Chapter 4

under the mistletoe

"And when the world isn't fair
I'll pretend that we're there
Baby, baby, Merry Christmas"

-Christmas Tree Farm, Taylor Swift

It had been months. Weeks since that raw, desperate moment in the empty corridor, and even longer since that tense encounter in the Transfiguration classroom. Malfoy ignored her, not even a sneer or insult. It was like she'd ceased to exist in his world again.

Hermione found it maddening. It was getting harder and harder to focus on anything else.

She had more important things to worry about—schoolwork, the war that loomed ever closer, and the damnable Christmas party Slughorn had decided to host for his precious Slug Club.

She wasn't sure if Harry had been invited because he was the Boy Who Lived or because he'd become Slughorn's star pupil, thanks to that cursed textbook he'd found—the book filled with notes and shortcuts that made Potions almost laughably easy. Hermione tried not to let the envy twist her insides—what she wouldn't give to see the insights scrawled within those pages.

Either way, Harry was here, and he'd brought Luna as his date, which at least added some fun to the event.

Hermione planned to bring Ron, guilty that she and Harry were invited while he wasn't. Brushing off his snide comments about her wanting to hook-up with McLaggen, she gritted her teeth against his ridiculous assumptions.

Despite his sour attitude, she asked him anyway.

But then, Ginny, with her characteristic lack of tact, had let slip that Hermione had hooked up with Viktor Krum during the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione didn't see the big deal—it wasn't as if she and Ron were an item. She had every right to keep her past to herself.

Still, it had struck a nerve with Ron.

The next thing she knew, she'd stumbled upon Ron and Lavender Brown swallowing each other's faces in the common room.

Hermione had paused mid-step, her stomach turning not with jealousy but with sheer disgust at the sight. An ungainly, sloppy mess. They seemed to be devouring each other. She'd turned away, wrinkling her nose in distaste, but a small, unwelcome pang twisted in her chest.

Envy? Yes, maybe, but not for Ron.

No, she longed for something else—memories of stolen moments that quickened her pulse, not awkward groping in the common room.

Was Malfoy snogging someone in his common room right now? Like Pansy Parkinson? The thought stabbed at her mind, uninvited. Draco had ended things with Pansy shortly after their first hook-up last year. But the idea still struck a nerve. She shook her head, scolding herself for even caring.

It wasn't her business. It wasn't her problem.

She ended up at Slughorn's party, with Cormac McLaggen as her date.

She'd invited him out of spite because she knew it would drive Ron mad, but now she regretted it. McLaggen had done nothing but prattle on about Quidditch, his family's influence, and how he'd be a sure pick for Head Boy next year. She'd already lost count of how often he'd tried to slip an arm around her waist, his sweaty hand lingering just a bit too long.

Her gaze wandered across the room as her thoughts drifted again. In the back of her mind, she wondered what Malfoy was doing tonight. Maybe he was in the Slytherin common room, alone or not, his face shadowed with that haunted look she couldn't forget.

She had no reason to care. No reason to even think about it.

But the memory of his eyes—dark, dilated, empty of their usual light—lingered like a ghost, and something had to give.

"Are you even listening to me, Granger?" McLaggen's voice broke through her thoughts, snapping her back to the reality of the party. His hand brushed her waist again, and she forced herself to smile, tight-lipped and polite.

"Of course, McLaggen," she replied, though she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

The party was awful, too crowded and hot. Hermione felt like she was suffocating under the dull hum of conversations and the overly sweet scent of punch.

Slughorn, as always, had his sights set on Harry, who'd managed to avoid the professor and his precious Slug Club for most of the year by conveniently scheduling Quidditch practices. Convenient in that, Harry scheduled all the practices as captain.

Hermione, unfortunately, was stuck with McLaggen. If she'd known how much of a headache he would be, she would have brought Neville along instead. Neville, at least, would have been respectful and pleasant company.

McLaggen seemed intent on getting her under every bit of mistletoe in the room, his intentions clear. The mere thought of his lips anywhere near hers made her stomach churn with disgust.

As she scanned the crowded room for a way to escape, McLaggen managed to corner her, steering her toward a quiet spot by the wall. She glanced up and cursed internally.

Right under that bloody mistletoe.

She saw his eyes close, his lips puckering in preparation, and she had a split second to decide—punch or push?

She braced herself, her muscles tensing for action, when a sudden commotion cut through the room like a knife. Filch stormed in, his ragged breath gasping as he shoved through the crowd.

Startled, McLaggen jerked back, turning toward the noise. Hermione took the opportunity to slip out from under his arm, her heart pounding with relief and disgust. She looked toward the source of the commotion and froze.

Behind Filch, being dragged by the scruff of his neck, was Malfoy.

"What's all this?" Slughorn frowned, his cheerful conversation with Harry coming to an abrupt halt. His eyes flickered between Filch and Malfoy, his smile slipping.

"I caught him trying to spy on the party," Filch rasped, his face twisted with glee at having caught someone misbehaving. "Should I report him to the Headmaster?"

Slughorn's expression wavered, not wanting disruption to tarnish his carefully curated event.

"No, no." He waved a hand to brush the whole thing aside. "It's Christmastime, and if the boy wants to attend the party that badly, he may stay. The young Mr. Malfoy is welcome here, of course."

Filch looked crushed, his moment of glory snatched away, while Malfoy's face was a mask of fury. His grey eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, and Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. Hermione couldn't help but notice how much tension radiated from his body; his fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles bone-white. She wondered what had possessed him to try to sneak in, especially knowing how precarious his position was this year.

Of course, before Lucius Malfoy's disgrace—the trial, the conviction, Azkaban—Malfoy would have been an obvious choice for the guest list. The magical world bore the imprint of the Malfoy family's wealth and influence.

"Before he can join in the festivities, I would like a word with Mr. Malfoy," Snape's voice cut in, cool and commanding, as he stepped forward. "As the head of his house."

"Of course, of course!" Slughorn said, eager to breeze over the whole situation. "Let's all forget this business and return to the festivities."

Snape didn't wait for another word. He grabbed Malfoy by the arm, dragging him out of the room, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a bat. Hermione watched them go, her mind racing with questions.

What the hell was Malfoy thinking?

She caught sight of Harry slipping out after them, his expression set with that stubborn, single-minded determination she'd come to recognize all too well. His conviction that Malfoy was a Death Eater intensified, becoming an obsession.

She might have been jealous if it weren't so troubling.

Setting her drink down on the nearest table, Hermione began weaving toward the exit, her eyes never leaving where Harry had disappeared.

"Hey!" McLaggen's voice stopped her in her tracks, his hand clamping around her arm with surprising force. "Where are you going? We're having a good night."

Hermione's patience snapped like a taut string. She was done with this pathetic, self-absorbed idiot and his relentless, desperate advances.

"Where I'm going is none of your business," she shot back, freeing her arm from his grip. Her eyes flashed with anger, her voice cold and biting. "And if you think I've had a good time tonight while you've chased me around like a kneazle in heat, trying to trick me into kissing you, you're deluded. Goodnight, McLaggen."

She didn't wait for his response. She was already moving, slipping out of the stifling room, the rush of cooler air hitting her as she stepped into the corridor.

Hermione took a deep breath, steadying herself.

She had more important things to worry about than Cormac McLaggen.

Hermione's eyes darted down the darkened corridor, searching for any sign of Harry. He'd vanished into thin air, and she suspected he'd slipped under his invisibility cloak, though part of her hoped he'd gone back to Gryffindor Tower. But knowing Harry, he was still nearby, close and listening in on conversations that were not any of his damn business.

Before she could scan further, the sound of a door jerking open startled her. Hermione jerked backward, pressing herself into the shadows of a nearby alcove. The cold stone bit into her back as she flattened herself against the wall, breath held tight in her chest. Snape, robes billowing, stormed from a side room. His face contorted with irritation, brows drawn together. She could almost feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, like a tangible force in the air.

Whatever reprimand he'd just delivered must have been brutal.

A flash of movement near the floor caught her eye. Harry's foot, she realized, uncovered by his invisibility cloak, as if he'd shifted too quickly. The fabric slipped slightly, revealing the edge of his shoe before he moved again, the cloak settling back into place.

Her heart skipped a beat. Harry was creeping down the hallway, slipping away in the opposite direction Snape had taken. Relief, tinged with frustration, flooded her. He'd been with Snape all along! Just what had he been up to? She watched his faint, shadowed outline disappear down the corridor. Her hand tightened on the doorknob of the side room Snape had just vacated.

Hermione acted without hesitation, entering the room before doubt could set in. She shut the door behind her, the faint click of the latch sealing her in as she took in the dark, quiet space around her.

Hermione's pulse pounded in her ears as she turned, surveying the dim, shadowed room.

Malfoy turned, eyes wide with surprise, his lips already parting in protest. "What the—?"

"Shut up," she hissed, and before she could second-guess herself, she closed the distance between them and crashed her lips against his.

For a split second, there was nothing but the heat of their mouths colliding, the sudden, fierce pull that seemed to erase everything else.

Then Malfoy's hands were on her, one arm wrapping around her waist with a rough, desperate strength, the other tangling in her hair. He spun them around, pinning her against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of her, his body pressing against hers. She could feel every inch of him, every tense muscle, every ragged breath as his lips claimed hers.

Their kiss was frantic, a clash of teeth and tongues, neither willing to relent. Hermione's fingers fumbled to his belt, her movements quick and practiced as she unclasped and pulled it loose. The leather hissed through the loops, and Malfoy swore under his breath. His mouth broke away from hers, trailing hot, urgent kisses down her neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake.

Her low-cut, pastel pink Christmas dress—the one she had picked reluctantly for the party—now felt imbued with a far more dangerous purpose. Before she'd left her dormitory, she'd covered her scar from the Dolohov attack with makeup and a disillusionment charm to hide it.

Draco's breath was ragged and uneven as he buried his face against her collarbone, his lips finding the exposed skin of her cleavage. His mouth moved over her, rough and needy, his teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her gasp.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against her skin. "This dress."

Hermione's breath hitched, a shiver running down her spine at his voice, that familiar blend of hunger and frustration. Her hands tugged at his shirt, fingers curling around the fabric as she pulled him closer, needing to feel more of him, to drown out everything else. She could feel his breath hot against her chest, his lips moving lower, his teeth scraping against her skin.

He moved one of the thick straps down her arm, exposing her breast and the fact she had not been wearing a bra. He growled in appreciation as he took the pert nipple into his mouth, his hands travelling up her skirt, bunching it around her waist.

"Yes," Hermione sighed as his fingers found the edges of her knickers. She wore a thong to prevent the lines from showing on the dress; Malfoy had it ripped off in seconds.

He released her nipple with a pop, moving one of his hands to her throat to push her back and hold her still. It wasn't rough or painful, just enough pressure to keep her where he wanted her. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, the action soaking her core.

He stared at her, nostrils flared. They were both panting, and Hermione could tell she was flushed. She was also dripping wet with anticipation. The chilly breeze in the drafty room brushed her still-exposed nipple, causing her to breathe in sharply and arch against the sensation.

Malfoy frowned as he looked down at her. He was so tall, he towered over her. "I thought I said this couldn't happen again."

Her eyebrow twitched as she smirked. "I don't remember agreeing to anything like that."

Hermione's hand traced a deliberate path down the front of his shirt, her fingers brushing against each button before continuing to his trousers. She palmed him with a firm, knowing touch, and Malfoy's breath caught. He gritted his teeth, a low snarl escaping his lips, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he pressed into her hand, his hips moving in a rough, instinctual rhythm.

"Did McLaggen not satisfy you enough, then?" he bit out, his voice laced with a cruel edge.

Hermione's eyes locked on his, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Are you and Ron sharing tips on how to piss me off?"

Malfoy's lips twitched into a sneer. But something else was there—something darker, wounded. "You brought McLaggen to the Slug Club party," he said, trying to sound indifferent, but she could hear the accusation, the bitterness simmering beneath the surface.

"And who else was I supposed to bring?" she retorted, her voice rising. "You won't even look at me. Ron is being asinine, as usual. Perhaps I should have found your friend, Theo? He could charm the trousers off someone. Did you know that he did give me the Slytherin password last year? Remember when I fucked you in your dorm room? Do you suppose he would have come?"

Malfoy's hand flew to her neck, his grip tightening just enough to thrill her.

"Maybe we should find a better use for your mouth than spitting nonsense," he growled, his eyes narrowing.

Hermione arched a brow, the challenge clear in her eyes. She could see it then—a spark of the old Malfoy, that cocky, self-assured smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes sharp and gleaming with something dangerously familiar. Craving the fight, he wanted to outdo her.

His hand moved to the top of her head. The pressure was firm but not forceful, a silent command. For a moment, their gazes locked, a battle of wills.

And then she let herself go.

She didn't resist.

Instead, her lips curled into a knowing smirk, and she allowed herself to sink slowly, her knees hitting the cold stone floor as she knelt before him.

Hermione licked her lips as she undid Malfoy's trousers, pulling him free.

He was ready for her when she took him in her mouth

Malfoy let out a strangled groan and laced his fingers through her hair. Hermione moaned and looked up at him through her lashes, watching as he began to come undone.

She used her hands to brace on his legs as his grip tightened on her hair and began to move her head just as he needed it. She would have smiled in triumph if her mouth wasn't otherwise preoccupied.

He released in her mouth, Hermione swallowing it all with fervour as he cursed.

Hermione leaned back against the cold stone wall, still on her knees, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. One of the thin straps of her pastel pink dress had slipped off her shoulder, exposing her breast, and she could feel the cool draft of the room against her flushed skin. She wiped her mouth with the pad of her thumb, a smug smile playing on her lips as she looked up at Malfoy.

He stood there, looming over her, his chest rising and falling, his hair dishevelled, his lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes were dark and narrowed, his glare sharp enough to cut.

"You're a fiend." He glared down at her.

Hermione's smile widened.

"And you taste the same as I remember." She licked her lips, savouring the moment.

His gaze held hers, showing a struggle—push, pull. He teetered between what he should do and what he wanted. For months, she'd watched him distance himself, pretending whatever they had was over.

Right now, she wanted anything but distance.

"Are you going to keep staring? Or are you going to do something?" Her voice, a low, husky whisper, cut through the silence.

His jaw tightened, his hands trembling from her touch's aftermath. She could see how he was trying to pull himself together, to summon whatever self-control he had left. But she wasn't about to let him find his footing.

Hermione pushed the other strap of her gown from her other shoulder, revealing her chest nipples taut. Malfoy tried to look unfazed, but his twitching member, directly in her view, gave him away.

His eyes grew dark. "Stand up."

With a deliberate, sensual grace, Hermione rose. She kept her eyes locked on him, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed his face as she lifted herself off the cold stone floor. Her body brushed against the wall behind her, and she leaned into its coolness, the contrast of the cold stone against her heated skin, breaking her skin out in goosebumps.

"You're impossible." Almost instinctively, he stepped forward, his hand finding the curve of her exposed breast, his palm warm against her skin. His touch was rough, desperate.

Hermione let out a soft sigh, her lips parting as she leaned into his touch.

"I don't know what you mean," she said with a saccharine smile, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"Don't act innocent," he growled, his thumb brushing over her nipple, sending a shiver through her. "Not when we both know where your mouth was two seconds ago."

She arched a brow, her smile turning wicked. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"You vex me." His grip tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh just enough to mix a bit of pain with pleasure, a sharp spark that made her breath hitch.

"Vex, you?" Hermione's tone was mocking, her eyes never leaving his. "I suppose it's better than the hex I planned to use on you."

"There's my vengeful little witch," Malfoy crooned, a dark, teasing smile curling his lips. He leaned in, his breath warm against her face as his thumb swiped over her bottom lip. "Alright, you win. What would you have me do now?"

Hermione's tongue darted out, moistening her lips and catching his thumb.

"Stop hesitating," she breathed out, searching his clear eyes-no sign of the foggy disassociation so often present. "You're Draco Malfoy. If you know what you want, you take it."

He studied her, eyes narrowing as if reading her intentions. The air shifted—nothing to do with lust, everything to do with something deeper. They stood on a precipice, toeing the line between chaos and something more.

In that brief silence, Hermione knew he understood. Both saw it in each other's eyes: something beyond reckless desire, beyond adrenaline.

They knew each other. They saw each other, stripped bare of pretenses and facades. Understood what the other needed, even when it wasn't easy to admit.

He needed reassurance, a sense of control in a world that had spun violently out of his grasp. She could see it in the taut line of his shoulders. His hands flexed and unflexed at his sides, like he was fighting to keep his balance. She would give it to him—whatever it took to keep him anchored to this moment, to keep him from slipping away again.

He needed reassurance; he needed control.

Malfoy was on her in the next moment, mouths colliding. He could taste himself on her tongue, which only drove the force of his desire. His hands drifted down to the back of her thighs, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him like water in a desert.

He turned, sitting them in a chair in the empty classroom, leaving Hermione astride on his lap. His member brushed against the exposed flesh of her core beneath her dress, and Hermione rocked against the sensation.

Malfoy cursed, his head falling back, exposing his lean and taut neck. Hermione couldn't help but lean down and lick her way up the column of it.

"Granger," he groaned, his hands shifting to her hips. "Fuck. Ride me."

Hermione needed no further invitation. She adjusted, lining them up and impaling herself on Malfoy.

She let out a whimper when he bottomed out, filling her to the hilt. She arched into him, Malfoy palming her breasts as she began to move. As she increased in speed and fervour, gasps releasing in time with her body, Malfoy slipped one of his hands downward, finding the nerves there.

Hermione shook, a scream of pleasure growing in the back of her throat. Malfoy caught the sound in his mouth, swallowing it like a potion before he followed her release.

They sat there for moments, catching their breath as their chests rose and fell in time with one another. Hermione rested her forehead against Malfoy's; he was still inside her, and she couldn't bear to move, to separate them in any way.

His hands rose and held her face, caressing her jawline as they stared at each other in the afterglow of their tumultuous union.

"Happy Christmas, Draco," she whispered to him.

His brow furrowed, and he glanced down at her mouth, then back up again. Thoughts of the outside world intruding, creeping in like a burglar, stealing their time. He leaned up and kissed her gently like a goodbye.

"We can't do this again, Hermione. I mean it this time."