Hermione weaved through the audience, mind buzzing and ears ringing. It was, undoubtedly, the best live performance she had seen since Glastonbury Festival. She didn't consider herself to be the biggest music fan, but she did attend the odd show now and then, which prompted her to attend the Muse concert with her friends. It surprised her, the number of witches and wizards that listened to muggle bands. Though, if there was one thing that would never be lost in translation, she supposed it was music.
That in mind, Hermione parted with her friends and moved to the doors.
Although she paid close attention to the performance and especially, the delicious Matt Bellamy, her chest fluttered when she thought about him, standing in the same vicinity, listening to the same music, caught in the same whirlwind between what was happening and what had happened. She thought distantly about the pub, and how nervous she had been upon entering. To be fair, she arrived about twenty minutes later than she had intended — but that was only due to the fact that there were dozens of pubs in the area. With great effort, she found the one he'd mentioned, after waiting in the wrong pub for about fifteen minutes. It was all a bit disorganized, if she had to be honest.
But the rapid beat in her chest had little to do with that.
She found his blonde head of hair near the door. Dressed for the night; his attire, which consisted of dark denim, black henley and black overcoat, matched with dragonskin boots, was in contrast to his alabaster skin tone and diamond blonde hair, colouring him with an otherworldly look. She noticed several women, and several men, devour him with mingled desire and determination. Something about that made her skin crawl. Though, she supposed it wasn't a terrible shock. Even in their teen years, he'd been something of a hot commodity. Most witches had either loathed him with the fire of a thousand suns or yearned to tear the Slytherin Quidditch uniform from his taut, rigid muscles and have him right there on the floor.
Her own interests fell with the former, of course.
But there was the odd moment, here and there, wherein the latter lingered in the back of her subconscious; during Potions class, when he exhibited an apparent talent for the subject and more often than not, had his potions assignments done and complete before she had even reached the halfway point. Of course, he was an attractive specimen, with money and etiquette, but none of those things held a candle to the fact that he was an intellectual.
And now, as an adult, he had learned to utilize that intellect, and the impressive vocabulary with which it came, for something other than teasing and insults. Well — he still teased, but in a different way, in a way that made her temperature rise with anticipation, instead of anger or contempt.
Bearing that, Hermione continued to weave through the audience, shoved backward and forward, before a rather drunken gentleman took it upon himself to knock her directly to the floor. Now, with an ego bruised worse than her arse, she cursed at the buffoon and then at herself, as she noticed the heel on her left shoe had snapped, leaving her attempts to rise from the sticky floor to be thoroughly amusing, she was sure.
"Merlin —" someone voiced, nudging their way through the crowd. "Are you okay?"
The brunette squeezed her eyes shut, recognizing his voice within an earshot.
With one arm under her shoulders, he helped her outside and draped his coat over the nearest curb before setting her down. She opened her mouth to protest, as the pavement was wet from the previous morning's rainfall and would therefore ruin his coat, but he didn't seem to catch her hurried words. Instead, he removed the shoe from her left foot, which was thankfully pedicured, and with one look over his shoulder to make sure they were unseen, he used a quick wave of wandless magic to adhere the broken heel back on.
"There," he finished, sliding the shoe to the slender arch of her foot, before his eyes bounced to hers.
She released her bottom lip, having bitten down on it rather hard. "You — You didn't have to —"
"I wanted to —"
His response was cut short when an ill-timed fight broke out on the other side of the street. Something about someone eyeing someone else the wrong way. It was a Saturday night, after all.
Hermione turned back to him. "Well — erm — thanks."
"Don't mention it," Malfoy voiced, helping her from the curb, before spelling the dampness from his coat and proceeding to drape it over her shoulders.
To this, she arched an eyebrow. "You're not cold?"
"Not in the slightest," he smoothed over.
Hermione thought to protest, seeing as the temperature was close to arctic, but she fell silent the moment his scent filled her nostrils. It was subtle, and laced within the wool of his coat. Classic, contemporary and masculine, with notes of iris, amber and leather, and as she breathed in deeper, his natural musk, too. Her chest contracted then, and she forced herself to concentrate elsewhere.
Somewhere along the line, he offered his arm to her, and she took it.
The wizard seemed unfazed. On second thought, he seemed rather content. "So," he started. "Did you like the show?"
For a moment, she had no idea what he was talking about.
"Oh — erm," Hermione thought back. "It was brilliant. I loved the acoustic rendition of —"
"Time Is Running Out?"
She nodded, in rapid succession, memories flooding her mind. "Few things are better than Matt Bellamy singing about sex and infatuation."
"I'm quite sure that song is about drugs," countered Malfoy.
Hermione shook her head. "No, no, no…" she chided. "It's clearly about sex."
"Well, you know the saying," he reasoned, tipping his head to her. "Seek, and ye shall find."
She tossed him a scornful look. "Are you implying my mind is in the gutter?"
"Never…" the blonde winked.
Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling.
In the next few minutes, she followed him into an unfamiliar district of London. Their surroundings were rich and grand, and distinctly Victorian but with a modern feel, like something from a steampunk novel. Only, there was no one outside. It was all rather sinister; with flickering street lamps, swirling fog and the distant sound of crows overhead.
"Er — where are we?" Hermione asked, looking around, unconsciously slipping her hand into his.
Malfoy glanced between them and then to her; a faint smile on his lips. "Serpent's Crossing."
Her cheeks blanched. "Serp — the pureblood settlement?"
He nodded, tilting his head to the row of townhouses across the street. "Just over there, is where I live."
She tossed an indiscernible look at him. "You're taking me home?" the witch questioned. "That's awfully presumptuous."
"You're the presumptuous one," he laughed, holding her with a hand on the small of her back, as the pair of them crossed the street and ascended the stairs leading to his front door.
The townhouses were bone white, with black numbering, tall, thin, black doors, wrought iron railings and the distinct aura of luxury. Strange, for townhouses. Though, she presumed the cost of living there, in that area, to be way, waaay out of her budget.
"Er —" She paused, inching backward as he unlocked the door. "You sure I won't burst into flames?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes and without warning, held her slender body to his and lifted her from the front step to the marble-floored foyer of his home. Hermione yelped, cheeks flushed as he set her down. Inside, his home was dim, with moonlight breaking in through the windows. She turned quickly, as he closed the door behind them, feeling a wave of uncertainty.
"If you're going to tie me up and toss me in a dungeon — I'd at least like some warning," she called out, only half-joking.
Behind her, he chuckled, illuminating the foyer with his wand. "When that happens, you'll be willing," he teased, nodding his head for her to follow. "Come, I've something that belongs to you."
Hermione arched an eyebrow, tossing one look over her shoulder, before running to catch up with him. It seemed he quite liked black and white, as everything from the floor to the furniture, and even the artwork carried the theme. Not bad, for a single lad. Though, she much preferred the theme of her own flat, which consisted of a mishmash of items from around the world.
She followed him through the torchlit corridor and into the room at the end, which, as he opened the door, she recognized to be an office of some sort. Unlike the rest of the house, his office was coloured with the Slytherin tones of emerald and silver, and carried the scent of fresh parchment. Hermione inhaled, feeling the orgasmic bliss that was knowledge settling deep within her core.
"It's in here somewhere…" he mumbled, brushing past her and rummaging through the contents of his desk, for Merlin knows what. "Have a look around. I'll be a moment."
Before the words left his mouth, she made her way to the nearest bookshelf and traced one digit along the spines. Judging by the weathered condition of his collection, he seemed to read a fair amount. She took a moment to treasure this fact, before moving on to the next bookshelf, where she recognized a first edition copy of Ulysses in its own section, behind what looked to be a charmed barrier.
Her eyes widened, and she turned to him. "How on earth — Where — You can't possibly be that rich."
Without looking at her, he shrugged. "It was passed down to me by my grandfather."
"Your grandfather was interested in muggle literature?" she questioned.
"Films, music, and artwork, too…" the man added. "Not all purebloods are as militant as the Dark Lord."
Hermione paused. "Right — sorry."
"No worries," he assured her. "Ah, here we are." Finally, after three or so minutes, he managed to locate the item for which he'd been searching, and without warning, he tossed it to her. "Catch."
Her muscles tensed. In slow motion, she watched the item soar between them, from one end of the room to the other, before holding out both hands and feeling that cold, sleek exterior slide through her fingertips and clatter to the floor.
"Or not," Malfoy snickered.
The brunette scowled at him, and then at the floor. In a flash, the hardness escaped her features. "Oh my —" She snapped her attention forward, mortified. "You kept it?"
He leaned against the front edge of his desk, hands in his pockets. "But of course. It's a token of our bond. A souvenir, if you will."
"It's —" Her voice hitched. "It's a used vibrator."
Malfoy tilted his head down, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh, Granger."
"Don't 'Oh, Granger' me," she snapped, marching over to him and using one finger to poke his chest. To her astonishment, his chest was rather hard. In fact, she was sure poking him, hurt her more than it hurt him, but she hid the tinge of pain with deepening disdain. "That's what this is about? You asked to see me after the concert, with the sole purpose of luring me here and humiliating me?"
He tossed her an obvious look. "Come now," he scoffed. "I'm simply returning a lost item."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're Draco Malfoy."
"So?"
"So," she enunciated. "I know better than to believe your intentions are pure."
Again with those eyes, he studied her.
It was rather difficult to maintain her stance, when he looked at her like that; with the smokiness in those orbs swirling around her, holding her still; the fringe of his hair hanging low, in wisps of white blonde; the top buttons on his henley undone, providing view of his lean chest muscles; and the dampness of his lips beckoning her forth, as he swiped the tip of his tongue between them — quick, as though he were sending her a message.
Hermione swallowed, redirecting her attention. "Here," she mumbled, shoving the vibrator to his chest. "I don't want it."
"You sure?" he voiced, the moment she turned her back to him.
Without bothering to respond, she moved forth, to the door, and brushed her hand along the brass knob. It was milliseconds, before footsteps sounded from behind.
She froze, eyes closed as Malfoy neared.
He hovered about six inches away. It wasn't terribly close, not as close as when she raced to his desk, but close enough that she felt his breath tickle her hair. "I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding rather…sincere. "I had no intention of humiliating you. Please know that, Hermione."
In almost two decades of knowing one another, he had never once addressed her using her given name. It was always her surname, or something to do with her blood heritage. Her chest rose, as she realized.
"I understand and respect your decision to leave. I just — I'd like to tell you something before that happens," he added.
She listened.
For some inane reason, he found it appropriate to show that he'd kept the vibrator from their run-in at the sex shop. Granger was well within her rights to be mortified, and downright furious. He was sure the run-in hadn't been as pleasant for her, as it had been for him, and he had also miscalculated their level of camaraderie by a long shot. In all this mess, he learned one important thing about her.
She wasn't comfortable around him.
She laughed with him, listened to the same music, read the same books, and valued liquor almost as much as he did — but she was nowhere near comfortable.
That, he had not realized.
Until then, of course.
Draco waited, standing several inches behind her, collecting what remained of his confidence and hoping it would be enough to convince this woman that he meant her no disrespect. In fact, he rather dreaded the idea of ending the night on such a horrible note. For days — weeks, really — he'd imagined meeting her. To have that dream become reality was more than he could comprehend.
But the longer he waited, the further away that dream traveled, second by second…
"I'll be blunt about it," he decided, hearing the words echo back at him, focusing on the curls in her hair, as she stood with her back turned to him. "I knew, leading up to tonight, that you were the person on the other end of those calls. I recognized your voice within minutes of that first conversation, and to say I was shocked would be an understatement," he explained, hoping it wouldn't backfire. "…but more than that, I was thrilled by the chance to learn more about you, with a clean slate. I wanted to know you, the way Weasley does — did. I couldn't see that happening under normal circumstances, so I took my chances…"
In front of him, Granger tensed. "You knew?" she voiced, quietly.
It was difficult to decipher her tone, whether she was angered or disheartened or indifferent.
"You knew it was me?" she asked again, slowly, waiting several seconds before facing him.
She turned on one heel, the one he'd repaired outside the concert venue. Memories of the incident flooded his mind and left him teetering, before his attention snapped back to her.
Draco nodded, absorbing the sight of her; the curls in her hair; the flush of her cheeks; the bright brown of her eyes; the look of his coat draped over her shoulders, in contrast with the bareness of her legs; and the narrow gap between her lips, as she breathed in and out, visibly softened by the information.
"You knew," she said, one more time, without the added inflection of an inquiry. "…and still, you wanted to meet me." It baffled her, and he didn't know why. "How is that possible?"
"How?" Draco repeated, dazed and then disoriented and then determined. "I'll show you how."
Having failed to catch the latter end of his declaration, the brunette gasped, wide-eyed, as he leaned over to her, slowly at first, and then fast. She, with her back against the door, and he, with one hand in her hair and the other around her waist, drawing her closer to him. Draco kissed her. Full-bodied and delirious, caught in the cosmic catch and release, it took several moments before either of them realized what was happening.
In that time, he loosened his hold on her, realizing his approach was a little on the aggressive side. As he drew back, she leaned with him, in his direction; cheeks flushed and heaviness in breath.
Draco stammered. "I — I'm sorry. I — I shouldn't have —"
"You kissed me," her voice broke through, floored.
"I kissed you," he repeated. "…and I have the sneaking suspicion you're about to smack me."
Granger paused, tossing another one of those indiscernible looks at him, before the message became clear.
There was a hitch in his chest. "Yeah?"
She nodded once, looking at him. "If you don't mind…"
With enormous restraint, Draco kept from mauling her. It happened slower this time. It happened softer, as he moved closer to her, brushing two or three fingers under her chin and tilting his down to meet hers. She closed her eyes. His remained open one moment longer, as he took an extra second to burn the image of her, like this, in the depths of his subconscious. Merlin knows if this'll ever happen again. Bearing that in his mind, he took his time and after three or four seconds of simply absorbing her, his eyelids slammed shut and his lips ghosted hers.
She quivered in response, ending with an earnest intonation for more. It was delivered to him in a single vibration, as she unconsciously moaned against his lips. Draco moved closer then, skimming her lips once more, leaving her flustered and feathery, before deepening the kiss. She moaned again, melting into him, as he ran his hands through her hair and then down her sides. Somewhere along the line, his coat fell from her shoulders, cascading to the floor in a soundless descent.
Draco switched the angle of his head from left to right, harmonizing with her as she kissed him back. Her movements were tentative and timid, at first, as though she hadn't kissed anyone in months — or longer. It was no dilemma to him. He accommodated her slow, bashful kisses, and punctuated them with circles along the small of her back, using only his fingertips.
It startled him when he felt the soft swipe of her tongue. In an instant, he reciprocated, opening his mouth to her and stroking her tongue with the tip of his, in soft but precise movements. She sunk deeper into his arms, delicate without being docile.
"More…" the witch murmured, directly over his lips.
Oh, he had more. Just one touch from her, one sound, reminded him how much more he did have.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, steadying the weakness in her knees. From there, he tightened his hold on her, drawing her close with his hands on her hips. Now thirsting for more, their kiss transitioned from light and exploratory, to frantic and feverish.
His desire for her was no secret, but the reveal of her desire for him crashed over their kiss in tidal waves. Granger arched her back towards him, unconsciously pressing her chest against his, causing his blood to travel that much faster.
Moments later, their lips separated, as both struggled to breathe and bring oxygen to their bodies. In those few seconds, Draco caught sight of the tousled look about her hair and the way her dress had shifted slightly, too far to the left. Something about that made his muscles tense and the rabid animal in his chest to pound hard against the confines of his ribcage. He waited no longer.
Granger tilted her head back, releasing several expulsions of air, short and sharp, as Draco fragmented his kiss from her lips to the inner curve of her neck, murmuring to her between each touch. Her lips twitched apart and she moaned for him, caught in the heat and the bone deep arousal. Miliseconds of this, and she lifted her leg around him, undulating to his body as he grasped her thigh and brought her even closer.
The man tried to hide it as best he could, but there was no doubt she could feel it. "I swear I didn't have this planned," he whispered to her, trying to distract from hardness in his trousers.
"Liar," she admonished, a faint smile on her lips.
"Okay, maybe I was hoping for it a little…" he confessed. "Fine, a lot."
Her body shook with hushed laughter, replaced with a swift intake of air, as he kissed her once more. It wasn't long after that, that the look was exchanged; the look to indicate what was to happen next, and in how many ways…