For once she woke before he did. They were tangled up together - his arm around her back, her face resting in the crook of his shoulder, her leg thrown over him.
Hermione's first instinct, in the pale morning light, was want. She could smell him, his natural scent, the kind that comes from heavy sleep. She inhaled it. He was right there - available, and in her bed, and - if the morning erection, hard against her inner thigh, was any indication, he wanted too.
She lifted her head, infinitesimally slow, determined not to wake him. He was still asleep, breathing evenly.
Malfoy at rest. She'd never seen this version of him before, not like this. Vulnerable, soft. His lips were slightly parted. Would he let her? If she woke him up with a touch? Would this vulnerability extend - perhaps to her hands on his cock? She wanted to repay him for last night, most desperately. Didn't he want the same?
But first she needed to use the loo. She slipped from under his arm, out of the bed, covering her nakedness with her hands, proud that he did not stir. Stealthy, Granger. Her teeth also needed a brushing, which she did. She found an extra toothbrush and left it out, in case he'd like to use it. It reminded her of the cave, and how Malfoy had placed theirs beside each other on the old sink.
Hurry back.
He hadn't moved - and didn't as she replaced herself at his side. She stretched an arm across his chest. A careful placement of her leg where it had been was confirmation - he was still hard.
How would Malfoy react, if she touched him? If she reached for it, and stroked him through his briefs? He'd confused her the night before - let her rub him briefly through his trousers on the couch but then seemed disinclined for anything else. He had kept that part of himself carefully out of her view.
Make him feel good. How can he push you away again, if you make him feel good?
She was going to do it.
Gathering her courage, she slid her hand lightly down his front, over his stomach. His cock twitched against her leg. She was so close - her fingertips were at the edge of his waistband . . . .
"Good morning," he said.
Squeezed her gently. And - moved away.
Malfoy got out of bed, stretching. She squinted through the dawn to watch him - and his arse, high and tight under his black briefs - pad across the room, collecting his clothes as he went, toward the shower. The water started.
So much for that.
He was in there just a few minutes before he returned, dressed. He was toweling his hair.
"I'm off," he said softly. Hermione yawned, as if she hadn't just spent the time alone artfully arranging herself - a leg exposed from the sheets, and her hair laid fetchingly over a shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Really good." She smiled. "I think I'll push myself today. An actual book, perhaps."
"Glad to hear it. I'll plan to see you tomorrow night."
A full day away.
"Oh. You mentioned we would talk today."
Malfoy nodded unhappily. "I suppose I can come by, late - for a few minutes, to talk - if you'd like." The implication was clear. They would not be repeating last night's performance, not anytime soon.
Hermione bit her lip, trying not to panic. She could hear their talk now - him laying the brickwork for more walls, more boundaries. He'd said the lines had evaporated. He wanted them redrawn.
Malfoy finished drying his hair, looking solemn. "Where shall I put this?" Holding up the towel.
"Just leave it on the floor. I'll get it later."
He made a face. Not disgust, not quite - but disapproving. "I can dispose of my own towel. Where?"
"I haven't done laundry in forever. Please - leave it." He turned this way and that, looking for a hamper or a bin.
Her closet door was shut and he reached for it. "No!" She sat up quickly. "Don't -"
But he'd opened it.
Three things happened at once. First, Hermione Granger leapt out of bed, nude. She realized, as she stumbled free of the sheets, that no man had ever seen her this naked in the light of day. She had a preference - some might say, a strong predilection - for removing clothing in the presence of others only if she had to, and only in the dark. Preferably full dark, but semi-dark would work if she was really desperate and he was insistent. The cave had been, in that small way, ideal. Candle light is universally flattering.
Second, a large mound of laundry, piled up over the past weeks, fell over and spilled out of the closet onto Malfoy's feet. Thankfully she had not worn as many clothes as she would have done if her mental health wasn't complete rubbish and she was engaged in normal activities of daily living - but still, it was quite the load. All of which - shirts, pajamas, knickers, bralettes, socks - was now on crumpled display for a man who had never been seen with a thread out of place.
Third, as bad as the clothes were, there was something worse. Something infinitely worse. And he didn't even seem to notice the dirty mess on his feet as he looked directly at the back of her door, which was covered - completely covered - in clippings and pictures. As unself-conscious as Hermione had ever been, she took two large steps across the room and grabbed at the wood, trying to close it. "I'll just pick that up later," she started to say.
But Malfoy slid a foot forward and stopped it with a toe. "What have we here?"
This was a contender for the worst moment of her life. She would have seriously considered living through the agony of the cave all over again, to avoid this exact moment. "Malfoy, please. Let me close the -"
She could not bear to see his face. So instead she was forced to look at the collage. In all its glory, and horror. Seeing it now she would have done anything to go back in time to the rainy Saturday when she'd made it and stop herself. Hermione remembered it vividly.
The night before, exhausted after work - she had been fairly new at the job then, and adjusting to the slog of long days, longer weeks - she had collapsed onto her sofa. As she lay there, trying to muster the energy to get up and put on pajamas and scrounge through the icebox for takeaway leftovers, she realized it had been a month since she'd done something social. Harry's birthday.
She had a sort of epiphany on that Friday evening - that she could not let this become her life. Working, living alone, never going out. She had to force herself. And so, buoyed by fresh determination to turn it around, she got up and jotted several notes - to Ginny, to Padma, to Luna - and sent them out via owl. Meet me at the pub? Proud of herself, she'd put on a cute dress under her robes and done her makeup and hair. Then - she'd waited.
After an hour, when there were no responses, she'd gone out, walking swiftly and confidently through the streets of London. They probably went straight there. When she arrived at the Leaky Cauldron she ordered herself a firewhisky and a butterbeer to chase it and took a table for four. It had been crowded, and she'd had to wave off a few people who asked if they could have the extra chairs.
But after another hour - and another firewhisky - none of her friends had arrived. Thankfully, she'd brought a book, which allowed her to pretend to read, to feign that she was happy by herself. But it hadn't been true. She'd been surprised, and upset. I never ask them to get together, she thought, touching the tip of her finger to the corners of her eyes to prevent the moisture from escaping.
When she was skunked and sure they weren't coming, Hermione wandered home, taking the long way. It had been a lovely summer evening, and the walk gave her the chance to think. Her mother had taught her be a friend to have a friend - and she'd been good at that, once upon a time. At school, and during the war. But now a few years had passed, she'd completed her apprenticeship at the Ministry, and she was finally working. Living on her own. As the rest of her friends were.
They had all settled into the loneliness and mundanity of young adulthood.
Hermione meandered aimlessly on the dark streets. She needed goals. Things to look forward to. Plans for fabulous holidays. Inspiration. She needed to never again let a whole month pass seeing only her coworkers and the insides of her home and office. Eventually she went home and climbed the steps to her flat, ready to put on her jams and face a certain hangover.
What she hadn't expected was a very impatient owl, waiting for her to accept three responses. Padma was sorry, but she'd had a date scheduled and it was going really well and they were back at her place for a nightcap. Luna hadn't responded personally. It was her "butler," the man her father paid to guard her night and day, who had sent back a scrawled decline. She and her new boyfriend were traveling. And then Ginny - she was spending time with Harry - a "friend night." That made sense - their hands on her watch were both hovering over Family.
So there it was. All three of them were out with dates. Coupled up, indeed. Instead of allowing herself to wallow, Hermione crawled to bed.
In the morning, with a pounding headache and no one to fetch a tea for her, she stumbled through the flat. Once the tea was made, she lay back and looked at the jumbled Granger-esque detritus she'd accumulated. Old newspapers, wizarding magazines and catalogs, a few Muggle publications she received to keep up with her mum's conversations, and photographs from their time at school - piled haphazardly, waiting to be organized since she'd only recently moved in. No time like the present. Might as well clean.
But when she'd gotten up, feeling cranky and ill, to gather them and magic it all away - she'd spotted a few old pictures of herself, smiling with Ron. From when they were happy. Or, at least, doing a good job pretending.
Hermione nearly crumpled them in her hands but couldn't. Instead she found herself flipping open some of the magazine pages, tearing out pictures that reminded her of better days - both in the past and that, hopefully, lay ahead. She snipped places she thought she might like to go on a romantic holiday. She searched and tore, expanding the things for which she was looking. A happy couple's wedding - that was a whole pile unto itself. Something tasteful. Outdoors. At sunset. Just a field of wildflowers behind them. Perhaps in the shade of old trees.
And then, a home - cozy, dark wood, walls of books. Was she more inclined toward a country house surrounded by gardens, or a cottage with a thatched roof and red door on the misty moors? She found inspiration for both. On and on she'd flipped and cut, building a life for happy people. Full of friends, travels, and togetherness. Companionship. Joy. And - love.
Several hours later she looked up. Her stomach rumbled. There were clippings everywhere, and cut up photographs and crumpled cast off papers. Hermione struggled to her feet and used her wand to dispose of what she hadn't saved. She'd gone and made a piece of toast and more tea and then stood in the middle of the living room, nibbling and sipping, looking at the piles of images at her feet. What now?
She recalled how she'd seen on a program once that Muggle girls liked to line their lockers at school with pictures. She didn't have that - but she had the back of her closet door. A large, flat, available space. Setting down her tea she gathered the pictures and trooped into her bedroom.
For the rest of the day she'd layered it all into a pleasing collage of an imaginary life. Ron was there, yes - but only as a stand in. He simply happened to be in the photos where she looked the best. It had been so silly - and she'd known it. She'd laughed at herself. And kept right on overlapping it together to create the fantasy. A life I'd love, she'd thought, gazing longingly at a paparazzi photo of a Muggle couple walking on the street, hand in hand. The man was listening to his companion intently, judging by the way he bowed his head while the woman was talking. Imagine having someone who wants to hear what you have to say. Maybe someday. If not - in another life. Other than Harry and Ron - who were both noncontenders for obvious reasons - she'd never met a man who was that interested in listening to her.
That had made her sad, and she'd stood abruptly and slammed the door shut. But every time she opened her closet door - multiple times a day - in the years since, she'd looked at her handiwork. She'd never once been tempted to tear it down. It comforted her. It hasn't happened for you, but if it did this is what it would look like.
But now - with Malfoy staring, still and silent, at her configuration - now she wanted to go back to that day and burn it all to ashes. She saw it through his eyes for what it was: childish. She felt deeply ashamed.
"Please close the door." She reached out and brushed his hand from the knob, shut it swiftly.
"When did you make that?" he asked roughly. He wasn't looking at her, exactly. More down at the space where the door had been. Where she'd been truly exposed.
Hermione was still completely naked, so she turned away and went to her dresser, rummaging fruitlessly for something, anything, to cover herself.
"Might this help?" he asked from behind, and she whirled. He had conjured a dark green robe. She pulled it on hastily. Merlin, it was comfortable. Warm, fluffy . . . focus.
"You didn't see that."
"You've lived in this flat for years." His eyebrows rose.
"How do you kn-"
"When, Granger?"
"Th-three years ag-go," she stammered. "Why does that matter? I mean, I can explain. See, it started with some firewhisky, which you should never drink alone."
He held up a hand to save her from herself. His eyes were dark. "You don't have to explain your Muggle traditions to me. I'll tease you about it later."
"It's not a tradition. Like I said, I had three drinks and-"
"You spent many, many hours cutting out your dream life with Weasley."
She shook her head slowly. How to counter the edge in his tone? "Not my life -"
Malfoy had had enough. "I need to go. Since I'm here, do you want me to make you come first?"
She did, but she felt as though she shouldn't. "You don't really seem in the mood . . . for that. Right now."
He scowled. The squeeze she'd felt when he slipped out of bed was from a different man. "My mood is irrelevant. Lie down."
"No." She frowned. "You're mad."
"My emotions are firmly off limits. Lie. Down."
Hermione shook her head. "I don't want you to touch me if you can't be honest."
Malfoy winced like she'd slapped him. "Then I'll go."
She was still stinging with the embarrassment of him seeing her mortifying art project. "Perfect. I'll see you . . . whenever."
"Now who's not being honest?" His voice was louder than normal. He stepped forward into her space, forcing her to back up. "I won't have you going hungry all day because of me. Get in that bed or I'll put you into it. How is that for honesty?"
A challenge.
"You wouldn't," she said simply. "You never touch me if I don't want you to."
She'd poured the icy water of truth over him. Over them both, actually. Hermione scanned through her memories - he'd not once touched her when she'd told him not to. Malfoy, King of Consent. Who would have guessed? Not her, not without experiencing him for herself.
It was a similar surprise to His Majesty, judging from the dawning self-awareness on his face. He twitched as if he was about to turn on his heel and leave.
Not yet. With the realization that he knew that she knew his boundaries, his code for himself, she looked up at him through her lashes. Intentional. Hermione took a step toward the bed. Intentional.
Would he take the bait? He'd said they would talk today - but she knew that conversation would go poorly. This felt better - distract him from more words, words that would hurt. Words that might create more unbearable distance between them. Hermione couldn't let him slip away, not after last night. Not after she knew, now, the taste of his mouth.
Another step. One more. The bed was at her back.
Flirt with him.
Would he understand?
Malfoy's narrowed eyes boring into hers, she slowly loosed the robe. Let it part naturally.
His face shifted from frustration - at the corners of his eyes and in the lines of his mouth - to desire. He understood.
His attention dropped. To her chest, her stomach. Her legs. And snapped back to her face. She sat. Staring at each other, she leaned back.
The tension was unbearable. She had a moment of doubt, as they stood there, squinting at each other.
We're not going back, she nearly said.
If he'd intended to try to draw those lines again - which, judging from his face, he had indeed been planning - his will crumbled.
In one step he was there, leaning over her. Slipping his hand into hers and pressing them, entwined, into the mattress beside her head. Pausing. Waiting. She squeezed twice.
Malfoy kissed her.
Thoroughly.
His lips, soft and firm, moved against hers. Open. She did, and he slid their tongues together. More forcefully than he had last night.
Every movement conveyed - he wanted her.
What had gotten into him? She'd cracked the door, and now he was strong-arming his way through it.
His free hand eased under her robe and ran roughly over her skin. He lingered on her breasts, tugging her nipples. He pulled his lips from hers and moved to her neck, her ears. Hermione moaned. "Oh."
"You like that?" he whispered, and the tickle from the air of his breath moved from her ear down the back of her neck, down her spine, into the curve of her backside.
Yes.
"I'll remember." Another tickle that left her insensate. "Can I leave you a present?"
"Wha - what kind?"
"Something to remember me by."
She didn't know what he meant, but his fingers were between her legs working their usual dark magic, so she nodded.
Her chin had barely dipped before his lips were on the side of her throat, latched firmly to her skin. He'd found her pulse point, and he sucked at it as if he was a vampire. She shivered at the sensation. Not unpleasant. In fact, she found herself arching, giving him space, letting him do as he pleased.
The pressure of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers inside her, rougher than he normally touched her - within minutes she came, hard and fast, and cried out. He pushed her through it, and only when she was still and sighing did he - was that a nibble? - release her.
Malfoy surveyed her carefully. His eyes were on her neck. Satisfied, he smiled meanly. "Don't forget how you got it."
"Can I see you tonight?"
He blinked. "I'll try."
In the hall, his steps were silent.
She turned and curled herself into a ball, head spinning with the memory of his mouth.
Between the orgasm that morning and Malfoy's little gift - which turned out to be a bruise so dark she couldn't have left the house even if she'd wanted to - Hermione felt better than she had in quite some time. To be sure, she'd awoken when the sun was high and gone to take a shower, cursing his name when she saw her reflection. But then she'd laughed. A love bite. From a boy. Hermione Granger, never thought you'd see the day.
When her shower was over and she'd dressed - in leggings salvaged from the closet floor and a work shirt - she wandered into the kitchen. She had only two things on her to-do list. First, gather her embarrassing pile of dirty clothes to be sent out to the laundry. And second, remove that terrible collage from the back of her closet door. It was time. She should have done it years ago. Before someone could see.
But Kirby met her with a surprise - soup for lunch and a brown paper package. It had a note in Malfoy's neat, slanting script. Stomach rumbling, she took a bite as she leaned a hip against the counter and opened the envelope.
Granger,
There's a basket for your laundry. Kirby will take it. Don't you dare touch that pièce de résistance in your closet. I won't admire it again if you don't want me to - but I won't have you changing anything on my account. Leave it. Instead, I've sent something to occupy you - if I've done my job.
See you tonight.
DM
She ripped into the package. A book. Turning it over in her hands she saw it was a first edition of a new thriller by Eudolphis Sludge. Not her normal academic fare. But she supposed it couldn't hurt to read something fun. Something light. She flipped it open to see if he'd inscribed it.
He hadn't. She tried not to be disappointed.
To distract herself - from memories of her lips on his chest, from the noise he'd made between her legs, from whatever he was going to try to talk to her about tonight - she read the first chapter while she ate her lunch. And had to admit - it was good. Engaging.
Kirby passed the kitchen with clean sheets in his arms and ignored her protests, chirping that she was doing him a favor. "Master's orders, Miss, he'll be mad if I don't." Then the elf politely and forcibly settled her on the couch and summoned the blanket Ginny had given for her birthday - laid it across her lap - and a tea, which he pushed into her hands. With a new book and the sun streaming through the curtains - it was a perfect afternoon.
But as evening approached she allowed herself to think - what to do about Malfoy.
He was going to come here and start a conversation. As she'd done with her knickers, trying to choose which pair - she decided none was better. No more talking. Not until they'd gotten more comfortable with this new phase.
Truthfully, he'd frightened her before they fell asleep. There'd been something in his kiss - something terrible, and sad. "False hopes," he'd said. She didn't want to hear it again.
The more she questioned him, the more he spoke - the further away he might slip.
The physical - that was the realm of safety.
When he'd been in her arms - finally - between her legs - incredible - holding her as she slept - every night, please - everything was fine.
Hermione resolved to keep it that way. She would do her best not to push him. Nor would she let him push her, away. If all he allowed was her mouth on his - fine.
You can work with that.
When he arrived that night she gave him no opportunity to try to set some new rule. Instead, she greeted him with heartfelt cheer. "Hi!" Bright, welcoming. She'd done her hair again, leaving the curls down her back. Very pretty, he'd called them.
At first Malfoy didn't know what to make of it. "Uh, hullo." He looked very tired.
She crossed to him from the couch in quick, eager strides. Stopped and waited while he hung his robes, stepped out of his shoes.
"This present of yours meant I couldn't show my face outside today."
He tilted his head, considering it. Lifted his hand to - tentatively - brush her hair away from her neck. "I could heal it?" He touched the sore place lightly with the tip of his finger.
She squinted at him with pretend irritation. "Leave it. But you owe me."
His lips curled into a slow smile. "I see."
"I think I shall have to punish you."
Grey eyes flashed. "About time."
She stepped a little closer. He shifted, curling his hand around the back of her head. Tugged her curls so that she was looking straight up at him.
Hermione laid her hands on his chest.
"I want you to taste me again."
"Done."
He bent and bit her ear. Whispered in it. "I was going to do that anyway."
She shivered, and pulled his mouth to hers. He hesitated before his lips opened. She chased his tongue, wrapped him in her arms, tugged at his hair. Leaned into him, pressing herself against his chest, his body. She felt a hand on her arse, holding her tightly. He backed himself against the wall, letting her push. Hermione was practically crawling up him, such was her fervor. She could feel his cock, hard in his trousers, and ground against it.
He finally lifted his head, gasping slightly. "This isn't the greeting I expected."
"You thought you'd find me languishing on the couch, moping like usual?"
His face said - yes. "You're practically bouncing."
"That mouth of yours is a competent Healer. Why do you think I want you to use it again?"
Malfoy laughed, and guided her by her waist as he walked them back to her couch. Threw her down. Shoved her tea table - magazines scattering - out of his way with his foot. He knelt on the floor. Pulled up her shirt and removed her knickers and arranged her so that her cunt was tilted up for him. Her stomach was scrunched - but she was in such a good mood she forgot to feel embarrassed. He put her legs over his shoulders, gripped her hips in those strong hands, and held her still while he bent to his task.
Any conversation was forgotten.
Malfoy let her make up for lost time. They did not discuss the kissing - probably because they were too busy doing it.
The routine stayed generally the same but felt new.
Within the next couple of visits he warmed, smiling back. "Hi to you too." Sometimes it felt like he was smiling in spite of something, like he was trying not to. But she won him over, night after night. It thrilled her, every smile she got from him. They'd been rare - but were growing less so.
Hermione had more energy. She was walking for miles a day, cleaning her house, taking on little projects like re-organizing her drawers. Reading with voracity.
"Done with that one already?" he asked when she put another book aside, his fingers brushing her shoulder.
They'd been on the couch before they went to her room. "I'm on the last chapter." She'd said she just needed a few more minutes.
"Yes," she hummed with satisfaction. "It was great. I haven't read for pleasure this much since I was a child. I suppose it's about time I take advantage of this sabbatical from work."
Turning, she felt the flare of desire ignite. She reached toward him from across the cushions, wrapping her arms around his neck, twisting into him so that she was in his lap, tucked against his chest. She batted her eyelashes, lips pursed for a kiss. Malfoy fought a grin - and lost. "Cute."
"I'd like my reward, please."
So he gave it to her - like he did nearly every night. His schedule had cleared, a bit. Or at least she assumed so - he came more often, arriving earlier and staying until she was asleep.
As soon as he was through her front door she was on him. Expectant, wanting. When he'd dumped his robes and stepped out of his shoes he pulled her into his chest, an arm around her back and his fingers in her hair. And then he kissed her.
No matter how many times Malfoy kissed her she didn't tire of it.
He caged her against the wall in her entryway, his arms a protective shield against everything but this - them - the moment. There was no past and no future and nothing bad. Just his mouth on hers and his hips pressing her hard enough to hurt deliciously.
He kissed her in the kitchen, his thrice-warmed leftovers forgotten on the counter - next to where she sat, legs around his body, distracting him from his food.
He lay back on the couch and let her grind against him, peppering his face and throat and lips with hers.
Most rarely, in bed - he stretched out and pulled her beneath him, covering her body with his. He kissed her with her wrists in his hands, his thumb brushing the band of her watch. That was her favorite, because he only did it when she could tell he was very tired and very desperate. He pressed his erection against her, shifting it in little torturous movements between her legs. It felt like he was punishing himself, sometimes. She wouldn't have minded as much, except it was also torture for her.
He always kept his trousers or briefs on - but seemed fine with it. He never discussed it, never offered more of himself. She was ready - if he'd asked to have sex with her she'd have cried with relief - but something held her back.
Perhaps it was that she was enjoying what they had. It felt so good. His hair beneath her fingers. The smell of him at the place under his ear, where her nose fit perfectly. The way their bodies aligned in all the right places.
He tasted her cunt whenever she let him. She let him a lot.
He also found new ways to make her come, now that he let himself touch her more. Or maybe it was that she found new ways to distract him, to get his attention and entice him to maybe - Merlin, let it be soon - give them both more.
One night when he appeared, looking disheveled and a little sullen, she left him at the kitchen table, twisting his hair at the crown of his head in his fingers. "I'll be right back."
When she returned from her bedroom she was in a camisole and plain white knickers.
"Couch," he ordered, standing swiftly as soon as he saw her. She'd acted on instinct, suspecting he would like these - though she had no idea why. He sat and she fell into his lap.
"You look like you had a hard day." Another instinct - that he needed this from her. Kindness. Gentleness.
"Yes."
"Will you let me make it better?" She ran her fingers over the shell of his ear.
He whispered into her mouth. "You already have. But, I'm selfish. Turn over."
He flipped her onto her stomach, backside up. She could feel how hard he was beneath her, his erection begging for contact. She pressed the mound of her cunt into him and he shifted, spreading his legs, pressing up and into her. Give in, she wanted to say. Take these trousers off and let us have what we both want.
But his hands were distracting, rubbing her arse.
"Look at this," he said, like he couldn't believe it. "Where'd you get these knickers? And why haven't I seen them before?"
"They were in my drawer all this time," she chuckled, resting her chin on her hands. She'd never understand what was so interesting about her arse. "Waiting for you, I guess."
"Has anyone else ever seen them?"
"No."
"Good." She thrilled at the possessive hint to his tone. "I'm trying to keep murder off my list of crimes."
"Do you really like them? They're so simple."
"Can't you feel how much?"
"I'd be happy to feel - more - how much." As close as she'd gotten to asking for it.
Malfoy ignored her, kneading the skin below where the edge of the fabric ended. He traced the lines of it with his fingertips, fiddled with the curves. "You're so fucking hot, sometimes I can't stand it." He sounded sad.
She closed her eyes. "You can do whatever you want to me," she finally said.
"No I can't," he said. "There are about a thousand things I'd like to do -" He stopped himself.
Before she could ask - what things? Do them. Do them all, he was slipping his fingers beneath the fabric, into her, making her come, watching her backside lift and twitch in front of him.
One night as they were entwined on her couch, Malfoy kissing her lazily, she took the opportunity to slip her hand under the waistband of his trousers. This is it. She could sense that he was exhausted - and therefore, hopefully, complaisant.
He shifted away, interrupting the attempt. "Let's go to bed."
"I want to touch you."
"No."
"I'd like to make you feel good for once."
"You do."
She frowned. This was always his argument.
"Don't you want me?"
The question wavered between them. She could always feel his cock, hard and ignored, when he kissed her. She often resisted the urge to prove her point and press herself against it. Respect his lines, his boundaries.
He looked at her blankly, which wounded.
"Draco."
"We can go to your room and I can make you come, or I can leave. Make your choice, Granger."
"You asked, a few weeks ago, whether we would . . ." Fuck. She'd never forget how he sounded when he said it. "Have sex."
He nodded once, eyes narrowed. "I did."
"But how could we do that if I'm not allowed to touch you?"
"You touch me all the time. You were just biting my neck and rubbing those little hands of yours on my chest."
She gave him a you-know-what-I-mean look.
He was not at all contrite. "If and when you need to do that, we will."
Define need.
But that wasn't the fantasy she'd been entertaining, in the quiet hours of the day spent waiting for him. Her secret hope was that Malfoy would storm in one night, tear his clothes off and then hers, fling her onto her bed or the floor - literally any surface, she didn't care - and take her virginity. She wondered, for the dozenth time, if she should mention it.
Don't.
Her instincts about kissing had been right - it had changed everything between them. Somehow, she felt her lack of experience in that specific area would be the same. She was confident they were both operating under the same assumption - fucking was a matter of when, not if. Often, when his fingers were stroking her breasts or his tongue was on her clit, she forgot why his cock wasn't inside her. More than once she bit her tongue so she wouldn't direct him to do it, now.
If he found out she hadn't . . . before? In her heart she knew it would irretrievably alter the course. She couldn't risk it.
Actually, she knew what they were waiting for. He expected her to ask. And she wanted him to release whatever was holding him back and initiate, to be selfish. To pursue his own pleasure and use her body for it.
Each knew the other would eventually concede.
When her witch times came that month, she briefly considered whether to tell him not to come by - but she realized, it might be an opportunity. He arrived that night, his usual mask of calm detachment firmly in place.
"Can I borrow your joggers?" she asked suggestively, as he paced slowly through her living room. His eyes flitted about as if looking for something.
"Hmm? Hasn't Kirby taken your laundry lately?"
"He has. But - I was hoping your special clothes might help me feel better. I'm out of commission for a few days."
"Oh." He understood, nodding. "Did you get today's Prophet?"
"It's in the kitchen, I think. Why?"
"I didn't read it yet. If it's alright, I'll grab it on my way out."
She shrugged. "Of course. So - maybe we could just rest tonight?" She felt a little anxious, to ask him. Last month she'd told him to stay away for a few days - but she'd been feeling horrible then. She was much better now. Now that he had nearly-complete access to her body.
"Ah, sure. Kirby can bring those pants, tomorrow." He was definitely distracted.
"Won't you want them back?" She remembered how he'd waggled his finger at her, in the cave. They're his favorite pair.
"I'll collect them when you're finished," he said blandly. "Don't you want to be alone? I can leave." No. She wanted him to hold her. "I'm not afraid, to touch you, though. If you'd like."
She didn't like. She would have accepted a bath, but she didn't have a tub. And her stance on showers remained firm. None of that.
"I'm happy to have a little break. We could do . . . other things." She could lavish her attentions on him.
"I've been coming by nearly every night. You're right that a break would be good."
This was going poorly. But Malfoy seemed restless, discomfited. He prowled about her flat while she pretended to read.
He seemed not to know what to do with her, if she was unavailable for an orgasm. It worried her, slightly. Wasn't there enough between them, now?
Switching tacts, she tried to make conversation - to distract herself from her sore belly. And, if he was going to be uneasy, she might as well take advantage. "Come and sit. You're making me nervous." He did, but his eyes were past her, unfocused. She scooted toward him, leaning into his side. He put an arm around her shoulders absentmindedly.
You know nothing about him. Not really. She knew the little things, sure, the foods he liked and how his breath became strangled when she kissed his ear. But when it came to his family, his work, his friends - he was still intensely, hurtfully private.
Hoping he'd indulge her during her witch times, she tried.
"How is your mother doing?"
"My mother?" He tensed. "She's fine."
"Is it hard for her with your father in prison?"
"Why are you asking?"
Was she not allowed to ask about his mother? "Just - making conversation, I guess."
He took a breath. Had been holding it, she realized, and she squeezed him gently. Narcissa must be a sore subject. Perhaps they didn't get on?
"Yes, I think it's hard for her," he said slowly. "She doesn't really see anyone anymore."
Right. Because her husband was one of the top Death Eaters. After the war that was more than enough to cause invitations to dry up. "Are you close?"
Malfoy was nearly quivering. She shifted her head to align with his heart. It was pounding. "I'm not sure how to answer that. I think she feels - frustrated by me."
"Because you won't settle down?"
"Something like that."
Oh. Hermione had been joking. "Does she expect you to get married or something?"
"Of course."
"To whom?" Which Pure Blood debutante did she need to run a Ministry report on?
"I have no doubt I'll be provided at some point with a list," he said dully. "She's bored and lonely and she'd like for me to give her a grandson to fuss over."
Malfoy's child. It was her turn to stop breathing. "I see."
"In the meantime she wanders around, pestering me and the elves and making changes to the gardens."
"She must miss your father. Do you ever hear from him?"
"He's in prison, Granger." His muscles were hard under her hands and cheek. "What about your parents? Are you close?"
"Not like the Weasleys. We have such different worlds. But I love them, of course. I'm going to see them near Christmas. "
"That will be good for you." He sounded miserable and she looked up. He turned his face away.
"Draco. What is it?"
"I don't want to talk about my family. Please."
"Alright."
A very awkward silence fell. Was he angry with her? "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"I think I should go. You need your rest. And - I'm not very good company tonight."
He didn't kiss her goodbye.
Kirby came the next morning, early - with a generous supply of chocolate frogs, a hot water bottle, and a bundle of cloth. Malfoy's best joggers. And, a surprise. His green jumper, the one with the silver snake. She'd missed it.
Did this mean he'd gone back - to the cave? He'd left all of his own things there the day they escaped. She'd assumed he meant to abandon them, replace them. But - obviously he'd collected some of it. These, at least.
She couldn't ask because he didn't return that night. Or the next, though he sent her an owl with polite regrets - so she wouldn't be anxious, waiting.
She tried not to be hurt. She hadn't been clear, after all, that she wanted him to hold her through the pain of the cramps and the bleeding. He'd offered to touch her and she'd declined.
Where has the Malfoy from the bath gone? He'd seemed unbothered by her blood - but she supposed she was ill, then. Now, she was better. Perhaps his feelings about it had changed. But she missed it - how comfortable he had seemed with the most intimate time, the most vulnerable part of her.
Laying on the couch, swaddled in his clothes but craving his arms, she found herself obsessing. Malfoy had been so resistant to her attempts to discuss his family. She still hadn't felt his cock. And yet kissing him made her feel so close - it hurt her head.
And it hurt in her chest.
She'd cleared the last obstacle she thought it maybe could be - another witch. A few visits after her witch times he'd been on his knees, licking her methodically, his hands gripping her thighs so hard he was going to leave palm-shaped bruises. Harder, she wanted to say. Instead it tumbled out as "Do you have a lover?"
His tongue stilled. Retracted.
"I'm between your legs."
"What's that got to do with it?"
He sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. Rose up and sat beside her on the bed. "What kind of question is that?"
"An honest one. I just want to know."
"Other than you, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"I don't."
"Okay."
He stared at her, an eyebrow raised, waiting for the follow up.
"A - a girlfriend?"
He snorted at her attention to the technicalities. "No lover, no girlfriend, no fiancee or wife. Just a petulant mother and a cadre of mutinous house elves who cost me more and more each year."
Oh. "You pay them?"
"I pay them." He did not look happy about it.
That made her feel much better about Kirby. She smiled shyly, hopeful to hear that she'd had a surreptitious but positive influence on him in their younger years. "Because of S.P.E.W.?"
"Because getting the best in the world and maintaining their loyalty is expensive."
Right. "Well, I'm glad."
"Now you tell me - why did you ask about other witches?"
"I needed to know how guilty I should feel."
He frowned. "So that's what you think of me? That I would touch you like this if I was committed to someone else?"
No - but, also, maybe. What else could it be? What was the source of his constant and confusing distance? "I didn't view it as betrayal. You've done what you had to do, to help me. I suppose - I just wanted to know whether that's where you go, when you're not here."
She'd amused him. "Good to know you don't think what we do together is a violation of my obligations to this imaginary woman. But - I told you in the cave it had been awhile since I fucked."
No, that wasn't what she meant at all. But he was looking quite fit that night, with his hair mussed from her fingers and his lips slightly swollen from her nibbles. So she shut him up from further discussion, pleased to have her looming question resolved. She climbed into his lap and kissed his throat while she drew his hand down to finish what his mouth had started.
It turned out kissing Malfoy was nearly a cure.
The rapidity of her improvement, once they started that, was staggering. After several weeks she wrote to Harry - I'm ready to go back to work. She meant it too. All of a sudden she'd become restless in her flat, anxious to get out. Ready to see people.
She wasn't able to do magic yet - but she wanted to. She picked up her wand every time Malfoy left, testing it. She could sense it - it was coming. Soon.
Harry stopped by to see her for himself. "Wow."
She grinned. "I told you."
"You look great." He hugged her hard. "Finally." She felt the relief, heard it in his voice.
"Amazing, right?"
"What changed?"
She'd anticipated that question. "Breakthrough. With Malfoy. I'm sure you don't want me to explain any more."
He made a face. "No. But - I'll shake his hand the next time I see him."
She laughed. "He'll love that."
"So, you said you're ready to come back to the Ministry? We could really use you."
"I think so. I don't have my magic, so may need some accommodations. But I think it's temporary - I can feel that it's close. I've been testing it."
"Thank Merlin. Things are busy. But, it'll be Christmas soon. How about you start after New Year? I'll get it arranged."
She contemplated that - it was only a few more weeks. A few weeks to focus on Draco. On building whatever it was between them. A few weeks to do nothing but kiss him, and let him kiss her, and . . . maybe more. "That sounds perfect."
"Done. I'll tell leadership."
"Can you brief me? What am I walking into?"
At that, Harry looked grave. "Trouble is brewing, Hermione. There's a coverup at Azkaban. I can feel it. Other aurors in the Department think I'm some kind of conspiracy theorist. But there are so few people who seem motivated to figure out what might have gotten in through those tunnels."
"Or out," she said. Trouble indeed.
"Exactly. Basic detective work isn't being done. I asked how they've ensured the prisoners and guards actually are who they're supposed to be - and not polyjuiced or concealed or something. But they haven't done anything as far as I can tell. And, there have been some departures - top officials who ran the place, jumping ship. I reached out to a few of them on my own, trying to figure out why. But they're avoiding me. Me." She swallowed a smile. Harry rarely threw his name around - but when he did, there was a good reason, and he expected results.
"Of course I'm happy to help," she offered. "With whatever you need. But I imagine I'll have a pile of mail and reports to sort through and some meetings to join."
"Yes, of course. And that thing we were hunting is still out there. But this time - no chasing it into caves."
"No concerns there."
They laughed and he looked her over.
"It's so good to see you like this, Hermione. Truly. Your smile - it's finally back in your eyes."
"It feels even better."
Harry seemed like he wanted to say more but was holding back.
"Go on," she prompted.
"What's happening with you and Malfoy? Don't -" he held up a hand - "give me details. But at a high level. Is there . . . something between you?"
She blushed. "I'm not sure, actually. He visits me nearly every day. It's strange. In some ways we're very close. In others, I barely know him." She thought of his body, wrapped around hers. The taste of his mouth. How she didn't know what he did with his time.
"Do you want to know him?" A tentative question.
"Are you asking if you should prepare yourself for me bringing him to our next pub night?"
"Kind of."
That was - a very difficult answer, actually. As she had improved she was thinking more about it. He made her feel so good. And when things were light, when he made her laugh - there was nothing else like it. It was impossible not to imagine how that might be, in other situations. Outside.
But he was Malfoy, and she was Hermione. He existed in the dark, mostly. In caves and now the shadows of her flat. Other than seeing him on the street the day they left the cave, they'd never been anywhere else together. She couldn't quite picture him amidst the banality of life. Malfoy, at the grocery? Malfoy, in a park? Malfoy, her date at a dinner party? It was ludicrous.
And yet hadn't they done things far more awkward than those? She had no trouble imagining him at her bedside, feeding her soup if she was sick. Or holding her through life's inevitable grief. Encouraging her when things got hard. He'd already done all that - and weren't those the important things?
The small stuff - they could figure it out. They had to, she felt fiercely. She could not let him go. It had all been over, the moment he kissed her back.
Once she knew how it could be between them - the end of the story was written.
"I don't know how to answer that yet. But - I would like to keep seeing him, yes."
Harry tried to hide that he was disturbed. "Okay. I owe him. We all do. If he's the reason you're healthy again, I'll thank him and mean it."
"That means a lot."
She walked out with him, feeling up to a stroll. It was a lovely December day, sunny and cool.
Her thoughts tumbled over each other.
Returning to work, and the logistics of it.
Malfoy, and how fetching he looked in her bed the night before - how it had hurt, as it always did, when he pulled away and whispered goodbye.
Her magic - what would it take, for it to return?
She hadn't pushed him, not since her witch times.
With her newfound vigor - she'd become bored, which helped nothing.
Perhaps she needed a project, before she returned to the Ministry.
She thought of how it all began - the creature. The monster. You still know nothing about it. She checked her watch - both Harry and Ginny were at Work, late. Too busy, clearly, to be bothered. Ron was in Bed. He was due to come by. She'd ask him - for the research he'd done on it. Perhaps it would be a way to show Malfoy that she wasn't totally useless.
Ron walked with her a few days later. "Merlin, Hermione, you look well."
"Thanks. Listen, I want to ask about the research you did on the creature from the cave."
"Pansy has all that. She takes better notes than I do." He reddened as if remembering something.
Ew. "Can you get it from her?"
"I - I'm not slated to see her, at present." He looked crestfallen.
No wonder his dial on her watch had been hovering over Pub so often. She nearly felt sorry for him.
"Perhaps this could give you an excuse?"
He perked up at that, so focused on the prospect that Hermione had to take his arm and guide him around a trashcan lest he fall over it.
"Yes. I could get them for you."
"I'd be grateful. I want to do some of my own investigation - before I go back to work."
"Good point. It's probably pretty embarrassing, the Junior Minister for the entire Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, having no idea what sent her into a months-long malady."
Tactful, Ronald. "Just send me the notes. And any of the books or resources you used."
"Malfoy has all that. He insisted we leave it at his library."
Oh. Of course. He was possessive."Thanks. I'll ask for it."
Ron frowned. "Still seeing him, are you?"
Not enough. "Yes."
"Never thought I'd see the day."
She turned sharply to head back to her flat, and Ron stumbled, trying to reverse course. "It's no different than you with Pansy Parkinson," she snapped, "so keep your judgment to yourself."
Ron glanced at her sideways. "It's a lot different and you know it. Pans doesn't have a fucking Mark. And she doesn't have the ambitions he does."
"Ambitions?"
Ron snorted. "Rumor has it Malfoy has his sights set on being quite the political maneuverer."
Politics? He hated the Ministry. "How so?"
Ron shrugged. "From what Pansy mentioned he's very well connected. Deliberately."
Malfoy had never said any of that. But, she supposed he had seemed connected, when they chatted in the cave. "His position in his family requires it. I'm not surprised."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Hermione, defending Draco Malfoy?"
That was enough. Thankfully they were at an intersection, crowded with Muggles doing their Christmas shopping. "Let's split here," she said. "I'll see you later. Please send that research as soon as you can. I go back after the first of the year - only a few more weeks."
She was in Malfoy's arms that night, naked and coming down from several orgasms. She suspected he felt bad about about something - because he'd been very affectionate, and taken his trousers off, and she had her leg flung over him so that she could feel how hard he was beneath his briefs and her inner thigh.
Other than his discomfort, it was very peaceful. Don't push him. Though she wanted to, desperately. Soon. He'd give in soon. She could sense it.
"I need a favor."
He lifted her chin from his chest so he could see her face. "What is it?"
"Before I go back to face my colleagues, I'd like to do some of my own research into the creature that attacked us." He blinked. "Ron's going to send me the notes that he and Pansy put together."
"Is that what you two talked about, on your walk today?" His tone was curt, cranky.
"Mostly, yes. But he said you still have all the books they gathered - at your Manor."
He nodded, slowly, eyes flashing. "Some of them."
"May I see your collection?"
Malfoy's lips twisted haughtily. "Wouldn't it be better if you rested? Christmas is just a few weeks away. You'll be back at it in no time, too busy to relax. Or - see me."
"See you?" Tilting her head at him, she forced herself to breathe evenly through a flutter of fear. "What do you mean? I'll still have time for us to - meet."
"I think you should enjoy this time - finish off the list of novels you want to read. Try to get your magic back."
Fear turned to irritation. "The list of books I want to read includes anything about that monster. I don't want to walk back into the Ministry not knowing anything about what hurt me. It's embarrassing. I'd like to be able to say - at the very least - what it was."
He glared at her. "Fine. I'll bring some by. What I can find, when I have time."
She pushed off of him, the irritation giving way to anger. "When you have time? What about my time, sitting around, waiting for you?"
"I'm busy."
"With what?"
"Work. I've told you - investments."
"Yes, your 'joint venture.' Except you've never said whom it's with, nor offered up a single detail."
He blinked. "I like to keep my work and private life separate."
"Uh huh. Am I a part of it, then - your private life?"
She had him. He wouldn't admit it. She wanted to hit him.
Hermione got out of bed, pulling his green robe on to cover her nudity. Stood over him, looking down. She needed every advantage she could get. "Since you're so busy, can I go to your Manor myself? I'd like to see what's available."
"No." Flat. Certain. Dismissive.
"So that's it, is it? You hide me away. You'll deign to come to me, but you don't want a filthy Mudblood traipsing through your home."
He sat up, his arms around his knees. "It's not like that."
"You know what? Nevermind. I'll try to get what I need from the Ministry. I wouldn't want these hands -" she held them up before her, open and empty - "these hands that aren't good enough for your cock - to sully what's in your famous library."
Malfoy looked a little wounded. As he should.
She was making it clear - he could go, or argue with her. She turned away, went and stood by her bedroom door, waiting.
She expected him to argue with her.
Instead, he got up from bed. Dressed, slowly, while she looked on.
Surely - he'd say something?
But he passed her without a glance, washed his hands in the bathroom, and went to the entryway. She watched while he put on his shoes and robes.
He glanced back at her. "I'll send you what I have."
"Don't bother."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Make it day after next," she spat, heart pounding painfully, and closed her bedroom door.
She couldn't really believe it.
That he'd left like that. Was it a fight? Not in the traditional sense of the word - not as though they were in a relationship.
She should have felt guilty, maybe, but she didn't. Her frustration with him was real, genuine and intense.
He'd be back.
In the meantime, she had to stay strong.
Two days passed quickly - she used the time to do a deep cleaning in her closet, ignoring the collage, getting rid of clothes she didn't want anymore and making a list of things she should buy before returning to work and professional attire. She also rearranged all of her books - it had been years since she'd done it.
A few hours before he was due to arrive she took a shower, did her hair the way he liked - shiny, loose curls - and put on a nightgown and robe. The grey set, from the cave.
Would he apologize, she wondered? Perhaps he'd done some thinking, she hoped, and would agree to take her to his Manor. To introduce her to his mother. To let her have access to any book she wanted.
She tried to imagine being in Malfoy's library. It was famous, his family's collection. He'd called it the largest in wizard-dom, and while she thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, she was confident it would be impressive.
Would he follow her in there? Would he let her wander? Inexplicably, she thought of the first night he'd let her touch him - how she'd kissed his scars. "Find what you're seeking?" he'd asked.
He could repeat it, if he ever let her in his home. "Closer now than I was before," she'd say.
Oh, Malfoy. Please let me in.
He was late.
So late, she fell asleep, waiting, worrying about what he'd say when he arrived.
She was roused, not by the gentle click of the lock and the whisper of his robes, but by a heavy thud.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Frowning, she got up from the couch and crossed to the entry. She opened her front door.
He was slumped against the frame, his hand to his face.
She saw something, bright red against his hair. Oozing through his fingers. Malfoy was bloody.
"Draco - gods. What happened?"
"You told me to come tonight." The way he said it - the words slurred. Bleeding and drunk.
He fell into her arms in a swirl of robes.
