the sound of Daphne's voice: a mix of rage and panic.
"HARRY! IT'S YOUR BLOODY FUCKING CURSE!"
"Well," Draco said, as Hermione let out a frustrated stream of obscenities. "Shall we reconvene at a more convenient time, then?"
Reaching any sort of climax, even retroactively, would probably require a brief look back. Where did it start? Pre-Draco, most likely. In fact, to explain everything, it would have begun just before his arrival.
"This dress," Daphne said, shoving it into Hermione's hands and squinting at her. "Yes, decidedly this one. By the way, the Breton top you wore last week sold out online," she commented offhandedly, sifting through Hermione's small-but-growing shoe collection. "Ah," she decided after a moment, picking up a pair of espadrilles and handing them to Hermione. "Here. A little casual, but it is summer. And a Sunday event."
"This for the lunch with Minerva next week?" Hermione asked, glancing skeptically down at the sundress. She'd never thought of herself as the type, considering it more of a Pansy move. "Why not just wear more stripe-y things if that's what's working?"
"It worked," Daphne corrected. "Ever forward, Granger. We're trying to craft something here, and it requires experimentation."
"I agree," came Helen's voice, emanating from Hermione's laptop. She had insisted on staying via Skype while Daphne chose Hermione's outfits for the coming weeks; so far, Helen had contributed little outside of echoing whatever Daphne said, though she appeared to be having the time of her life doing it. "You were in People last week, did you know?" Helen asked, slightly too excited to manage the mystique she was attempting. "You and Taylor Swift were both 'Riviera chic.'"
"Were we?" Hermione asked, not particularly interested, but Daphne straightened at the news with a frown.
"Hm. That's… not ideal." Daphne began shuffling through Hermione's closet again, more feverishly this time as Hermione draped across her bed, observing.
"Something wrong with Taylor Swift, Daph?"
"Well, it's been done," Daphne tossed distractedly over her shoulder. "Breton stripes are classic, obviously, but also very Red era. We've got to make sure you're associated with taste, not trends—and certainly not foregone ones."
"So true," Helen chirped, looking pleased she'd been so useful. "Besides, the 1989 era is all about dainty separates. And kicky oxfords."
"Oh, no," Daphne sighed to herself, glancing down at the pair of narrow-heeled oxfords in her hand and swiftly disappearing into the murky depths of Hermione's wardrobe.
Hermione, meanwhile, was smiling vacantly to herself, which she only realized she was doing after Helen had made a loud, all-knowing, maternal sort of sound. "You look daydreamy, sweetie," said her mother, sounding suspiciously nudgy. "Excited for your prince to come rescue you from the terrors of Gilderoy?"
"HA," came Daphne's voice from the closet, as Hermione sat up, rolling her eyes. "If by excited you mean helplessly arous-"
"Ignore her," Hermione told her mother firmly. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."
"Well," Helen began, "if you need any reminders about the importance of lube—"
"Mother, please don't," Hermione cut in, as Daphne emerged just long enough to smile wickedly at both of them. "Actually, may I humbly request that both of you stop, please? It's not like I'm some sort of sex fiend," she insisted with a scoff, perhaps protesting a tad too much.
"Mm, of course not, dear. Though, please remember that you're representing our proud nation," Helen said, and Hermione groaned, pulling the laptop from where it sat on her nightstand and flopping back on her bed.
"Mom. Do not."
"I'm just saying—"
"Do the two of you have actual plans for his trip here?" Daphne asked, withdrawing from the wardrobe with a sheath dress and blazer in each hand. "Or is it just, you know—"
"Safe and well-lubricated copulation," contributed Helen.
"That," Daphne agreed.
"I cannot overstate how much I hate this conversation, but no, no plans," Hermione said, loudly clearing her throat and turning to Daphne. "Do you and Theo usually have plans?"
Daphne considered it a moment. "No," she conceded, shaking her head. "It's more like I'm usually trying to talk him out of plans. He seems very keen to start an a cappella group with me, which I have to assume is the result of letting him watch Pitch Perfect too many times."
"I didn't know Theo could sing," Helen said, sounding delighted by the news.
"He can, but he shouldn't," Daphne assured her, turning back to Hermione. "And anyway, answer the question, or we'll just have to assume you'll spend the next week defiling a prince of the realm."
"He still has work-related things to do for his father and grandfather," Hermione insisted, wanting to discuss literally anything that was not her sex life, "and I have work to do myself, so I imagine we'll just be, you know, hanging out and—"
"Netflix and chill?" Helen contributed optimistically.
"Mom, seriously, I just—you know what? Never mind," Hermione sighed. "You're the worst, but I'll give it to you, you're hip."
"I suspected as much," Helen agreed, and then, in a surprisingly non-horrifying transition, added, "Really, I'm happy you're doing well, honey. You two seem to be in a good place."
Which they were; not that Hermione planned to tell her mother how frequently she and Draco had both gone into great, debaucherous, and possibly immoral and/or blasphemous detail about what they were going to do to each other the moment he arrived. "Well, it doesn't hurt that I'm actually extremely busy," Hermione admitted, gesturing to where Daphne was beginning to lay out her outfits on the bed. "I still have a bit more work to do for my clients before Draco gets here, not to mention finishing Lockhart's manuscript before Harry's birthday party—"
"How's that going?" Daphne asked, looking up from where she was choosing between extremely similar (in Hermione's view) statement bangles. "You haven't complained much about him recently. Lockhart, I mean," she added with a roll of her eyes, "as I've certainly heard enough from Pansy about Harry."
"Are things not going well with them?" Helen asked, and Hermione and Daphne exchanged a look.
"Well, Pansy has taken it upon herself to host a party," Hermione said slowly. "Something about how he ought to have something good happen to him on his birthday for once? It sounded like a nice thing, but she was also shouting it, so it could have easily been a threat."
"Historically, Harry's birthday is somewhat, well… cursed," Daphne supplied for Helen's benefit. "Remember the big Blaise and Pansy row?" she asked, to which Hermione shuddered. "Anyway, this year I imagine the curse has something to do with his surprise wife being militantly with child."
"Mm," said Helen, the only one of them who could even mildly relate to such a condition. "Understandable. When is Pansy due?"
"Early August," Daphne said grimly, "which can't come soon enough—only I believe she's concerned what Rita Skeeter might speculate if the baby makes its appearance too early," she sighed. "Tragically, I do believe Pansy quite capable of holding it hostage inside her body as long as it takes to preserve what remains of her reputation."
"But people can do the math, can't they?" Helen said. "I presume, anyway."
Hermione nodded with a grimace. "She told me at one point during one of her more sane trimesters that most babies are born approximately two or so weeks before their due dates, but even so, there's really no passing this off as a child born in wedlock."
"Oof," Helen said, aptly. "Hence the quiet retirement to the country like a Victorian mistress?"
"Yes," Daphne confirmed, "precisely that, in fact. Worse, I hear Lady Bellatrix has been trying to ingratiate herself with Pansy since her falling out with her mother, which I have to imagine is hardly much help. Oh," she said, realizing she may have left out some details necessary for comprehension, "Pansy's mother is—"
"—best friends with Princess Narcissa," Helen recited dutifully. "Believe me, she's made that plenty clear, even to me. Multiple times to David."
"She's certainly not enjoying her pseudo-house arrest," Hermione said, conceding with a knowing grimace, "Not that we really expected her to. And as for Lockhart, I haven't had to see him much now that I'm working on the full draft. He is still extremely willing to text Penelope his thoughts in the middle of the night, though. Which," she added at a mutter, "I, of course, love."
"Oh, he seems lonely," Helen said wistfully, and then added, as if Gilderoy were merely one of her hapless colleagues, "He just needs a nice girl. A Jennifer Aniston type, maybe."
"I think you might be confusing her with Rachel Green," Hermione pointed out, to which Helen shrugged her possible agreement, "but more importantly, I don't think it's very nice to wish that sort of life on a poor defenseless woman."
"Is he really so bad?" Daphne asked, chuckling, and Hermione sighed loudly.
"No, I suppose not," she grudgingly permitted. "He's just… very bloated by celebrity, you know. He's not a bad person," she decided, which was almost excessively extravagant praise, "but he's certainly one of those very insecure people who needs the fame to validate his existence."
"How much longer are you working with him?" Daphne asked her.
"Well," Hermione said, calculating it, "I'm a bit ahead of schedule—"
"That's my girl," Helen congratulated her, as pleasantly smug as if she'd done the work herself.
"—so I promised his publisher 31st July for the first edited draft. I sent the current draft to Blaise," Hermione admitted with a roll of her eyes. "I unwisely mentioned to him how I felt I was going a bit insane from spending all this time inside Gilderoy Lockhart's head, and he begged me to let him proofread for me."
"Well, that is right up Blaise's alley," Daphne said thoughtfully. "There's an element of judgment involved, as well as gossip. It really checks a lot of his boxes."
"It's so nice Blaise is back," Helen remarked tangentially. "I was really distraught for a while there without him."
"What?" Hermione asked her mother, who shrugged.
"He does the best wine pairings. For months none of my reds were even close to right, and frankly, I would resent being made to go back."
"I… whatever," Hermione sighed. "Anyw-"
Her phone buzzed beside her, which, unfortunately, neither Daphne nor Helen missed. Hermione, in an effort to appear… not precisely what she was (read: anxious and horny), pretended not to notice, instead inspecting the collar of a blouse Daphne had selected.
"Well?" Helen said, brusquely breaking the silence. "Is it Draco? Is he here?"
"I don't know, Mother," Hermione sniffed, "I'm very busy and import-"
"Yep," Daphne said, scooping up the phone from the duvet and reading it aloud. "Only two hours until I can have my hands on your—Christ," she said, holding Hermione at arm's length, "is this really what he does? Lord almighty—oh, no, wait, Theo does this too, do you think they learned it togeth-"
"Please," Hermione said, snatching the phone from her, "get out of here immediately."
"Yes, Daphne, please leave," Helen said. "She only has two hours to buy some lube and make herself presentable."
"I have lube, Mother, and for your information—"
"AHA!" Helen said, triumphant. "I knew it."
"I LOVE YOU, GOODBYE!" Hermione shouted, closing the laptop and turning to face the remaining obstacle of Daphne, who smiled broadly.
"You know, if you need me to style you in the boudoir sense—"
Hermione gave Daphne a long, murderous glance, and in turn, Daphne gave a sulking sort of sigh, smoothing one hand over the outfits she'd chosen and meandering towards the door.
"So, listen," Daphne mused, "I know you'd never ask, but—"
"Out," Hermione barked.
"—the Feathers bra," Daphne finished neutrally. "Gives you a nice shape, but won't look like you've been waiting around for him or anything."
"I don't need you t-" Hermione broke off with a grimace, consenting to ask, "Black or nude?"
"Well, black," Daphne scoffed, "my goodness, this isn't an ordinary day—"
"OUT!" Hermione repeated, and Daphne flashed her another grin, sauntering out the door and tossing a knowing smile over her shoulder as she went.
Over the course of the newest version of their relationship, Hermione had grudgingly come to grasp the purpose behind Draco's sexual reticence; that, namely, while the previous iteration of their relationship had been sex without communication, he was now giving communication without sex a valid (albeit validly difficult) go. It was one of those things that was easier to understand in retrospect, as even with a similar geographical distance between them from the previous rounds of romanticism, Hermione could acknowledge that this degree of emotional investment was different than it had been.
It felt to her like the doubts she had once clung to without questioning why they existed to begin with had gradually evaporated over the course of embedding him back into her habits, her thoughts, her daily activities. He had been woven into her life, and she into his, in a way they had accomplished by precisely their former relationship's opposite: all communication, no touch. It seemed they had fixed the fractures in their relationship by strengthening the foundation of their friendship—something that may not have occurred to her to try without his taking the lead.
Still, with the return of some newly familiar (and some familiarly new) emotions, Hermione had her fingers crossed for something of a sexual renaissance, as well. Would it make a difference, having promised each other more than they had ever been willing to gamble before? At times, her curiosity about their impending reunion swelled to something just shy of panic. Would waiting so long mean falling out of rhythm? Could sex somehow become bad if both parties were so heinously out of practice? She was pleased Daphne had already chosen her clothes for her. That was one thing she didn't have to exhaustively overthink.
By the time Hermione was being led through the palace to where Draco was allegedly finishing a call in his study, one of Draco's staff chattering to her about candelabras or hors d'oeuvres or possibly the situation in the Middle East, she was growing increasingly apprehensive. How, exactly, did one go about having sex for the second-first time? She was relieved now that their first-first time had been spontaneous, half-drunken, and problematically exhibitionist (possibly also unsanitary?) because it meant she'd had no time to think about whether or not it should have happened to begin with. Now, though, all she had was time to think, and every second of it made her nervous. It was like she was meeting a stranger for their first date—only, he happened to also be a very good friend of hers, whose penis she had high hopes to reintroduce to her, you know. Lady lips.
Jesus. If the state of her internal monologue was anything to go on, the sex was going to be a disaster. Luckily, Draco was still on the phone when she slipped into his office, and she had a few gratuitous moments to begin listing off dirty thoughts in her head: clitoris, cunnilingus, fellatio… What was the deal with Latin, exactly? Why did all sex terms sound like obscure wizard spells?
No, no, she thought with a renewed burst of apprehension, back to the point—
"—thought I made that quite clear? If it's my decision he doubts, tell him to take it up with me."
The door shut quietly behind her, alerting Draco to her presence. He turned, giving her an apologetic glance, and mouthed that it would only be a moment before returning his attention to the phone call.
"I understand the council's concerns. I will address each of them individually at tomorrow's leadership summit." He paused, brow twitching a little in thought as he listened, and Hermione lingered near the doorway, eyeing the books on his shelves.
They had changed some in the time since she'd last been there. Draco had amassed a much larger collection of what seemed to be a mix of historical narratives, military biographies, and, to her surprise, a small but noticeable (to someone like her, anyway, who noticed something like that) increase in literature. It appeared, against all odds, that Prince Draco had been reading for pleasure.
"I will inform my father that the most efficient route forward will be for me to address their constituents directly," he continued, and Hermione turned, sliding an early edition copy of The Age of Reason from its home on the bookshelf and pretending to glance over the pages. "Yes, I understand he's been rather preoccupied of late, but that hardly renders him incapable of recalling the stakes at hand."
Hermione, still fake-reading, continued to sneak glances at Draco, who was dressed in his usual prince-casual ensemble of a white oxford with folded sleeves, navy trousers, and his favorite pair of camel loafers. He had also taken on his usual Voice of Diplomacy, with its measured, steady tone, and part of her mind eased with a little bit of certainty: clearly, she remained deeply, wholly, uncomfortably attracted to him. His forearm tensed slightly as he raised a hand to his mouth, looking out the window in an artful pose of thought, and Hermione felt a little surge of enamoration replace a receding prick of nerves.
"It will have to be tomorrow. I'm afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment—"
She turned back to the bookshelf, replacing Sartre where he'd been, and noticed a thinner book beside it, picking up a copy of Henry and June by Anaïs Nin. An odd choice, she thought, frowning down at it. She hadn't thought feminist erotic works to be Draco's cup of tea.
"Snooping?"
She jumped, turning to discover Draco was off the phone and also standing alarmingly close to her, smelling of bergamot and clean linens. "Just… surprised," she managed to say, finding herself awkward once again, and he reached over, brushing her arm with his as he gingerly took the copy of the book from her hand.
"Have you read it?" he asked her, sounding either deeply serious or playfully so. His blond hair was swept back from his face in a wave, and his mouth quirked a little as she caught herself looking at him a bit too wantonly long. "I would have guessed Anaïs to be one of your favorites."
"She isn't not a favorite. Though, she did write an entire journal about incest," Hermione reminded him. "And she was a bigamist for a bit."
"Well, all interesting women are a bit strange, aren't they?"
That time, he was definitely toying with her, giving her a nudge and pretending not to notice when he'd permitted his shoulder to linger overlong beside hers. He opened the book to what she realized was a pre-marked page, reading aloud, "All I can say is that I am mad about you. I am waiting impatiently to see you."
He glanced up at her, observing her careful non-reaction, and continued, "I am wondering when you will come to stay overnight, when I can have you for a long spell. It torments me to see you just a few hours and then surrender you. When I see you, all that I wanted to say vanishes. The time is so precious and words are extraneous, but you make me so happy, because I can talk to you. I love your brightness, your preparations for flight, the warmth between your legs. I want to demask you. I am too gallant with you. I want to look at you long and ardently… I live in a perpetual expectancy. You come, and the time slips away in a dream."
He paused, looking up at her, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Keep going."
His smile was cleverly restrained. "I don't know what I expect of you," he continued, "but I am going to demand everything from you—even the impossible, because you encourage it. You really are strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me. Does aristocratic sound wrong in my mouth?" (No, never. Even his obscenity was posh.) "I was thinking how I could betray you, but I can't. I want to undress you," Draco murmured, his fingers meandering blindly to reach her waist, "vulgarize you a bit—I want to own you, use you, I want to fuck you, I want to teach you things."
Hermione shivered, watching the shape of Draco's shamelessly patient mouth.
"I have been on my good behavior with you. But I warn you, I am no angel. I think principally that I am a little drunk. I love you. I go to bed now—it is too painful to stay awake. I am insatiable. I will ask you to do the impossible—what it is, I don't know. You will tell me probably. You are faster than I am. I love your cunt—it drives me crazy. And the way you say my name! God, it's unreal."
He paused, pretending (she hoped) to be absorbed in his reading, and turned deliberately to another pre-marked page. "Everybody thinks of the noise and the power of you, but I have heard and felt the softness. There are words in other tongues I must use when I talk about you. In my own, I think of: ardiente, salvaje, hombre."
Jesus, Hermione thought.
"I want to be there wherever you are," Draco read, unflinching even as his fingers tightened in the fabric of Hermione's blouse. "Lying next to you, even if you are asleep. Kiss my eyelashes, put your fingers on my eyelids. Bite my ear. Push back my hair. I have learned to unbutton you so swiftly. All, in my mouth, sucking. Your fingers. The hotness. The frenzy. Our cries of satisfaction. One for each impact of your body against mine. Driving in a spiral; Ah, the rupture—"
He stopped, turning a page and blatantly ignoring the obvious racing of her pulse.
"We fall together into our savage world," he said, as Hermione found it difficult to swallow. "He bites me, he makes my bones crack. He makes me lie with my legs wide open and digs into me. Our cravings grow wild. Our bodies are convulsed—"
Rapidly losing patience, Hermione tore the book from Draco's hand, flinging it onto the ground as he looked up without surprise, but with an arrogant look of certainty. Sparing herself the indignity of admitting that whatever he was doing had worked, she brought his mouth to hers with an illiterate brutality, foregoing language in favor of the touch she was owed. He kissed her fiercely while she slid her hand down, venturing incautiously to touch him. He was painfully hard; she was throbbingly ready.
She'd said it before and she'd say it again: People really underestimated books.
She pulled him closer, letting him shove her back against the shelves while she flicked his trousers open. Not suave, not practiced; just a happy coincidence in her favor. "Here?" he asked drily, amused. "I had dinner plans for us, you know."
"Change them," she informed him, and he smiled against her lips.
"Missed me?"
"Take off your pants," she growled.
He laughed, then, fully and vibrantly, though he persisted his conceit of disobedience, dragging down the zipper of her black jeans and sliding his hand under the lace band of her thong. Ah, so foreplay then, as if erotica was somehow not enough. Thankfully, Hermione's agitated sense of wondering whether the sex could possibly be good enough to stand against months of celibacy had vanished. Primitively, it would have to be friction over fretting. Enlightenment would have to wait, and so she ground against his palm as his tongue darted lightly across her lower lip.
"If you insist," he said, which was not technically in reference to anything outside the command she was giving him with her hips, and he slid the lace aside, brushing her clit and reducing her to a shudder. From his pocket, his phone began to vibrate, which he ignored. She pulled him closer, kissing his neck. He smelled… she couldn't put a finger on it. Ardiente, salvaje, hombre. Thank you feminist literature for that timely sexual awakening. Hermione arched her back and Draco lifted her with one arm, settling her against the bookshelf.
The buzzing from his phone stopped. Her legs tightened around his waist.
"Close?" he whispered.
"Close," she gasped. It was happening very quickly, as it sometimes did when she was heartily aroused but prepared to go much longer. The first orgasm on similar occasions had a tendency to feel like the first in a series of sneezes; for any lingering satisfaction, it required a sequence of three, at least.
Draco's phone buzzed again. Another phone call, precisely at the moment Hermione felt the fracture of that first orgasm, and while he didn't stop, he didn't exactly not, either. She could feel the brief bolt of tension in his spine, the distracted way his kiss paused for a moment, like he was inconveniently recalling what had happened the last time he had ignored his phone.
"Just check it and then take off your pants," Hermione growled, and he smiled, shifting her in his arms and shuffling around for his phone.
"Let me just make sure he's not dead or dying," he said hastily.
"Yes," Hermione sighed, "I agree. The last thing I need is to assume your father is at risk every time I'm making out with you."
"Yeah, it's not looking great statistically," Draco admitted, pinning his phone to his ear with one shoulder and wrapping his arms around her again as it rang.
"Draco," came the tinny, distant sound of Lucius' voice, "I've been trying to reach you for nearly an hour."
"Father, it's been five minutes. What is it?"
Draco leaned forward, kissing Hermione's neck and nearly dropping his phone from its precarious location as Hermione caught the usual low tones of irritation from the receiver, along with the word 'council' and the usual suspects: 'lost your mind' and 'unacceptable.'
"Father," Draco said impatiently, "now's not a good time t-"
From the other end, Hermione could hear the usual timbre of distress in Lucius' voice. It was no wonder the Prince of Darkness had such a questionably weak heart, given how much strain he regularly gave it.
"Father, I know what I'm doing," Draco said, his voice changing as he shifted his head, hands stiffening where they had curved themselves around Hermione's ribs. "Are you questioning me because you doubt my decision, or because you don't feel I have the right to make decisions of my own? Because at the moment, I suspect it's the former."
As Lucius continued to talk, Draco pulled back, obviously frustrated. Hermione, meanwhile, was becoming more aware of the way a book's edge had been digging into her back, which no amount of shifting in place seemed to remedy.
"You can't expect me to believe that," Draco said, lips pressed thinly. "If anyone is having a tantrum, Father, I—" Chattering from the other end. "What does Mother have to do with anything?"
Lucius' voice became rapid, incomprehensible noise, and Draco glanced at Hermione.
"Fine. We can discuss this later. At the moment, I have other engagements that require my attention." (A pause for more outrage.) "Yes, surprisingly, my time is valuable. Schedule it with Dobby, he has my itinerary for the week." (To that, a series of loud, enraged barks.) "Yes, I said what I said. We will speak later, Father. Goodnight."
Draco hung up the phone, turning it off and returning his attention to Hermione.
Sort of.
He was facing her, leaning forward to kiss her, only it was obvious his thoughts were elsewhere.
"What is it?" she cut in briskly, nudging him away long enough to scan his face with what she hoped was successfully delivered skepticism. "I can tell you're not all here."
"It's nothing. Never mind. He just—" Draco grimaced, then cleared his throat. "It's nothing. Where were we? Oh yes, my pants—"
"Whoa, no, no way," Hermione said firmly. "The point of waiting was so we'd both be invested when it happened, right?"
"I—" Draco looked conflicted for a moment, then sighed. "Yes, right."
"And clearly your attention is currently elsewhere. Yes?"
Another tick of hesitation, and then, "Yes. Sort of."
"And we have a week," she reminded him. "And, more importantly, you already made us wait this long, didn't you? So suppose it's my turn now to demand the perfect second-first time, hm?"
He gave her a crooked half-smile. "You're punishing me, aren't you?"
"Yes. Which is precisely what you deserve."
"True." He exhaled, then scraped a hand through his hair. "Shall we have dinner, then?"
"Yes. We'll talk about your father or something," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, "so that the situation is dealt with, case closed."
"Or something?"
"Yes. It's healthy. Or something."
"Well—" Draco broke off with a sigh, taking her face in both hands, and gave her the reluctant, grateful look of a man who unfortunately understood a once-perfect moment had lost some of its utils of satisfaction. They would only suffer diminishing returns, and why waste it? "Alright. Yes, fine, you're right." He withdrew to let her adjust her blouse, giving her a wistful look. "I've missed you, you know. You have a unique ability to drive me to lunacy whilst keeping me alarmingly sane."
"It's mostly vengeance," she told him, kissing his cheek. "So, want to talk about how your father refuses to allow you any authority?"
"Yes. I would like to complain at length, if it pleases Her Temperate Majesty."
"It does," Hermione replied, and Draco swept her a low, reverent bow.
"Then, my dear, let me open with this: My father is the devil," he said, which was the beginning of a lengthy, complicated rant.
Needless to say, they did not have sex that day, instead laughing together over their glasses of wine until Hermione forced herself to go home, grudgingly returning to work on Lockhart's manuscript.
"No sex yet, really?" Daphne said over the phone that evening, blatantly disappointed. "I had such high hopes."
"Daph," Hermione sighed, "do you need something?"
"Nothing, actually. Just wanted to tell you I haven't had to go to Pansy's early—turns out," Daphne said with a hint of intrigue, "she has a visitor."
"Okay, and the visitor being…"
"Guess."
"Daph, I hate this game."
"You're right," she sighed, "everyone hates this game. It's so hard to resist, though, seeing as it's Bellatrix."
Hermione blinked.
"What? Bellatrix Lestrange?"
"Yes, Bellatrix Lestrange, and your disbelief is extremely correct. Apparently, Very Pregnant Pansy's finally gone batty enough to enjoy the old witch's company. Can you believe it?" Daphne exclaimed, exhilarated by her own bewilderment. "I can't even imagine the nonsense Harry's going through if Bellatrix is coming and going from their house—"
"Hang on, so Bellatrix might even be… what? At Harry's party? Even for Pansy, that's—" Hermione broke off, wincing. "That's pretty abominable."
"I'd have gone with despicable, but I don't think any of us are in a position to argue with her, least of all Harry. Maybe Pregnant Pansy and Bellatrix are… friends? No," Daphne answered herself with a sigh, "I don't see it. I don't like it. I want it taken away from my thoughts immediately."
"You don't think this is just about her mother, do you?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Even so, Pansy genuinely adores Narcissa, or at least I think she does—"
"No idea, but at least I'm off the hook until Friday," Daphne said. "And so are you, presumably. Which, of course, leaves you to your week of debauchery with the young prince?"
"BYE, DAPH," Hermione said, hanging up the phone and returning to her Gilderoy edits.
Good intentions, the purer they were, had such a regrettable tendency to produce unsatisfactory results. The next morning, for example, due to a collision of unfortunate circumstances that mostly included Hermione's half-asleep self conspiring against her with probable goblins, she was awoken half an hour after her alarm by a phone call from Gilderoy.
"Penny! Darling, you'll never believe it—well, maybe you will, you know my mind, always busy, busy, busy!—but I just realized there were some bits missing about the time I spoke in Geneva touting the EXTREME IMPORTANCE of women's rights. I worry people will overlook the empowerment I provide to the fairer sex, don't you see? Probably best if I repeat the details of the speech to you now, before the draft is submitted—"
Hermione stumbled out of bed, listening to Gilderoy's three hour oration and writing a hasty blog post for Dr Sinistra before finding the Geneva story in an old draft of the memoir (unwillingly titled, per Gilderoy's request, Magical Me!). Attempting to piece the story back in before her plans with Draco was a lofty, nearly impossible goal, which was not improved by Draco interrupting her frenzied editing.
"Hi, so, haven't heard from you in a bit—"
Something about the sentence she had just written didn't make sense. She switched two of the words, then re-read it. When it occurred to her she might have been silent for too long, Hermione ventured, "I thought we said this afternoon?"
"I… Hermione? Do you, by chance, know what time it is?"
She switched the words back, deleted them, and then retyped something that was precisely the way the sentence had been before, maybe. Was that even the correct preposition?
"Hermione?"
She blinked. "Hm?"
"Ah, okay. You know what? You stay there."
"Okay, bye."
She hung up the phone and continued editing, not noticing that further time had passed until registering a knock on the door that dragged her back to the present.
"Hello, Bruce," she said, pulling the door open for the motorcycle-helmeted man to pass into her flat. "Missed me this much, did you?"
"I was growing concerned that you needed to eat," replied Draco, who removed his helmet and thrust a bag into her hands. "I don't know how good it'll taste, but I figured it better to bring it to you."
Hermione glanced down at the containers of food and frowned, then looked up. "Is it—?"
"Several hours after our allotted meeting time? Yes," Draco confirmed, smiling broadly, "but I can amuse myself until you've finished. Unless you'd like to take a break?"
"Hm?" Hermione said, suddenly realizing she was starving. Whoever had made dinner, it was clearly something they'd been instructed by Draco to make based on her favorite childhood foods. She was fairly sure she smelled macaroni and cheese, and thus, was rapidly becoming uninterested in conversation. "I just have, you know. A bit more, and then—"
She stopped to look up, blinking. "The council meeting—that, um. With your dad?"
Draco laughed, leaning over to kiss her cheek and wandering into her kitchen. "Everything's mostly fine. He's not thrilled, of course, but historically he never is, and anyway he's distracted, so—" He broke off, rifling around in her silverware and returning to dig a fork into the container of pasta. "Nothing to worry about. Almost done?"
"Um," she said, shoveling a mouthful of baked cheese and bread crumbs into her mouth, "mmphomph—"
"Go, go," Draco instructed, waving her back to her desk. "Finish. I'll be here."
"Mohphmphphmm?"
"No, I don't mind." He kissed her forehead. "As Harry would say, I'll just be over here, making no noise and pretending I don't exist."
Hermione managed a swallow, thickly forcing out, "Harry's never managed to achieve that level of innocuity in his entire life."
"Yes, but I am the pensive prince, am I not? Back to work," Draco instructed her, giving her a nudge. "The sooner you're finished, the sooner you can, you know. Finish," he said, and then winced. "Yes, I heard it, I apologize."
"That was terrible," Hermione agreed, but puns aside, he had a point. "Alright, then," she conceded, returning to her desk and assuming things would soon improve.
Things did not improve.
"Oh, no. Don't tell me—"
"Yes."
"Again?"
"Again. I'm sorry. I just got off the phone with him for the third time and now, evidently, he would like me to include a recipe for the 'world-famous tarte' he once baked for the Sultan of Brunei, for which he has sent me nothing but a list of ingredients. It has a question mark next to the word 'oven'? Which either means he wants me to research the existence of such an appliance, or he doesn't actually know at what temperature his tarte famously bakes."
"Well, you certainly don't need to be sorry about having to work, but—"
"Oh, no, I'm not. I'm only apologizing because I'm obviously going to have to decline your proposal. I cannot be your consort, sadly, because I now have grand plans to pursue a career in vengeful murder instead."
"Well, it was a lovely thought while we had it."
"Yes, I agree. Anyway, goodbye forever—"
"Though, perhaps shy of murdering him, there might be some other option?"
"Hm. I could arrange for him to be hit by a bus? Technically, that could be manslaughter, if I manage it well enough. Though, if I'm planning to accomplish it, I should really stop premeditating it over the phone."
"Are you suggesting I would turn you over to the authorities? Miss Granger, I am the authorities."
"Eh. I think you'd crack."
"What?"
"I just don't think you're capable of murder. I think you'd try, of course, but ultimately discover your heart's just not in it."
"I feel… as if I should be offended? But that can't be right."
"I can't tell you how to feel, Draco. But I can certainly tell you you would not be my accomplice of choice."
"That's very hurtful, thank you, but for the record, I meant more along the lines of simply finishing the manuscript? Just send it to the publisher now, perhaps?"
"That's… a reasonable albeit less satisfying conclusion. Still, it'll take me most of the day."
"Well, then take it. We can have tonight before we leave for Harry's in the morning. Can't we?"
"Hm, true. Yes, fine. Though, you should know, I've done almost no grooming for the last two days."
"Au naturale, then. I accept."
"Gracious of you."
"Candidly—and I wish I were above this, but I'm not—I would accept almost anything at this point."
"Well, this is what happens when you play with fire, Your Highness. You get burned."
"Diligently noted, Miss Granger. Anything else?"
"Haribo, please?"
"Starmix or Tangfastics?"
"Draco, please. Do I seem like some kind of philistine?"
"Tangfastics it is. See you soon."
"Yes, and while we're on the subject of meeting my demands, don't wear pants."
"Mm, I will probably wear pants."
"Then what even is the point of being prince?"
"You're not wrong, I've been saying that for years. Love you."
"Love you. See you then."
"Is your phone off?" Hermione said, pulling Draco into her flat. "Again, not that I want Prince Lucifer to die, but—"
"He can't, given his ongoing satanic duties and what appears to be an eternal ambition to pester both me and my mother—but yes, rest in peace, understood," Draco agreed, turning his phone off and tossing it inside his helmet before rolling them both across the floor, well out of sight. "Lockhart?" he asked her, letting her remove his jacket.
"Manuscript reviewed and submitted to the publisher," Hermione confirmed, stripping him of his shirt and pulling him into her. "I convinced him it was his idea that it was perfect as it was," she added, "so that should keep him busy for close enough to the rest of time."
"Excellent," Draco ruled, and bent his head, kissing her gruffly in the same motion he picked her up. "Wall sex? Sofa? Shower? You do possess ample floor space—not that I've given it much thought," he said, indicating with a wolfish glance the precise degree to which he was flagrantly lying.
"Might I suggest the kitchen, given its proximity?"
"As you wish," Draco said firmly, hoisting her onto the counter and delivering a trail of kisses to her neck. Hermione, being quite keen to save time, had done them both the favor of tossing her underwear into the hamper just as he'd arrived, which Draco discovered with a look of pure, bleary-eyed elation. "Well, this is—"
They both froze as the sound of a cell phone went off.
"It's not mine," Draco said quickly.
"I know. It's mine," Hermione said with a grimace, and Draco twisted around, spotting it on the table and frowning.
"It's Harry," he said, and blinked. "Wait, it's still to early for Pansy to be—" He broke off optimistically. "Right?"
In answer, Hermione shoved him aside, lunging for the phone. "Hello?"
"Hermione, good, thank god, I can't reach Draco—"
"Harry? Is Pansy having the baby? What's going o-"
"No, no, she's fine, she's just—"
"What's he saying?" Draco asked, concerned. "Is it time?"
"No, I think he's just—Harry, what exactly is the prob-"
"HENRY JAMES POTTER," came a shrill, hysterical version of Pansy's voice.
"Right, so, the thing is," Harry said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "Pansy is, um—"
"IF YOU THINK I'M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO FIND YOU—"
"—well, so, she's a bit of a handful at the moment, perhaps you've heard—"
"Harry," Hermione exhaled with a grumble, giving Draco a sympathetic wince, "we're going to be there in the morning, remember?"
"Yes, no, right, I know, but—"
"Where's Blaise?"
"He had some sort of emergency, I think. He was supposed to be here this afternoon, but then Bellatrix was here and—"
"—YOU PUT THIS BABY IN ME, HENRY! I SHOULD THINK IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THE ONLY RESPONSIBLE THING IS TO GET IT OUT!"
"—Theo and Daphne won't arrive until the afternoon. Nott's still laughing at me, I'm pretty sure, and Daphne said she wouldn't come without you, and certainly not if Bellatrix might be here, which again, I hope she won't but can't exactly guarantee—"
"Harry," Hermione sighed, exasperated, "are you really suggesting we drop everything and come there right this minute?"
"Birthday curse, am I right?" he said, anxiously half-laughing. "Anyway, listen, it's not as if I'm not entirely trained for this, but I'm afraid that—well, look," he sighed, "tell Draco it's like that time we ran off during our last year at Eton, back when we met those girls who—well, never mind. Just tell him December, Liquid Tuesday—"
"Liquid Tuesday?" Hermione echoed, and Draco blinked, taking the phone from her.
"That bad?" he said, and from where he stood, Hermione could hear Harry speaking rapidly. "Oi, mate, too many details—yes, okay. Fine, fine, we'll go. Try playing Fernan- really? That's not working either? Christ, that's unprecedented. Yes, see you soon." He hung up, turning to Hermione with a shrug. "Well, that's that, then. Any chance you've ever wanted to have sex in a moving vehicle?"
She considered it. "With or without a driver?"
"Driverless cars are a bit futuristic even for us, love."
"Ugh." Hermione grimaced. "I guess it'll have to be Harry and Pansy's guest bedroom, then."
Draco shrugged. "Harry's birthday is some sort of mild disaster every year. If the disaster this year is that they all catch us having sex, so be it."
"Fine," Hermione sighed, "fine."
"That's the spirit," Draco assured her cheerfully, tugging her under his arm. "Now, forego the knickers a little longer? I doubt this Pansy emergency is going to take all night."
"Famous last words," Hermione said.
Tragically, she was right.
"Well," Draco said later, as Hermione let out a frustrated stream of obscenities. "Shall we reconvene at a more convenient time, then?"
"Is it the baby?" Harry shouted down to Daphne.
"I AM NOT A MIDWIFE, HARRY, DO NOT BE CONFUSED SIMPLY BECAUSE I HAVE BREASTS—"
"Fuck," Hermione groaned, shoving Draco away. "I'm exhausted."
The entire evening prior had been spent trying to help a very noisy, very uncomfortable Pansy get to sleep—which she had not managed, complaining instead of something 'too uncouth to mention' and incomprehensible gastric discomfort before insisting on ringing Bellatrix. When she wasn't maniacally demanding that Harry have sex with her (the aforementioned 'Liquid Tuesday' was evidently in reference to an occasion during which Harry's illustrious then-juvenile penis saw an alarming degree of overuse with a traveling girls' soccer team; "He has a thing for sporty girls," said Draco in apparent explanation), she was especially weepy, kissing Hermione's tired face and asking too-sweetly for her not to be upset.
"I am… still quite hard," Draco observed, glancing down at himself as Hermione disentangled her skirt from his zipper. "Though, I think the prospect of Pansy's birth canal might be sufficiently discouraging." He paused for a moment, looking repulsed. "Yes, my apologies to women everywhere, but it's working."
"Come on," Hermione sighed, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him to his feet. "Nobody will notice, let's just get out there and—"
She flung open the door, nearly smacking into Blaise. "Oh, balls, I'm sorry—"
"About the manuscript," Blaise began again, and Hermione sighed.
"Blaise," she said, as Draco stumbled out of the room behind her, "I think it's going to have to wait—"
"Well, lovely to see you too, Highness," Blaise said directly to Draco's trousers before Draco quickly adjusted his belt, giving Blaise a glare that somehow managed to be both irritated and appreciative. "Anyway, listen—"
"Blaise, I really don't think—"
"Hello?" Draco said, answering his cell phone while Blaise continued to speak. "Father, my god, I already told you I was—sorry, what?"
"So, I noticed there was something off about some of Gilderoy's stories. I didn't want to tell you until I had a chance to confirm it, but—"
"How many MPs?" Draco pressed, and then, "Really? You're certain?"
"I—" Hermione glanced between Draco and Blaise, a little bit confused about where to direct her focus. "What exactly did you need to confirm?"
"But that's fantastic news," Draco said to his father, something he almost never said. "You sound concerned—obviously Grandfather's going to approve it, isn't he? I can't imagine why he wouldn't, we were in agreement last time we spoke—"
"—anyway, it took me a few tries to get in contact with him, but eventually Neville agreed to see me and he told me—"
"Wait, what?" Hermione asked, Neville's name being enough to startle her into turning to Blaise. "What's Neville got to do with Gilderoy Lockhart?"
"I thought it was a far cry myself, only—"
"HERMIONE," shrieked Daphne. "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?"
"Relax, Greengrass," came Theo's voice, "we'll just fetch the doctor, and—"
"What do you think this is, a regency novel? We're going to a hospital, for Christ's sake—"
"—mental institution, which I will unfortunately have to ask you not to share with anyone—"
"—the baby's a bit early for propriety, don't you think? You're going to just waltz in and—"
"—present an emergency? Yes, Theodore, that's precisely what's happening, and at the rate you're going, it won't be fake—"
"Father, I don't understand—you're concerned about press?"
"ARE YOU PREPARED FOR A HOME BIRTH, NOTT? BECAUSE I MOST CERTAINLY AM NOT!"
"—stolen, basically is what I'm saying, no way of knowing how much—"
"Father, I have to go, Pansy's having her baby—no it's not perfect, in what possible way is that perfect?"
"Okay, EVERYONE CALM DOWN," Harry roared. "My WIFE is in LABOR!"
"He says, calmly—"
"—or very nearly the whole thing. Did Lockhart ever mention spending time somewhere called St Mungo's?"
"What?" Hermione asked, abruptly alarmed a second time at the mention of Gilderoy's name, and Blaise sighed.
"Minus ten points," he said boisterously, before clarifying, "I was saying that I'm ninety-percent confident Lockhart stole pieces of his memoir from multiple patients at a mental facility called St Mungo's. I'm not sure how much of it is stolen, exactly, but I could find out shortly, so if you can just hold off on submitting for a week or so—"
Hermione blinked. "What? But I submitted to the publishers yesterday morning. They're doing the first round of edits right now."
"Well, you'll have to stop them, obviously."
"But I can't just—"
"Where's Blaise?" demanded Pansy's voice, dragging all three of their attention to the stairs. "He'll understand. There's no way to keep this quiet, so we'll have to go loud. Am I understood?"
"Well," Blaise exhaled, taking hold of Draco and Hermione by the shoulders, "shall we, then?"
Draco, who had just hung up with his father, appeared to very quickly pretend as if he had not been taking a phone call of any remote importance. "Yes, of course, let's go, then."
"Draco," Hermione said uncertainly, and he shook his head.
"Later," he mouthed, painting on a smile and clapping a hand on Blaise's shoulder. "It's not important right now. Let's just get this baby born, shall we?"
Unlikely as it was, the moment Pansy had gone into labor, she somehow became the only person capable of remaining calm. It seemed the more labyrinthine qualities of her mind had not faded as much as they had appeared to during her hormonal tides, and she had, in fact, crafted a plan to explain away the baby's early arrival. They were each given a role in a complex theatrical play that was her child's birth, though none of them were informed—least of all Hermione.
"Are you comfortable?" Hermione asked anxiously as they took Pansy to a secure wing of the local hospital, now fretting in every direction. "Is there anything you need, or—?"
"Listen to me very closely," Pansy said through her teeth, gripping Hermione's hand tightly and giving her a shockingly clear-headed look of concentration. "When we arrive, Bellatrix is going to be there—"
"What?" Hermione asked, astonished. "Well, I'll just have Draco or Harry get rid of her, of course—"
"No. Hermione, shut your lovely little mouth and listen to me. You have to speak to her," Pansy said, giving Hermione's knuckles a painful squeeze and then exhaling swiftly, returning to the point. "Tell her something's happened. That I have an infection, or whatever it is you feel comfortable spinning for me, and then tell her to reach out to Narcissa and call my mother."
"I—" Hermione blinked. "Pansy, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm perfectly—" Pansy broke off, wincing, and nearly broke Hermione's knuckles before adding, "Fine. Anyway, once Narcissa arrives with my mother, you can do whatever you like, but you must convince Bellatrix. She isn't an idiot, so please, do whatever you can not to be one, either. I am trusting you to manage it, do you understand?"
"But Bellatrix will almost certainly release all of this to Rita Skeeter," Hermione said, alarmed, and Pansy smiled, or grimaced.
"Yes, she will, and that's the—" The rest was drowned out by something of a seething, choked down sound of pain. "Point," she gasped when she had finished, by which point Harry was leaping out of the driver's seat to vigorously yank Pansy's door open. "My goodness, Henry, calm yourself," Pansy informed him stiffly, giving his wild look of panic a disapproving glance. "Women have given birth before, in case you're somehow unaware."
"Twenty points for accuracy," contributed Blaise. "Even the royal ones have done it, or so I'm told."
"Though, it does bear noting that not all of them have done so successfully," Draco pointed out. "Elizabeth of York, Jane Seymour—"
"Well, congratulations on naming two of England's worst queens," sniffed Pansy. "Blaise, take his points immediately—"
"THERE'S NO TIME FOR YOUR AFFECTATIONS, WOMAN," Harry informed her, attempting to scoop her up in his arms until she hastily shoved him away, insisting on stepping out of the car herself as Hermione, slow to react, finally pieced together Pansy's intentions.
"Wait a minute," she said, gripping Pansy's arm. "You had Harry call us here emergently so that the whole country would know Draco arrived in a rush, you made us believe you had befriended Bellatrix Lestrange, you've riled Daphne up for the entire evening leading up to this, you decided to throw Harry a birthday party knowing something would almost certainly go wrong—" She broke off, stunned. "Did you do all of this just to make Rita Skeeter believe the baby was early?"
"Of course not, Hermione, don't be ridiculous," Pansy said over her shoulder, permitting a flustered Harry to clutch loosely at her arm. "Who on earth would ever know to do such a thing with sufficient time to plan their meltdown in advance?"
Only her, of course, and precisely as Hermione registered it, Pansy smiled darkly.
"Now, if you don't mind," Pansy said, "may I ask you to put that pretty head of yours to use, Hermione? Lady Lestrange will soon require an explanation."
And with that, Pansy waddled toward the hospital, crafting a gloriously pained expression on her face as Hermione realized, half-smiling, that Pansy had even had the foresight to refresh her lipstick in the car.
PRINCESS PANSY ON DEATH'S DOOR! ENTIRE COUNTRY WAITS WITH BATED BREATH AS THE DUCHESS OF GRIMMAULD FACES DIRE COMPLICATIONS DURING ROYAL BABY'S PREMATURE BIRTH; PRINCESS NARCISSA, LADY BELLATRIX, AND HERMIONE GRANGER AMONG THOSE WHO WAIT VIGILANTLY FOR NEWS!
"That little sneak," said Hermione, rolling her eyes and tucking her phone away. "She is positively shameless."
It had been less than ten hours and already the news had gone viral, followed by a wave of speculation about everything under the sun outside of Pansy's due date; whether Narcissa and Bellatrix were now reconciled, whether Draco and Harry might have a second altercation, whether Hermione's proximity meant she would be next. There was even mention of gambling odds about the likelihood Pansy and Harry's baby would be named Elizabeth or George.
"She'd better hope karma has better things to do today," Hermione grumbled, somewhere between insulted she hadn't been entrusted with the plan earlier and amused Pansy had gotten away with it so flawlessly.
"Well, you have to admit, she does know how to throw a party," Blaise said, gesturing wryly to where Princess Narcissa, Lady Dahlia (whom Hermione knew very quickly to avoid), and Lady Bellatrix stood together in a hesitant alliance. "A woman willing to use her own mother to accomplish her deviance is a demon indeed. Prince Lucifer certainly has a formidable rival."
"I'm surprised he's not here, actually," Hermione said drily, accidentally catching Narcissa's eye and hurriedly looking away. "Draco says he's been pushing a reconciliation with Narcissa for months."
"Well, no great surprise there," Blaise said, shrugging. "Some men will go to inadvisable lengths to feel qualified for redemption."
Hermione snuck a glance at him, observing the slightly somber look on his face.
"So, you talked to Neville," she recalled aloud, and Blaise turned, giving her something wryly disapproving.
"You may want to try contacting him yourself," he reminded her. "If Lockhart's plagiarism has been intentional—and if word gets out that you assisted him in accomplishing it—your career will certainly suffer."
Hermione had unfortunately come to that conclusion herself, though it wasn't her primary concern at the moment. "What did Neville say?"
"Only that he couldn't be sure. His father hasn't been lucid in some years, not since Neville's childhood, so—"
"No," Hermione said gently. "What did he say, Blaise?"
Blaise's smile quirked temporarily, and then stilled.
"Nothing," he said. "He answered my questions to the extent required and said little else."
Hermione felt a deep, festering ache for him. "Oh, Blaise—"
"Hey," Draco said, appearing behind them. "Fancy a walk and a coffee?"
"Oh, Draco, just a moment, we were—"
"A walk," Draco repeated firmly, his gaze flicking to Bellatrix and his mother before subtly motioning over his shoulder, "and a coffee, hm? Blaise," he added, "would you care to join us?"
"Most certainly, Your Highness," Blaise agreed, winking at Hermione, "and might I say, fifteen points for such a timely interruption."
Given the circumstances (read: the very high profile guests in attendance) most of the floor had been cleared, making their path to the delivery room largely unobstructed. Daphne and Theo were already there by the time the Draco, Blaise, and Hermione arrived, and Hermione could see Daphne tucking away a small cosmetics bag that meant she, too, had been assigned a job by a suspiciously refreshed-looking Pansy.
"Born just before midnight," said Harry, who turned from where he was sitting at Pansy's side to grin lopsidedly at them. "Little thing stole my birthday."
"I think we're just going to start skipping yours," Blaise replied sagely, as Hermione crept forward to see the swaddled infant from over Harry's shoulder.
"Is this Willow James, then?" she asked tentatively, and Pansy gave Harry an impossibly fond glare before nodding to Hermione.
"Yes," she said, "though, she looks a bit more like a Jamie, doesn't she? So I think maybe we'll call her that among family."
Hermione, who was pretty sure that had been a broad concession on Pansy's part that she would likely deny to her grave, sat lightly beside Harry, reaching out to touch the little gremlin's tiny fingers.
"Quite a bit of hair," she noted, observing the wild black tufts that meant this was quite certainly Harry's daughter. "A bit more than a baby usually has when they're born a month early, don't you think?"
"That's true, Pans," Draco observed neutrally, resting his hands on Hermione's shoulders and leaning down to smile at his sort-of niece. "What exactly would you like the Palace to release to the press?"
"We assume you have a plan, of course," Theo contributed, and Pansy glanced down at the baby in her arms, and then up at Harry, whose green eyes were noticeably (perhaps suspiciously) bright beneath his crooked glasses.
"Well," Pansy sniffed, reaching out to slip her hand in Harry's, "you may tell them we had a perfect baby girl, and that we're very happy."
Harry's smile took a turn for the slightly weepy, and beside Hermione, Draco carefully did Pansy the favor of not making much of a fuss.
"Anything else?" he asked neutrally, and Pansy shook her head.
"No. That's all they need to know," she said, glancing at Harry with a look so tender it was almost shy. "Unless," she said, clearing her throat lightly, "you're worried what they might think of us."
Harry gave a burst of a laugh, or possibly a sob.
"I love you, Pans," he said, half-blurting it out, and Pansy blinked with surprise, obviously hearing him say it for the first time.
"I know, Harry," she said, and then, uncertainly, she opened her mouth again.
Then she stopped, hesitating.
"I know," Harry assured her. "I know."
And then they all turned their attention to little Jamie, who, perhaps because of the noise she had already grown accustomed to in utero, continued to sleep undisturbed.
It was around three in the morning by the time Hermione and Draco made it back to Godric's Cottage with Blaise and the disaster twins, who had spent most of the car ride back arguing about who the baby most resembled (Daphne said Harry; Theo said Winston Churchill). They agreed to return to the hospital in the morning, at which point Bellatrix and Narcissa would likely need to be dealt with, and Rita Skeeter as well. Hermione, of course, would have to schedule a call with Gilderoy, and in the midst of everything she had nearly forgotten about the call Draco had received from his father.
"Everything okay?" she asked him upon remembering, and he gave her a thin, weary smile.
"It looks as though the Marriage Act is going to be repealed," he told her. "Which means, by the end of this year, you and I will be eligible to… well, wed," he said, scraping a hand through his hair as he spoke, "which I know I could find a better way to deliver, only my brain's a bit unhelpful at the moment."
Considering it was good news, Hermione was quite surprised he'd been so distressed by the call. "You sounded concerned on the phone," she pointed out, and Draco shook his head.
"Only because my father seems concerned, though I've yet to understand why. Publicity, I assume. Though, I think, perhaps—" He hesitated, giving her a long and tentative look, and then conceded, "I think he worries you and I will struggle again, if the media focuses its attention on you prematurely, as it did before."
Hermione blinked. "You think Prince Lucifer is worried about… me?"
"Well, us, I think," Draco corrected slowly, and then, with a grimace, "I think he worries you're a bit like my mother."
"In what possible way?"
"Well, I—" Again, Draco stumbled into difficulty. "I think my father believes he lost my mother to Rita Skeeter, in some way. Which is of course untrue, but—"
"But it isn't," Hermione said, realizing she still knew things about Lucius that Draco didn't. "I mean, your father certainly made his fair share of mistakes," she said, conceding the obvious point, "but it is a bit like having another person in the relationship, isn't it? Someone we're all trying to make happy, only that someone is everyone, and it's a bit impossible to live up to."
"Yes. Something like that." Draco looked grateful for her understanding, and then glanced down at the bed, and then the clock. "You know," he said carefully, "we have some time, if you want to…"
"Oh, god, no," Hermione said, recalling her exhaustion the moment she considered motion and, instead, dropped like a stone onto the bed. "I'm so tired I think my limbs are about to fall off."
Draco gave an enormous sigh of relief, crawling in beside her. "I wasn't going to say it, but—"
"I'm not going anywhere," Hermione told him, turning to face him. "You don't have to worry about losing me anymore. I won't change my mind, whether we have sex or not." She reached out, touching his cheek lightly and watching his eyes flutter shut, then open. "I love you," she told him, "and that means I will choose you, sex or no sex. Marriage or no marriage. Rita or no Rita."
She managed a weary smile as he pulled her close, settling her head on his chest.
"Maybe we'll have sex tomorrow," he said, closing his eyes.
"Sure, maybe," she agreed, feeling his heart pulse comfortingly beneath her ear.
He stroked her hair, brushing it back from her face. "Goodnight," he said, and kissed her forehead lightly, with the blindness of knowing by touch where to land. She lifted her chin with equal muscle memory, finding his lips to kiss him softly, tenderly.
"Goodnight."
His lips were warm, and she traced the bone of his clavicle as his hand slid down her spine, running along the notches of her vertebrae. He kissed her again, holding his breath a little that time, and she felt his heart quicken where she rested, twisting around to let her leg drape over his.
She felt a little shift of something, like the flip of a switch, following by the coursing of a current through her limbs, pausing to linger restlessly near her core. She reached up, carding her fingers through his hair, and kissed him deeply, shaping the palm of her hand to his jaw. He returned her pressure with his own, his arms circling fiercely around her ribs, and immediately, she felt a jolt, tightening her legs around him as she felt his cock twitch near her hip.
Oh, hello.
Draco slid his hands under her shorts, under her overworn cotton bikini, cupping his hand possessively around her backside. She adjusted the placement of her hips, half-clambering onto him to rub indiscreetly at his cock. He shifted her gruffly, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other shifted to the front of her underwear, and she felt a small, unexpected moan slip out from her lips.
"I want you," he said, more a rasp than a whisper, though it was arguably both. Just a huskily delivered fact, should she have failed to notice.
"Good," she exhaled, shuddering at the beautiful simplicity of knowing it, and he slid under her in a blissfully startling motion, forcing her to reach clumsily for the headboard to keep herself upright.
He was kissing her stomach, her thighs, scraping his teeth against them and tightening his fingers around the curves of her ass until he reached the cotton of her underwear. He paused, saturating the fabric with the warmth of his mouth, and slid his tongue over her slowly, roughly, and then with increasing intensity.
She reached behind her, curling her palm around the head of his cock, and he gave a muffled groan into her underwear, prompting her legs to shake. Really, she thought, this? Just this?
Just this, she answered herself with certainty, and shivered.
Draco slid out from under her, depositing her on her back and easing her shorts over her hips, followed by her underwear. One leg, then the other. He slid his fingers against the slit of her cunt, grey eyes on hers as he watched her shudder. She reached for him, pulling at his t-shirt and watching him strip it from his shoulders. He yanked it from his head, tugging her legs down to match her hips to his and watching the smile that darted across her face, blissful.
She reached for him, curving her hands around the blades of his shoulders as he slid his forearms beneath her. He kissed her, quick and impulsive, and then slower, intently, pressure from his fingertips and hips. She parted her lips and her legs and they both held their breaths in one common space, communal and sacrosanct, him filling her with a motion so exquisite it momentarily overwhelmed them both.
It was easy, natural, impossible, gradually picking up speed and building, climbing, dizzily unsettling, an undeniable arrhythmia, heart palpitations, please never stop, rough and serene, his fingers tangled in her hair while she kissed him, higher and higher and more and too much, too much, spilling over into yes yes yes and Draco, paired with a faintly nagging sensation that there was nothing unusual here—sex was sex, nothing new—and yet she would remember this forever. Remember the time we were so exhausted we barely moved, and you filled me like you'd been born to do it? Remember how good it was, how positively sublime? Remember the rapture of it—ardiente, salvaje, hombre—because we knew it was part of something bigger, not sex but life itself?
This life; ours; yours and mine.
She gasped into his shoulder, holding him close to her until they both went limp.
"Thank you," she said eventually. "For making me wait."
His ribs shook with tired laughter, the shape of his lips defining her skin where he burrowed his face in her neck.
"Thanks for coming back to me," he said, something she realized he had probably been waiting a long time to say.
In case you're wondering, you definitely did read something earlier about a Gilderoy Lockhart scandal; sadly for both you and me, that was not a delusion you temporarily had. In fact, it was one of the primary causes for my current predicament, though not in the way you'd expect. Or, maybe in precisely the way you'd expect. Difficult to tell.
I doubt you require me to say it another fracking time, but for the sake of this bloated exercise in candor, I must once again make clear to you that I certainly didn't know what was coming—or how quickly it would very soon arrive.
a/n: Sorry this is late, but I had a difficult week. I think the next couple of weeks may be unpredictable, so please be patient. The selected passages are from Henry and June, as Hermione mentioned, which was March's read for my latest very real venture: the erotic book club. If you want in, find me on Olivie Blake is Not Writing. Thank you for reading!