It was evening in early November when Hermione found herself standing in front of her knickers drawer, fuming.
Making a decision.
She hadn't done laundry in - well, a long time. Months. She usually had it sent out, but that required her to gather it, put it by the front door, and send an owl with a note requesting a pickup. Too many steps. In the meantime she'd been throwing things, when they got too filthy to wear, into her closet and shutting the door. Kirby would take it if she asked, she knew, but needing help with her personal effects felt like crossing a line. And he'd probably do something embarrassing like wash it all at the Manor. Malfoy might find out.
She was so desperate she'd even rummaged through her knapsack for the first time, pulling out the clothes Nott had delivered to her in the cave.
For tonight, she was down to the pairs she only wore during her witch times - not fit for anyone else's eyes, not even for a moment - and the impractical lacy pairs she had bought on a whim before a few dates - dates with wizards who had turned out not to be worthy of seeing them, somewhere between the first glass of wine and dessert.
What would Malfoy say? If she wore the lace? Would she look like she was trying too hard?
Did she care?
The fact that making the choice was this difficult infuriated her. It's your own bloody flat, she thought. Your own body. Wear what you want and fuck what he thinks.
Yet she knew how she'd feel if he commented on it. Or - worse - if he didn't.
She slammed the drawer shut. Hang it all. She'd wear neither. She'd done without knickers before.
As the weeks went on, she found herself like this more often. Increasingly irritable and itchy and heavy with perpetual exhaustion. The energy from his visits seemed to fade a little sooner every time. He'd been there two nights ago - and already she was back to feeling like she waded through a bog with every movement. Her hands were clumsy as she started the shower.
She stared at herself in the mirror over the sink, waiting for it to heat. You've aged ten years. Why can't you power through? You helped win a war - now you lie on the couch all day waiting for your enemy to stop by, because there's no one else. You don't make anyone happy. No one likes - Hermione shook her head, banishing the thoughts.
It's not true.
He'd be here soon. She didn't want to smell when he did. When she got in, the water wasn't quite hot enough to hurt - she turned it to scalding.
She thought, as she often did, about how disgusting she must have been the first time Malfoy reached between her legs and made her come. She'd been laying in the alcove for days at that point. And camping before that. Her cheeks turned scarlet, remembering it. Wondering what he must have thought of her, the Mudblood. And yet he'd done it. Not just that first time - he'd done it again, and hundreds of times since. He never once made her feel dirty or ashamed. She did that all herself.
Standing under the spray, letting it pour over her face, she knew - their situation was untenable. You cannot linger like this, not much longer. Something has to give.
You are regressing.
The water was a caress, and she rubbed at herself lightly, helping it along. How was it possible that she felt disjointed and anxious, desperate for touch? He was visiting about three times a week, giving her intense and foot-shaking orgasms. And yet - she felt hungry for more. She longed to be held, to feel skin against hers. Specifically, to feel his skin against hers.
She longed for more than that, but did not let herself think too much on it. It just made her sad.
You went years without being touched much at all. But it was almost worse, now. Now that she knew the way he felt in the bath, his chest to her bare back. How it had felt in the cave that morning she woke with him pressed against her, warm in his arms. During the heights of pleasure she yearned to turn to him, to hold him to her and bury him inside him her. Keep him there.
It was unspeakable, unthinkable, what she felt for Malfoy.
Sometimes she was sure that he felt something. He must. It was impossible that she could feel so much and he could feel nothing. But he seemed to let go of her so easily, to slip away quickly when she was finished. To touch her only as needed. He continued to withhold any personal pieces of himself.
She began to feel nauseated and turned off the water, stumbling out to dry off.
She dressed in just about the last clean shirt she had. It bore the name of some Muggle band - her mother had gotten it for her father, but it was too large, so she gave it to Hermione in a pile of the random things mothers think are helpful and hand you on the way out the door. "Use it as a nightshirt dear, I hate to throw it in the bin."
It barely covered her backside. But she'd be naked or nearly naked soon anyway so - it didn't matter. He'd had seen all of her, multiple times.
Feeling rather woozy from the heat she went into the kitchen and got some water. She was at the sink, sipping it, when she heard the front door click. "Granger?"
"In the kitchen."
She heard him take his shoes off and then he came down the short hallway and turned to see her. Malfoy. His eyes were tired, but his hair was neatly combed. She couldn't read him as he looked her up and down. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." She set her glass on the counter.
"You ate?" He took a half step toward her but stopped. He put his hands on the top of the door frame and stretched. Showing off.
She nodded. "Yes, thank you. Kirby brought a lovely lunch."
"And since then?"
"I napped. Took a long shower."
He frowned and went to the icebox, opened it and surveyed the contents. "You didn't have dinner?"
Hermione felt defensive. "I ate a lot at lunch. And I - I'm not feeling very well today."
"Would you have a plate if I heated something up?"
"No. But I'll sit with you while you eat. If you're hungry."
"Famished," he said crankily.
The kitchen was too small for them both to stand. But maybe, if she stayed here, he'd bump into her. She stayed.
He pulled out a tray of pasta and set it on the counter, drawing out his wand and casting a warming charm. Steam began to curl. He opened her cutlery drawer like he owned the place and grabbed a fork. Draco Malfoy then proceeded to stuff himself, straight from the serving dish, like a heathen.
She watched for several seconds, shocked that a Pure Blood prat like him would stoop to shoveling in food like a hungry schoolboy. "Would you care to sit?"
"Sure," he said between bites. Her collection of old Daily Prophets was piled on the extra chair - she'd told Kirby no when he tried to get rid of it. But now, she forgot why she'd saved them, and bent to shuffle the papers away, setting them on the floor instead.
Malfoy sat, his legs too long for the space, his frame ridiculous on the little seat. She got out a second glass, reaching up into the cabinet for it, on her toes. When she turned around to join him his eyes were on her legs. He averted them quickly. She filled it and set it in front of him. "Thanks," he said. She took the other chair, the seat cold on her backside.
Hermione watched him eat - his elbows on the table - for a few minutes. He gave the meal his full attention, until he must have remembered she was there. "Won't you have some?"
He speared a piece with his fork and held it out. She shook her head, but he made a face - a you-have-to-fucking-try face - so she opened her mouth and leaned in. It was the least she could do - he was here to try to help her. Malfoy seemed surprised - had he expected her to take the fork? - but held it still while she took the bite.
She chewed slowly. It was good. Comforting. "Kirby said you like this. To be fair, he says you like everything."
He took another large forkful for himself. "It's my favorite. But don't tell him that. I like to keep them guessing."
"I can see why," she said when she swallowed another offered bite. "Did your mother make it for you? It tastes like something my mother would have made."
He held out a larger bite and when she balked he rolled his eyes, ate it himself, and put less on the fork for her. "My mother had it made for me," he said slowly. "But I don't think she's ever cooked a thing in her life."
Hermione nodded. An awkward silence fell. "Did you have a nice day?"
He chuckled mirthlessly. "No."
"I'm sorry." He held out the fork again but she shook her head.
He didn't push. Instead he polished off the rest of it while she watched. When he was finished he drank the glass of water and rose, putting the dishes in the sink. She finished her own water and held it out. He took it without a word and set it with the rest. "Don't mess with these. Kirby will clean them tomorrow when he comes by with lunch."
"I can do the dishes."
He leveled a look at her, crossing his arms. "I have no doubt that you can." He let it hang. They both knew what came next. But you won't.
She stood, and he glanced again at her legs. "Getting more comfortable?"
"What do you mean?" She looked down at her shirt - at where it skimmed the very tops of her thighs, at her knobby knees and pale calves and bare feet. "You've seen me in less."
"Yes, but -" He took a step toward her, leaning in slightly.
"But what?" She looked up at him.
His eyes were a little glazed and he was very close. Her kitchen really was small. Too small for a man like him. Was he going to -
"Cold?" he asked. She'd shivered.
"No, and I want to know what you mean. Is something wrong with me being comfortable?" This was maddening. They both knew he was about to give her several orgasms. What did her clothes matter?
Malfoy shrugged. "I don't think you know the effect you could have on . . . people."
He turned and walked out into the hallway, pausing on his way to her room with a quirked eyebrow as if surprised that she wasn't following. Coming?
No. Her dander was up, and she stood her ground. He could wander off if he wanted, but she wasn't leaving this gods damned kitchen. "I'm in my own home. No one's going to see me. Just . . . you." She spat the last word.
His face twisted into a glower. "Whatever." He looked at her legs again.
"I don't know what you're so mad about, you do not have to be here."
He laughed incredulously. "Are you joking?"
"I am not joking. I very rarely 'joke.' I don't know why you feel you can comment on my attire, especially when you've already seen everything under it." Her heart was pounding a bit, but she couldn't have said why.
He gave her that mean smile she hated. "I am here to help. I know that I'm 'no one' as you say. But I would appreciate it if you didn't make this any more difficult."
They were glaring at each other. Difficult?
"I'm not leaving this room until you explain yourself."
"Don't you make demands of me," he said softly. "I'm doing my best." He took the tiniest step forward. "And I would prefer if you wear more clothes."
Now he'd done it. "I'll go naked if I want."
"I knew you could be stubborn," he breathed. "But I never thought you were cruel."
It reverberated into the tension.
She gripped the edge of the counter for support.
You're the cruel one, she nearly said. But something on his face, in the downward set of his shoulders, replaced her anger with a wave of sadness. "I don't understand."
"Think about it."
She didn't want to fight - didn't have the energy to fight.
He was frustrated with her. "We discussed this in the cave."
She thought - didn't recall him saying anything about this being difficult for him beyond the occasional and undesired erection. "But that was different. We were trapped together. Now you can come and go."
"In some ways that makes it harder."
Her fingers flexed against the counter. "What's hard?"
"When things between us get a little too - comfortable. You standing here, showing off those legs and letting me feed you while I know you're just sitting with your bare arse on the chair - it blurs the line."
"You spending more time here than strictly required?"
He spoke it fast. "No, the line of you being fucking hot and me needing to remember that I have a job to do."
Silence fell.
"You tell me all the time that I look like shit," she finally offered. It was a question.
"That's relative," he muttered. "And it was only once." He braced his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.
Memories of things he'd said, the hardness of his cock the few times she'd felt it, the many times she caught him staring at her - all crashed through her brain. But he was just evaluating your condition, she thought. Not - looking at you. He only touches you because he has to.
"Malfoy."
He met her eyes.
Watched, as she used some mysterious reservoir of strength to lift herself up onto her counter. To sit, legs dangling over the edge.
To spread those legs, very slightly.
He slid forward as if tugged on a string.
Her lower half was throbbing with anticipation. "I didn't know you viewed me as . . . at all desirable."
He tossed his head, hair falling prettily. "Then I take back anything I've ever said that indicated I thought you were perceptive or intelligent."
She chose her words carefully. "I'm surprised you could think of me that way. With my background. My family. Being a Mud-"
"Don't. We're going down a path I had hoped to avoid, so let's cut to it." He looked her right in the eye. Leaned forward so that his hands were on either side of her hips.
None of that helped with the throbbing.
"You were the hottest witch in our year. Fuck, at Hogwarts the entire time we were there. You have the brain, the face, and the body. It's an objective fact. You know it. I know it."
"I -"
"Be quiet. I have put that fact aside as much as humanly possible since you were attacked and we found ourselves in this situation. I like to think I - I've done a decent job."
"You hav-"
"Be quiet." Their eyes remained locked. He was mad. "I didn't say it as some subversive attempt to give a compliment. Just to - explain."
"How long have you thought that about me?"
He was gripping the counter too. She could see his arms flexing.
"How long?"
"I can't answer that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Do you remember when you learned that a ball in the air falls toward the ground? Of course not. It's just a thing that I know."
They were both breathing hard.
She looked to the ceiling so that she wouldn't do something humiliating like kiss him. "Now I feel bad about you needing to do this. Especially if you're - feeling frustrated."
"We've discussed this too." He gently gripped her chin with his fingers and tugged it down. Look at him. Their faces were inches apart. "I can handle my own frustration. You're not the one who should feel bad."
A door opened, in her mind. Just a crack. She had to try.
"You just said you find me . . . attractive."
"I said that you are attractive." Malfoy shrugged a shoulder. "I'm tired. I slipped."
A distinction, in this case, without a difference. She could see it, the desire, in his eyes.
"But now that it's been said, I can't unhear it. And - I wonder - Ginny thinks part of why she's doing better is that she and Harry have more . . . connection."
"Emotional connection," he said blandly. His eyes bored into hers.
Hermione nodded. "Yes, they do. We both assume that makes a difference. But your - treatments - have helped me, right?"
He frowned. "I guess." They both knew she was going backwards.
"So - if you're amenable - maybe expanding our physical connection would also help?" She gulped. "Like, if we intensified it."
Malfoy looked away then, toward the door, and chewed his lower lip. He was close enough that she could have chewed it too, if she had the courage to lean forward. She didn't. She watched the lines of his jaw as they moved under his skin. He thought for a long time before he finally spoke. "What kind of expansion?"
While she'd vividly imagined the details, she hadn't thought through the execution. "I leave that to you."
"I don't think so."
Hermione gestured at herself - sitting on the counter with her legs apart, in an old shirt and wet hair. "We needn't overthink it. Just crack on. I think we've lost any pretense of dignity." Or knowledge, virgin that she was. But he would never know that.
"I completely disagree. I have worked quite hard, in fact, to maintain my dignity."
She laughed, hurt, at the same moment his eyes widened, hearing his own words. "Ouch."
"I didn't mean - We've both maintained our dignity. Just because you're - vulnerable in this condition doesn't mean you're not dignified or that I think less of you or anything."
She didn't answer. His tone was earnest - well, as earnest as Malfoy ever got - but she knew she would remember the sting of "my dignity" for a long time.
"Hermione?" He placed his hand lightly on her leg. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine."
"What more do you think would help?" He seemed sincere, but Hermione felt as though something had shifted. He thought her pathetic, surely. How the so-called 'hottest girl at Hogwarts' had fallen. What a load of rubbish. Everyone knows Parvati was the hottest. And here she was, spreading her legs for orgasms so she could be well enough to choke down a few bites of delivered food. Dignity? She hadn't had that since the moment that gods-damned monster attacked. And they both knew it.
"Ginny hasn't ever . . . gone into details."
He began to massage her thigh, almost absentmindedly. The tingling in her nether-regions resumed in time to the movements of his fingers. Pathetic: confirmed.
"More touching?" he asked after a minute.
"Sure."
"Of you?"
"I think it's supposed to be more connection . . . between us," she faltered.
"You touching me." He was watching his own hand on her leg, avoiding her eyes.
"If you don't -"
"Yes, that's fine," he said quickly. "Probably we should let some of our unspoken boundaries naturally dissolve. We can go from there."
"Alright."
They both watched as his hand moved, as if a puppet on a string, and lightly stroked above her knee.
"Your skin here is very soft." And then, apparently wasting no time, he bent down, his head nearly in her lap, and kissed where his fingers had been.
She gasped. "Oh."
He looked up, and the sight of him down near her legs was - confusing. "Is that not alright?" he asked.
"I'm just surprised."
"Hmm."
He straightened, tracing a repeating pattern on the inside of her leg. Open for me? his fingers asked. She did. He stepped between them.
Her desire begged for fuel.
She laid a hand over his, tentative. As if he'd been waiting for it, he lightly entwined their fingers, and guided hers to his neck. Permission.
Looking up into his face, she slid her fingertips into the hairs - you've wondered what they felt like - at the back of his head.
One of his strong arms slid around her back and crushed her to him. The other drifted between her legs.
She was in his arms. It felt as good as any of the pleasure he'd ever given her.
He was so tall her face was aligned with his chest. If she leaned forward she could touch her lips to the skin where his shirt opened. She wondered what he would do if she did. How broadly would he allow this relaxation of rules?
His arm at her back tightened. She could feel that he was hard, against her leg.
She wasn't sure what compelled her, but she tilted her head slowly.
Malfoy sighed. And lowered his face, his lips searching for, and finding, her fluttering - no, pounding - pulse. His teeth scraped it gently. Kissed it better. Bit her again.
He felt for the center of her. When he found it - and her ready for him - he exhaled, hot on her skin. "How are you always wet?" It was a hoarse whisper.
She blushed. "I don't know."
He was gently touching, and her hips moved greedily. "Aren't you mad at me? For maligning you?"
"No."
"Why?" He brushed his thumb lightly over her clit.
"When you're doing that I find it impossible to be mad at you."
He laughed, a real laugh, and rewarded her with a finger, pressed deep inside, teasing her gently in a slow thrust.
"Malfoy?" Her voice was breathy. "Can we -" kiss - "go to bed?"
He was still, his mouth near her ear.
"What are you doing?" she finally asked.
"Mentally preparing."
To lift her?
"I'm pretty sturdy."
He chuckled at that. "I don't believe sturdy is how I'd describe you - strong, definitely."
Then he picked her up, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. His hand was on her arse, holding her up, and her arms clutched at his neck. He carried her easily - out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and into her room. He laid her on the bed.
She tightened her legs. You're not getting away that easily. He laughed again. "You can release me, Granger. I'm not going anywhere."
Hermione crawled to the pillows. Setting his wand on the side table, he laid down.
Instead of sliding his hands between her legs he pulled her up against him, over him, gripping her thigh, lifting it up and over his hip. She laid her head on his chest. He was solid and warm.
This position gave him convenient access to her arse, and his fingertips proceeded to lightly discover it. It tickled very pleasantly.
"Please," she asked without thinking.
"I've barely touched you yet," he admonished, and continued his explorations. She felt him make that pattern again, the one from her leg.
"I can't finish when you're just messing with my backside." She felt a little cross. He responded by squeezing said backside firmly. Hermione resisted a strong desire to press her whole body up against him and force his hand between her legs again.
Which - oh. She realized that was the whole idea. Tentatively, she reached for him, sliding one hand under his neck and into the hairs there - silky soft - and laid the other against his chest. She wondered what was on his face but she was too cowardly to check. Instead she began to trace her own light patterns with her fingers, swirling them against the fabric of his sweater and in his hair. "Alright?" she asked.
He spread his fingers over her arse and - squeezed it twice.
"Very funny." She was ready for him to proceed. She pressed into his hip with her leg, as if to remind him that she was waiting.
"What do you want, Granger?" His breath tickled the top of her head.
"You know what I need."
"I know I want you to say it." He reached up under her shirt again and ran a finger, featherlight, down each bump in her spine, down her lower back, down to where - this is it - and stopped.
She moaned. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Play with me," she whispered, pressing her hips into him.
He exhaled so hard she heard a wheeze in the back of his throat. And then he did. He pulled her in even closer - so that she was pressed, bare, against the front of his trousers - and then he ran his fingers from behind through where she was slick for him.
"Like this?" His fingers slipped through her folds, tracing every part of her.
With great effort - she could barely talk - she said "harder."
His voice was whisper soft. "Mmm. I don't think so." Were those his lips in her hair?
He kept up the slow, delicate movements between her legs. He clearly meant to prolong things and had no intention of making her come any time soon. "You're making me crazy," she said, pressing herself into him. He was hard in his pants, and it felt very nice to grind against it. Of course. Once she understood his intentions, she felt rather daft. She moved her hand from where it had fisted in the front of his sweater around to his back, and squeezed herself against him.
She was now completely aligned with his erection, which fit against her like they were a lock and key. He grunted - but rewarded her initiative with a fingertip inside her. "You're in charge," he said.
Fine. If he was going to torture her like this she could do the same. She twisted the fingers she had in his hair, pulling the downy strands at the same moment she began a firm pace with her hips, pressing into his cock and gripping the back of his trousers as leverage with her other hand. It felt - so good. Different pleasure than he usually gave her. She vaguely recalled dry humping with Ron in an empty classroom at Hogwarts. But now she had no denims on, and with her leg over Malfoy's hip she had plenty of room to move in circles on him.
"Turnabout," she said.
He slipped a second finger inside her and began a very slow rhythm that matched her movements. "Can you make yourself finish by rubbing against me?" She derived a strong sense of satisfaction from the hint of desperation in his voice.
You have the power now. Her tone was downright flirty when she answered, tugging again on his hair so hard his head tilted back. "We'll find out."
"Now." He was definitely desperate. Knowing he couldn't see her, she looked up and saw him swallow. She wanted to taste his throat, but didn't. Instead she put every ounce of her energy into feeling as much of his dick as she could.
"I'm going to get your pants dirty." The apology was a mismatch with the insistence of her hips.
"I don't care. Good." He sounded like a different person. Very un-Malfoy-like. His voice was rough and fast. "Pull my hair again."
She did, and he grunted. His fingers continued their relentless assault on her cunt. Heightening her pleasure, but not intended to push her over the precipice. He wanted her to come on him.
"Can you finish from me rubbing against you?" She emphasized her words with her body.
"I didn't think so but - maybe."
"What would it take?"
"Focus on yourself, Granger. I want to feel it."
She was nearly lost now, overwhelmed with sensation. She liked being able to grip him, pull him against her, move her hips against his. But she wanted more - more control.
"Lie on your back," she said sharply. He rolled backward, pulling her with him. Then she was straddling his hips, one hand still in his hair, the other holding his side. Hermione pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing hard. Her body adjusted to the sensation of resting on top. She opened her thighs as wide as she could and enjoyed how that felt. He was rigid beneath her, and she moved her legs and hips until she found the spot - Merlin, that spot - and ground down. Malfoy had withdrawn his fingers from inside her when they moved, and gripped her arse now with both hands, holding her against him. She writhed her hips, chasing it - her eyes shut yet seeing bursts of light. So close. Had she said that aloud?
But before she could determine the answer, she had arrived at the edge of the pleasure and was falling over it, vaulting over it. She gripped his hair, held onto his shoulder. Breathing hard into the skin of his neck, Hermione felt a new kind of release wash over and through her. She followed it as far as it would go, rode him, rubbed herself all over his cock and the delicious friction of his pants.
Finally it was over and she stilled, panting, unable to open her eyes. "Wow."
He made no move to change their position but tugged the hem of her shirt down a bit and moved his hands so that they were on her back, holding her lightly. "Good?" he asked.
"Beyond."
They lay there for several minutes as their breathing returned to normal. His cock was still demanding attention beneath her.
"Did you-" she asked.
"No." But his tone wasn't angry or annoyed or frustrated. He sounded - satisfied.
Her fingers were in his hair and she relaxed them from their death grip. "I hope I didn't rip it out."
"You didn't, but if you want to soothe my sore scalp I wouldn't object." She couldn't tell if he was kidding. She began to rub gently at the back of his head. His chest vibrated in response.
"Are you purring?"
"Probably. That feels . . . very nice."
"You seem rather relaxed for a man who is still hard and being crushed under my full weight."
He laughed and she pressed her ear into him, to catch it. Memorize the rare sound of that. "You couldn't crush a bowtruckle. And playing with my hair neutralizes all other desires and renders me senseless."
"That sounds like information you should withhold from your enemy," she teased, but kept up the movement of her fingertips. Even softer than she'd hoped it would be.
"Still enemies?" He clucked his tongue. "After you used my dick as a sex toy?"
"Was it too much?"
"No." His hands tightened on her back.
They lay there for a long time.
It was intoxicating, to touch him like this. She let herself imagine, just for a moment, that everything was different. That she'd met him at her flat, both of them hurrying to see each other after long days. That they'd shared dinner, chatting amiably, and gone to bed together. That he'd stay and hold her all night.
She felt herself drifting off. "Take it as a compliment if I fall asleep," she whispered.
He didn't answer and she wondered if he had already. She moved her fingers out of his hair in anticipation of having to move off him. "I'd better go then," he said.
"Oh."
Malfoy rolled her backwards gently and hesitated for just a moment before he pulled away completely and stood. She watched him at the side of the bed. He paused again, as if about to say something, but stopped himself. He turned toward the door.
"Tomorrow?" she asked after him.
"I could. But the next day might be better."
Hermione sat up on her elbows. "No!"
He turned his blond head round at that and surveyed her. "What? You need your rest."
She scrabbled for a coherent response. "I - I'll need your help. I'm supposed to walk with Ginny."
He was poised in the doorway, held back only by his compulsion to argue with her. "Sun will be good for you. You'll probably feel fine."
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I bet it will be draining. Please - please come tomorrow. No matter what time. And - if you're going to be coming late you know you can . . . ."
But she couldn't get the words out. You can stay. It can be like it was. In the cave. She didn't need to say it though, he knew.
"That's kind of you. Probably better that I maintain a presence at my home. But - I'll think about it."
They looked at each other then, for just a second longer than necessary.
"Sleep well."
Ginny did come, and helped her eat tomato sandwiches from Kirby, and then coaxed her into a long walk round the park. "It's gorgeous out, Hermione. Cool and bright. And you can't spend all your time in this flat."
So walk they did, and Ginny chatted while Hermione listened, about wedding plans ("Mum says next summer but I think there's no rush, really, and winter might be pretty"), the latest gossip at the Ministry ("No one's even noticed that you're taking more time, they all just ask after you and they mean it nicely, I can tell"), her fleeting irritations with her sister-in-law ("Fleur thinks she does more of the cooking when we're all together but she doesn't, Hermione, she's delusional"), and then, finally, Ron and Pansy ("It's bizarre, he wants to bring her to dinner. Can you imagine what she'll wear? Mum is going to die.").
Finally, as they rounded the last turn and headed back for the flat, a silence fell. "So?" prodded Ginny after a minute.
"Hmm?" She was focusing on the warmth of the sun and the breeze in her hair. It felt nice, she had to admit, being out. But it had been a long walk, and she was ready to go home and lay down and wait for -
"Malfoy!" It fairly burst from Ginny. "How are things going? You're looking so well today, I couldn't help but ask."
Hermione bristled. "Things are fine. I'm all the way to the park, aren't I?"
Ginny rolled her eyes and took her arm, pulling her close. "I mean, physically. He's been visiting you for weeks now."
"Yes."
"Is he still 'as professional as possible?'"
Usually yes. Last night - no. "Generally."
"What's the difference today? Is that thanks to - more?"
More contact? More connection?"
How could Hermione answer that? She'd rubbed against him, yes. It had felt different and momentous at the time. But - he hadn't had any release. And all she'd really done was pull his hair out of his head and smear herself over the front of his trousers. Her cheeks flamed, remembering. "Not really."
That resulted in a frown. "He won't let you?"
Hermione pursed her lips. "I wouldn't say that. He wants me to take charge, and I think he'd let me do whatever I wanted. But -" she waved a hand. "It's Malfoy."
"Is he a good kisser?" Ginny asked it as innocently as she could.
Indignation, crashing over like a wave. "I, uh. I don't know."
Ginny touched her hand lightly, stopping them in the middle of the path. Her face was a carefully constructed mask. "Malfoy has been . . . touching you . . . almost every day for nearly three months now. And not one kiss?"
Hermione slowly shook her head.
Ginny frowned in confusion. "How?"
"We have boundaries," insisted Hermione. She realized her fists were clenched, and she consciously relaxed them.
"Did you make a rule?"
"No. At least, not spoken. Just - we don't do that."
Ginny was a dog with a bone. "But you've admitted before, you have to be pretty close for it to work. Like, the touching."
Hermione gritted her teeth. "Yes, of course."
"Yet you haven't once . . . even accidentally?"
Hermione's tone was huffy. "No. I said, it's not like that. Malfoy doesn't do anything accidentally, and neither do I." Except for the few times, those occasional touches, they couldn't be helped -
Ginny's frown deepened. "Do you think maybe kissing might spur your healing? Help you get your magic back?"
Kissing.
Malfoy's mouth - the next frontier.
"I suppose it might."
A line formed and then disappeared between Ginny's brows. She took up Hermione's arm again and resumed their walk. "I won't ask about your past experience because I'm afraid the answer involves my brother. But snogging isn't, like - such a big deal."
Hermione was incensed. "I know, Ginny. It's not the snogging. It's - I - he -" she flailed for the words. "It's almost been too long for that or - other things. We have a - a schedule. A routine. Distance. It would take a rather significant effort to divert the current course."
"You'd feel weird changing it up," Ginny confirmed for herself.
Hermione nodded, trying hard to quell the anger she felt at this line of questioning.
"He said you're in charge. I think you should just do it. I bet he won't mind. Malfoy doesn't seem the type to take a snog too seriously."
Something inside Hermione disagreed, but she didn't voice it.
She tried to imagine kissing Malfoy - well, that wasn't hard. Though, in some ways, it was easier to picture them fucking.
The prospect of kissing triggered two intense fears. First, rejection. The risk, if she tried it, and he said no? It felt like life or death. It might kill her, if he said no. As it was, she could barely breathe when he said goodnight, or when he said he wouldn't be back for three days instead of two. He was the tenuous hold she kept on reality, on wanting to live. If he gently took her shoulders, moved her away? Gods. The pain of it was a fist in her chest. She'd rather exist, in this confusing state of suspended desire, forever - than hear him telling her "no."
And the second - while her imagination could certainly provide a general idea of what it would look like, kissing him - it was quite a different thing to picture how she could make it happen. She'd hoped he'd do it. But last night had made it clear - he was going to wait for her.
Could she simply ask? "One snog, please?" No, that didn't seem right.
Better, if she was able to work up the courage, to catch him off guard. Hope that she'd snare the version of him who drew little shapes on her inner thighs.
But, put simply, initiating it terrified her. Perhaps if you entice him sufficiently, he'll be unable to resist. Last night she'd done enough to draw him into her. He'd let her touch his hair, and grind against him, and wrap his body in her arms and legs. Her lips weren't such a big change. He said you're hot. You can use that.
She thought of the lace pairs - in her knickers drawer.
"Maybe I'll try it and let you know how it goes." Hermione finally said.
They walked the rest of the way home while Ginny shared more about the wedding and what shade of blue would flatter Hermione, and Fleur, and her cousins. "Oh gods," she gasped. "You don't think Ron would want to bring her do you?!"
"I can't really picture Pansy at your wedding, Gin. Surely she'll tire of him by then."
At her building's front door they hugged goodbye and Hermione said she could get upstairs herself.
In truth, she wanted to be alone, which Ginny seemed to sense. "I'll see you in another few days. Maybe I'll bring Harry."
"Sounds good." Hermione turned to go in.
"About Malfoy," Ginny said suddenly. "If he was anyone else - if he didn't have his history, didn't have that name - what would you want to do with him?"
She hadn't ever thought of that. "Like if I'd just met him?"
"Sure. Based on the person you've known since that cave. Since the attack."
Hermione opened and closed her mouth twice, like a fish. "I suppose - I suppose based on his body alone I'd be inviting him to bed."
Ginny tried - failed - to hide a face like she'd smelled something bad.
Hermione's jaw clenched. "You asked."
"I did. I did. Well, I think you might want to step it up."
"And if he doesn't want to?"
Ginny laughed. "You're Hermione Granger. He wants to."