Chapter Text

April 25, 2003

The heavy stone gate loomed in front of Hermione Granger, its ornate ironwork curling like vines as though it were protecting the secrets of Malfoy Manor. The secrets that she unfortunately knew all too well and had been a part of keeping during the war.

It was an imposing structure, and she hesitated far longer than she would have liked before finally moving through it and onto the manor's main grounds. The ground was soft beneath her black pumps from the rain they'd had that morning, but judging from the beautiful roses that swayed lightly in the April breeze, it was welcomed by them.

Hermione really didn't think she'd ever be here again, not after everything that had transpired when she was younger. And she was even more surprised that it was still standing tall and as proud as ever with some changes to the aesthetic—more flowers, more color, more life.

It was a reminder of the family's old ways and the inevitable changes that had swept through the wizarding world since the fall of Voldemort.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, looking at the dainty leather watch on her wrist.

5:47 p.m.

She had exactly thirteen minutes before Draco Malfoy would appear and escort her inside.

She straightened her posture, tugged at the hem of her robes, and took a deep breath. It was, perhaps, a bit ridiculous for her to be nervous about something as simple as this—an etiquette lesson, for Merlin's sake—but this wasn't just about lessons. This was about opportunity.

An opportunity to secure the future of her project. An opportunity to finally find the backing she needed to fund her plan to re-open Hogwarts and restore it.

The Sacred 28 (the most influential pure-blood families in Britain) held elite galas every year, each one more extravagant than the last, taking turns on which family would host it each year. The Greengrass family was in charge of the social event of the year this time, and despite her best efforts, Hermione had never been able to break into that world. Being the 'Golden Girl' had gained her praise, of course, but everyone knew that she was not on their level. Most of all, her, unfortunately.

Looking up at the main doors to the manor and the dozen or so steps to the landing, she began to panic and patted her thigh, where she kept her wand strapped beneath her work robes out of habit.

Wand? Still there.

Gryffindor courage? Rapidly expiring.

Sanity, because she willingly came here to see Draco bloody Malfoy? Gone.

She pivoted on her heel to head back where she came and apparate back to her flat in London, but her eyes caught sight of the flowers again.

Flowers that were blooming amidst a place that held nothing but fear and death for so long and she wanted the chance for growth for herself, too.

She earned it, damn it.

"Granger, you're early," a voice drawled from behind her.

Hermione turned to see Draco Malfoy standing at the top of the steps leading to the manor's entrance. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in a dark ensemble of slacks and a dress shirt with a silvery-gray sheen. His platinum blonde hair was perfectly styled, and his expression was one of carefully maintained indifference. It was one she knew well.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest.

Draco studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher if she was partaking in banter with him or being swotty.

"Let's get you inside then," he said, his tone businesslike.

Hermione followed him, her heels clicking against the steps that led toward the grand entrance. It was so quiet here, and the only thing she could hear were their footsteps echoing in the silence of the early evening. It was as if the grounds remembered what happened during Voldemort's reign and had committed to this strange solitude. Despite his usual haughty air, even Draco seemed somewhat diminished since his return from Azkaban. He had, in many ways, become a figure of mystery in the wizarding world since his release. He kept to himself aside from attending galas or fundraisers with his mother, Narcissa, and was content to try and stay out of the Daily Prophet as much as possible.

For some reason, Harry and he had become cordial over the last year after he had been out of Azkaban. Harry spoke of him often when he went to check on the status of Draco's reacclimation into wizarding society. Hermione listened with an open mind and truly hoped Harry was right—that Draco Malfoy had good intentions with his second chance at life.

After finally seeing him for the first time in years due to them being at the same fundraiser, Hermione found herself in an arrangement that—if she had been sober—she would not have agreed to. But she was a woman of her word if nothing else, so she came.

As they entered the grand hall, Hermione couldn't keep her mouth from opening a little in wonder as she stared at the luxury he lived in each day. The high ceilings, the gleaming marble floors, the priceless tapestries hanging from the walls. This was what pureblood lineage looked like up close, that's for sure.

"This way," Draco gestured when he noticed her studying the intricate wood carvings of swallows embedded in the columns encasing the room, leading her through a series of corridors that seemed to all look the same except for their different styles and textures of wallpaper. He didn't speak again until they reached a small, formal sitting room, and Hermione was grateful it hadn't been the drawing room. Not that she thought he'd actually bring her back to that room after all these years, but still, the fact made her relax a bit and take in the surroundings properly.

A single fireplace crackled with the glow of a low fire, and a grand piano sat in one corner of the room. The furniture was sleek and elegant but not ostentatious. The tones of the room were deep green and black with the furniture black in design with some red accents. Everything was, as expected, perfectly in place.

"Have a seat," he instructed, and she did so on a large tufted chair beside the fireplace, folding her hands in her lap since she wasn't sure what else she was supposed to do.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Draco moved to a nearby silver drink cart, pouring each of them a glass of Ogden's with a flick of his wand. He handed one to her, but his eyes lingered on her face, almost as if he were waiting for her to say something. Like he was challenging her to admit she'd made a mistake in coming here.

"Why are you doing this?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself. She looked at the Firewhisky in her hand and took a quick sip to keep herself occupied as she waited for him to answer.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I thought it was quite clear."

"I mean, why, though? Why offer to help me with this—this... absurdity? I'm not one of your friends, and you don't owe me anything."

Draco's lips twisted into a half-smile, but there was little humor in it. "I was trying to be nice, Granger. After all, you're the one who managed to convince the Wizengamot to be lenient with me after the war." His tone was carefully neutral, but Hermione could hear the faint edge beneath it. "I'm merely returning the favor. That's all."

"But you said I would still owe you a favor when we discussed this at the bar."

Draco sipped his drink slowly and moved to sit across from her in the matching chair, choosing his next words carefully. "That is because I am offering you a series of favors, Granger. Every other Friday, from now until September, when the Greengrass Gala arrives, I am offering to teach you manners and grace in all its forms. Seeing as how that would correspond to," he paused to make a show of counting on his long fingers, and Hermione couldn't help but notice he seemed to be wearing several rings on his hands, including the Malfoy signet. "Ten lessons before the ball, that would mean you'd owe me 9 favors by the event."

Hermione swallowed her frustration. She had known, of course, that Draco's offer came with conditions. But the idea that he would try to turn something as important to her as this into a simple exchange of favors... well, it was shitty.

"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "I can agree to that. But I want to clarify that I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm not going to Azkaban, and you don't need to end up back there, either. I'm also not planning on being happy about it."

Draco regarded her silently, his silver eyes cool but not unkind. "I didn't expect you to. But don't pretend you're not here because of the opportunity to be the savior of Hogwarts. Potter told me of your plans to add an entire wing for muggle-borns transitioning their first year and dorms for their families to visit. I thought about throwing my money at you and calling it a day, but you need more than that. You need money and laws passed. You need legislation written in your favor and powerful people who will say "Yes" to you without hesitation. I can make you into that kind of woman, Granger. It would be my pleasure to do so. But, regardless of what I ask of you, it's a simple transaction, Granger. Nothing more. I'll need you to understand that once I start cashing in on my favors."

She felt the weight of the words settle between them, heavy and almost taunting. But rather than letting it linger, Hermione took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on what was at stake if she backed out now. The etiquette lessons were important—vital, in fact. She would be attending the most significant social event of the year in September, mingling with the most influential people in the wizarding world, and she could not afford to make a mistake.

Not when so much was riding on it. Like her entire future. And the future and learning of magic for generations to come.

"Let's begin, then," she said, straightening in her chair.

Draco moved to stand in front of her, his posture poised and commanding as he placed both their drinks beside them on the drink cart. "For this first lesson, we'll go over the basics—how to enter a room, how to greet a person of higher standing, and how to hold yourself in conversation without sounding too... muggle-born."

Hermione's eyes narrowed at his choice of words, but she didn't interrupt. She was here to learn, after all, not to argue. He hadn't called her a mudblood, and that's all that mattered.

"For starters," Draco continued, "You must make an impression when entering a room. A good one. A feminine one. Walk in with confidence, shoulders back, chin lifted. Your posture should be impeccable. The way you stand will speak volumes about you before you say a word." He demonstrated, walking to the center of the room and standing in a graceful pose, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. "Like this."

Hermione followed his example, trying to ignore the way his presence seemed to fill the room. His stature was undeniable, his movements fluid and practiced. And yet... there was something in the way he held himself—something less arrogant than it had been in their school years. Perhaps it was the result of his time in Azkaban, or perhaps it was simply the growing maturity that came with age.

Draco studied her posture, his sharp eyes scanning her body and Hermione almost moved to cover herself as if she wasn't covered in her dress robes. The way he was staring at her made her feel exposed in a way she wasn't used to and she swallowed when she felt a blush push into her cheeks. "Better. But you're still holding back. Don't be afraid to own the space, Granger. Confidence doesn't come from hesitation."

Hermione rolled her eyes at his correction but held her ground. "I'm not hesitating. I'm just... trying to get it right."

"Trying too hard," Draco said, his voice softer now. "It's about ease. It's about being comfortable in your skin, not pretending to be something you're not. This isn't going to work if you are just trying to act like you belong in my world, Granger. You need to believe you do."

Hermione paused, letting the words sink in. Ease. Yeah, right. She scoffed and went to cross her arms across her chest which earned her a quick glare from Malfoy.

"Alright," she said, exhaling slowly and dropping her arms back down to her sides. "Let me try again."

Over the next hour, Draco guided her through the motions—how to address different members of society, the proper gestures of respect, and the appropriate ways to converse without overstepping boundaries. Every now and then, he would stop her, give subtle corrections, and point out mistakes she hadn't even realized she was making.

Hermione was an eager student, as she had always been, and adjusted accordingly based on what he asked of her. Eventually, she tossed her work robes on the chair, leaving her in brown slacks with a black blouse tucked in at Draco's insistence. He needed to see the lines of her spine to ensure she stood adequately, and when he ran a finger in between her shoulder blades down the length of Hermione's spine, she forgot how to breathe. When his touch reached the small of her back, his hand opened to press against her as he led her back to her chair.

For their remaining time, he had her practice the art of small talk—how to engage in conversation without diving too deeply into personal matters. She was supposed to make her target feel comfortable and intrigued without revealing too much about herself. It was a challenge for Hermione, who had always preferred honesty to pretension, but she tried her best to mirror his instructions.

"Granger," Draco sighed, his tone casual but with the edge of someone who was already losing patience, "I can't help but notice you're... shall we say, rather direct when speaking to people. And I mean, direct in a way that makes even the Weasley twins look like diplomats."

Hermione's eyebrow shot up, and she opened her mouth to argue but Draco quickly held up a hand.

"Now, I know that you think you're being 'honest' and 'refreshing,' but, let me remind you, there's a certain way to speak in polite society. You can't just tell people exactly what you think. Purebloods and leading members of society don’t do blunt. We prefer subtlety. Elegance. Grace."

"Grace?" Hermione scoffed. "Is that what you call it? Faking sincerity?"

"Not faking," Draco corrected smoothly and Hermione's eyes followed his hand as it raked through his hair, leaving a few strands to dip over his forehead. "More like... selective truth-telling. It’s an art."

Hermione’s lips quirked into a smirk. "Oh, I’m sure you’re the expert on art, Malfoy."

"I am," Draco said with a shrug, unfazed. "I'd be happy to show you the priceless pieces that are hung throughout the manor sometime. It would only benefit you to know your Monet from your Van Gogh. But this is an intricate part of playing their game. And this is art you need to master, if you’re going to survive in polite company. Take me, for example. At the next charity event, when some well-meaning, but dreadfully boring wizard starts droning on about his new line of broomsticks—"

"Which will most likely be something no one cares about," Hermione cut in, leaning forward slightly.

"Exactly," Draco said, his eyes glinting. "But instead of rolling your eyes, like you usually do, you say something like, 'How fascinating! I do so admire your dedication to innovation.' That way, he feels like he's made an impact, and you haven’t insulted anyone. You see?"

Hermione blinked, clearly unimpressed and started to twist a curl in her finger absently. "And what if I don’t care about his 'dedication to innovation?'"

Draco gave her a patronizing look. "It doesn’t matter if you care. No one expects you to. You make him believe you do. That’s what makes you seem refined. It's about showing respect—not honesty."

"Respect," Hermione repeated dryly. "So I just say what they want to hear, no matter how ridiculous it is?"

"Exactly. Now you’re getting it."

"Maybe I’d rather just tell them the truth," Hermione said with a raised eyebrow. "Like, 'Oh, I do admire your skill in inventing broomsticks that no one will ever want to buy.'"

Draco chuckled, a glint lighting up his gray eyes that Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen before. If made him look even more handsome than was necessary. "That would be entertaining, but it’s not how things work around here. You’ll need to learn to... navigate your way through these conversations. Like when you meet someone important, a wizarding professional, let’s say, you don’t ask how their research is going unless you want to sound like you’ve just crawled out of a library."

Hermione snorted. "That’s rich coming from you. I doubt your conversations ever stray far from 'Quidditch,' 'blood status,' and 'pureblood superiority.'"

"Touché," Draco said with a wry grin, leaning back in his chair. "But at least we know how to talk to each other in a way that isn’t excruciatingly awkward. Which is more than I can say for you."

"Right, which is why you've been so polite to me during this exchange. That makes sense because I’m sure you’re just thrilled to be offering me these lessons," Hermione retorted, her arms still crossed but her expression softening slightly.

"I plan to be when we get to the favor you'll owe me for next time."

"What?"

"Nothing. Let's continue, Granger. We only have a few minutes left of our time. You’ve already made progress but the key is to never let them know you’re just waiting for the conversation to end. Take a compliment, for example. When someone says, 'Oh, Granger, I simply adore your hair,' you don’t respond with 'It’s just a mess, really.' No. You say, 'Why, thank you! It’s a new charm I’ve been working on!'"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips at Malfoy mentioning her hair in such a conversation. Because he had to know that no one ever complimented her wild curls. "So, lie through my teeth while they talk to me about things I don’t care about. I’m starting to see the appeal."

"Exactly," Draco said, with a laugh and she realized she liked the sound of it. "You’re learning. Maybe, just maybe, we can get you invited to a proper party to practice without causing a diplomatic incident."

"Great," Hermione said dryly. "I can’t wait to try it out. As long as it doesn’t involve talk about broomsticks."

Draco’s grin widened. "There will always be a wizard happy to talk to you about his broomstick."

Groaning, Hermione slid a hand down her face as she felt the familiar blush come back with a vengeance. Great.

Taking pity on her, Draco patted her knee across from him. "Just leave it to me, Granger. You might actually enjoy yourself."

"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves," she replied, shaking her head. But there was a hint of amusement in her voice now, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a little bolder about the decisions that led them to this encounter.

By the end of their lesson, she felt exhausted but oddly satisfied with herself. She couldn't stop the smile as she poured herself a new glass of fire whiskey.

Draco stood beside her as he fixed another drink at the cart, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "You're getting the hang of it."

Hermione nodded, but her mind was already drifting. She had another question that had been gnawing at her since their first encounter.

"Draco," she began carefully, "How did you get through it? Azkaban, I mean. It must have been terribly difficult."

For a brief moment, his eyes hardened, his expression falling into the cool mask he wore so well. Despite how handsome and gracefully he had aged, there was still a boy who had gotten brought into the wrong side of the war, and it showed.

"I didn't have a choice," he replied shortly. "You don't survive Azkaban by asking how. You just... do. And hope to Merlin that your brain doesn't break before you manage to get out." His tone was final, and the conversation ended there.

Hermione nodded and felt a flicker of respect for him, a quiet understanding that perhaps, beneath the layers of snark and privilege, there was more to Draco Malfoy than a former Death Eater. Harry had expressed that very sentiment to her and they'd had a rough past between them. Draco had also encouraged this whole arrangement to help her, so he must have changed for the better. Or so she hoped.

Hermione downed the rest of her drink and set it on the cart as she stood and gathered her robes around her once again. "Same time in two weeks?" she asked, her voice lighter, as though their lesson was now a casual occurrence.

"Same time," Draco confirmed, feeling a small knot of anticipation curl in his stomach.

Draco lingered near the door as she made to leave, his gaze following her every move. When she meant to walk past him into the corridor, he pulled her back with a gentle but firm hand on her arm. He smirked as she look up at him in confusion before he produced three small cards from the pocket of his trousers. He held them out toward her with a deliberate, calculated movement. "I’ve written a few favors on these. You may look them over at your leisure. Choose whichever you feel inclined to fill and give me your answer by Monday."

Chapter Text

2 Weeks Ago

April 11, 2003

The temporary glittering chandeliers of the Ministry’s atrium-turned-ballroom shimmered overhead as Hermione Granger navigated her way through the crowd, weaving in and out of conversations with a determination that could only be classified by those who watched her as desperation. 

The Ministry's Spring fundraiser was in full swing, its grandeur barely contained within the lavish walls of the makeshift ballroom, where dozens of wizarding society's most influential figures mingled with ease. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, laughter, and the delicate clinking of fine glassware. 

She had been attending these events for years now, and each time, it felt like an endless cycle of rejection. The same polite smiles, the same murmurs of "we'll consider it" or "The Golden Girl will figure it out, I’m sure," followed by their swift departure to another conversation. She had spent hours listening to people discuss their investments in new broom models or the latest fad in potion brewing while trying to explain the importance of her resurrection of Hogwarts—the plans to rebuild the magical school she had been tirelessly working on since the end of the war. And every time, she found herself hitting a wall. Or being mocked. Or laughed at. 

As she approached another group of well-dressed witches and wizards, Hermione plastered a smile on her face and launched into her practiced pitch.

"Excuse me, do you have a moment to talk about funding the rebuild of Hogwarts?" she asked brightly, holding her breath for their response.

The man she was addressing, a short wizard with a balding head, glanced at her for a split second and took in her wild curls, wrinkled black long-sleeved dress and flat shoes before offering a polite but disinterested smile.

"Ah, yes, of course. But as you can imagine, our budget this year is a bit tight. I'm afraid we don't have any funding to spare at the moment. McGonagal seems to be doing fine teaching out of the extra Ministry offices."

"Right. Of course," Hermione said, nodding stiffly before turning away. 

Her heart dropped again for what must have been the fifth time that evening, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to carry on anyway. This was just another rejection and she had expected it. The thing was that McGonagall might have been alright with the current situation but there was not enough room to cater to the influx of students that should have been taking classes. And they didn’t even have enough teachers to offer the full range of courses. Hermione was currently teaching Defense Against The Dark Arts, Muggle Studies and Potions while Neville covered Herbology and Charms, but aside from McGonagall teaching History of Magic and Transfiguration, there just wasn’t enough time and resources for the other classes. 

Her eyes shifted over the people in the room, and she spotted several others engaged in conversation. She couldn't help but notice how effortlessly the other attendees moved through the crowd, their words flowing smoothly, their backs straight and posture perfect. The glittering gowns. The exceptional tilt of their heads as they listened to one another. They were experts at these events—people who had spent years honing the art of socializing in these circles.

She, however, had spent her time fighting to prove herself in school and then literally fighting in a war and trying to hold her life together after the dust had settled. 

She had spent years in libraries and research rooms, never once worrying about learning how to smile just so or how to keep her tone light and pleasant in a room full of people who barely knew her name outside of her contribution to the war.

Hermione exhaled sharply and made her way toward the edge of the room, her shoes shuffling with soft thuds against the polished floor. A stool at the bar beckoned her over to take a break, and she didn't hesitate for a second to claim it. With a huff, she sank down onto the seat, feeling the weight of her exhaustion hit her all at once.

"May I help you, Miss Granger?" the bartender asked, his voice smooth and practiced.

Hermione gave him a tight smile. She’d never get used to everyone knowing her name, and it was a shame the title of ‘war heroine’ couldn’t even get her appropriate funding. "I'll take a fire whiskey, please. Actually, make that two."

The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't question her. A moment later, two glasses appeared in front of her, the amber liquid calling to her.

She didn't even hesitate before lifting it to her lips, the burn of the alcohol cutting through the nerves that had been building all evening. It wasn't like her to drink heavily—she'd always preferred to keep a clear head, but tonight felt different. It felt like the last chance to make things work, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could pretend that everything was fine. 

Hermione took another gulp, then another, until the warmth of the fire whiskey seemed to loosen the tightness in her chest, and the world around her blurred at the edges. Yes, the drinking was definitely what she needed tonight.

Draco Malfoy's eyes lingered on Hermione for a moment from across the room before he turned his attention to Harry Potter, who had just walked up to him with a tired but friendly smile. Draco had been watching Hermione flounce around the ballroom for the better part of the evening, and it was difficult not to notice the mounting frustration on her face as she approached one failed conversation after another.

"Potter," Draco said, nodding at Harry as he joined him near the edge of the dancefloor. "What's going on with Granger? She looks like she's about to explode."

Harry adjusted his glasses as he followed Draco's gaze and sighed. "She's been trying to get sponsors for a rebuild of Hogwarts, but no one's biting. I've seen her try just about every possible tactic, but it's no use. She's brilliant, but she's terrible at this sort of thing. She's not cut out for these kinds of events."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me that Hermione Granger is struggling to make it in society's high circles? You must be joking. Surely, she’s a natural like she is with everything else she attempts to do."

Harry chuckled. "Not everything, mate. Hermione is the last person who'd be able to turn on the charm and schmooze her way into funding, it seems. She's always been too blunt for these people and right now, she's running out of time. Kingsley's made it clear that if she doesn't get any major backing by the end of the year, he will pull the department's minor funding for Hogwarts entirely."

Draco let the information settle in his mind. Hermione Granger—always so sure of herself, always so capable—was struggling. He couldn't help but feel a strange kind of sympathy for her–or was it satisfaction? Whatever it was, he would never admit it out loud. But something about how she flustered about, trying and failing to connect with the right people throughout the night, made him watch a little longer than was necessary. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was compelling about the way she kept going despite all the rejections. It was that kind of stubbornness that he had always envied about her. It irritated him as much as it turned him on.

Just as he was about to say something else, they both heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Their heads turned in unison, and both men watched as Hermione stood up from her stool, her face flushed from the alcohol, her hands trembling as she tried—unsuccessfully—to repair her shattered glass with wandless magic.

Draco's lips twitched, though his expression remained impassive.

"Is she always like this when she has a bit too much to drink?" Draco asked, his voice low so only Harry could hear him as he adjusted his dark dress robes.

Harry sighed, grimacing as he watched Hermione try again to clean up the mess around her. She was cursing softly about not knowing where her wand was to which they both shared a knowing look since they clearly saw it being used to keep her hair atop her head at the moment.

"She's never been much of a drinker and right now, she's desperate. Not the best combo when what you’ve been working toward for years has an expiration date attached."

Draco glanced back at Harry, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Sounds like she's in a bit of a bind, then."

"She always figures things out. But right now, I'm afraid her heart is clouding the way her brain needs to handle this whole situation. She's not exactly the best at asking for help."

“In any way, shape, or form, apparently."

Harry gave Draco a nudge with his elbow. “Don’t be a git.”

“So, Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

“I admire the sentiment of rebuilding it, but I must admit that I’m glad I don’t have to finish my schooling there–”

“You’re welcome for that,” Harry cut in, nodding to Luna Lovegood as she made eye contact before she was being spun around the dancefloor by none other than Pansy Parkinson.

Draco sighed heavily. “Yes, thank you again , Potter. I do appreciate you pulling your little strings to allow me to finish my learning from the cold, lonely, confines of my cell. And, of course, for the letters.”

At that, Harry turned to look at Draco. His eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion when he began to ask, “What letters–?”

Just then, Ginny Weasley walked by, tapping Harry on the shoulder and drawing his attention.  Ginny was a vision in a strapless baby blue ball gown with excessive amounts of tulle accents on the skirt. "Excuse me, Harry. Care to join me for a dance?"

Harry smiled at Ginny and gestured toward Draco as if to say he was busy. "I'll be right there."

"Go ahead," Draco said, giving a smile and roll of his eyes to Ginny who flipped him off and gave a smile back of her own. "I'll keep an eye on Granger."

"Thanks, mate," Harry replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips before he turned and led Ginny onto the dance floor.

Draco didn't waste any time. He made his way over to the bar, sliding onto the stool next to Hermione, who was still trying to fix her glass as she perched on her stool.

"Need some help?" Draco asked, his voice soft enough that only she could hear him.

When she hesitated, he reached over to pluck her wand from the messy bun of curls she had it securing with a gentle motion. Hermione turned, blinking at him with wide, drunken eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair began to fall loose from where it was coiled, strands falling over her forehead. In Draco's opinion, she was wearing a simple black dress and flats, looking entirely out of place in this glamorous setting. But something about the way she carried herself—slightly unkempt, slightly disheveled—made her undeniably endearing in her own way. And between the pink in her cheeks and the wild nature of her hair, she looked thoroughly fucked. He felt a twitch in his trousers and was thankful he chose to wear his dress robes tonight.

"Malfoy," she said, her voice thick with the effects of the alcohol as she held out her hand for her wand. "What are you doing here?"

"Just passing by," Draco said smoothly as he placed the wand in her grasp.

"You always were good at sneaking around," Hermione muttered, though there was no real bite to it. Instead, her gaze went back to the shattered glass in her hands. "I was trying to fix it, but... it's not working. I can’t seem to remember the spell.”

Draco chuckled softly. "You've had a bit too much to drink, haven't you?"

"Just a bit," she admitted, her lips curling into a lopsided smile. "I've had enough of these people and their empty promises. If they won't help me, then fine. I'll do it without them."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "That's quite the attitude for someone who's spent the last few hours trying to sell herself to anyone with a coin to spare."

Hermione's smile faltered for a second, but she quickly recovered. "I never learned how to be a proper lady, Malfoy," she said, her tone defensive but tinged with bitterness. "I was too busy fighting in a war, finishing school, and trying to keep the world from falling apart. It's not like studying textbooks can make you into something you're not."

Draco's expression softened slightly at her words. "True enough," he said, leaning slightly closer. "But I think there's still potential in you yet."

Hermione gave him a skeptical look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco smirked, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I could teach you. I could teach you how to navigate these events and how to make them work in your favor. But, of course, you'd owe me in return."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "A favor? You've got to be mental. Too much time in Azkaban, I’m sure of it now."

Draco leaned back in his chair, a half smile playing on his lips. Seeing as how she still hadn’t finished repairing her glass, Draco pulled his own wand out to clean the alcohol from the countertop as well as the floor with a quiet scourgify . "I don't joke, Granger. Not when it comes to business.”

Despite her better judgment, Hermione found herself intrigued and looked down at the glass shards in her hand. They reminded her of herself right now. Just a bunch of pieces being held in a strange attempt to keep them together. 

Merlin, she was truly blasted. 

And that meant she couldn't deny that she was desperate enough to consider it.

"What kind of lessons?" she asked cautiously.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, though his gaze was piercing. All she could concentrate on was how the silver in his eyes was still warm like hot steel. How could someone have eyes like that and why had she not noticed the tiny specks of blue there before? "The kind that will help you survive these events and get the funding you need. If you want it badly enough, that is."

For a long moment, Hermione stared at him. It wasn't like she had many options left. And despite everything, there was something about Draco's offer that seemed too tempting to ignore.

"Fine," she said, exhaling sharply. That liquid courage was working overtime tonight. “Teach me. But don't expect me to enjoy it.”

With a flick of his wand, the glass shards in her hand knitted themselves together and she let out a yelp in surprise as she stared at the crystal glass that had reformed in her hand. She set it down gently on the bar and Draco raised his wand to let a small spark escape, making a noise like a ringing bell. Within a moment, the bartender was in front of them.
“Firewhisky for me and the,” Draco sneered as he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Lady, please.”

Hermione scoffed and folded her arms across her chest as the man went to get their drinks, which only proved his point more with how she was acting the opposite of ladylike at this event. 

“On second thought, you can go to hell because I am not doing this with you.”

Draco scoffed but a smile played on his lips as he cupped her shoulder when she went to stand and forced her back down in her seat. "We'll see, Granger. Let’s just have a drink first."

Late Sunday Night
April 27, 2003

Draco Malfoy sat alone in his study, the faint crackling of a fire echoing in the background as the flames flickered lazily against the hearth. His mahogany desk, carved with intricate and elegant designs, was littered with papers, half-finished letters, and a glass of untouched Firewhisky, which he stared at absentmindedly. He had a million things on his mind—business matters, political maneuvering, the slow tick of time—but all of them seemed to pale in comparison to the pull that kept drawing his thoughts back to one person: Hermione fucking Granger.

It was frustrating, to say the least.

It wasn’t like Draco didn’t have other distractions. Three years in Azkaban definitely left him behind in all facets of his life, regardless of how much effort he put in this past year. In fact, he had never been busier. But every time his mind wandered, there she was, looking disheveled and frustrated at the Ministry fundraiser, her warm brown eyes looking at him from beneath dark lashes. Her refusal to give up, even when the world seemed to turn its back on her, was… irritating, in the way that something too bright could be when you weren’t quite ready to face it. 

But that wasn’t what lingered. No, what haunted him was the way she had looked at him that night. The surprise in her gaze when he’d taken her wand from her hair. The wariness and the curiosity she had kept hidden behind her usual defenses was out on full display. It was most likely due to the alcohol, but he’d enjoyed it. Even at the end of the night when he walked her to the floo and invited her to come to his home the following week, she was accepting one moment and calling him a prat, the next.

Gods, she was stubborn.

But he had to admit, he had seen that same fight in himself—the refusal to back down, to give in. He’d spent his years in Azkaban seething to keep himself warm. No one was allowed to visit him, which was fine since he hadn’t wanted his mother to see him in a cage. His father had passed away during the war. And his friends had each other. Potter was able to visit him once during his first year to offer him the ability to finish his studies and test for the NEWTS which Draco eagerly agreed to. He didn’t care if he had to read 100 textbooks, at least he would have something to do. The anonymous letters he got every few months had been a lifeline as well, even though they only contained updates to what was going on at the time and clippings from the Daily Prophet. 

The time he had spent there helped inspire a burning determination within him, and he had thought, at one point, that it was his alone to claim. 

And now? Now, he realized, it had always been hers as well.

He stood, pacing around the room, rubbing a hand through his hair. His study, with its thick forest green velvet curtains and polished wood floors, should have been comforting. But now, it felt suffocating. The grandfather clock in the corner was ticking so loudly, reminding him that it was almost midnight and he still hadn’t heard back from Granger about their little arrangement.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

It had been years. Years since the war, years since he had seen her face with that mixture of righteousness and pity at his trial, back when they were all still trying to figure out what awaited them after the wreckage had settled. After the war was over. After everything had changed. She fought so hard to get his sentence reduced and she didn’t even know him. 

So why was it, when he saw her at the fundraiser, the past came rushing back? Why did that damn glint in her eyes still make his pulse quicken?

It wasn’t just the war. Or her stubbornness. It was her mind, too. The way she could see things, the way she could read people. He had been in that ballroom, standing there like a statue and staying out of the way, watching her try to navigate the social labyrinth that she was clearly never meant to fit into, and part of him had wanted to step forward and help. But another part—the part that he didn’t want to acknowledge—had found the spectacle oddly... entertaining. He’d been proud of her, in a twisted way. Even if she would never admit it, she was more capable than any of those polished wizards who laughed behind her back. And a part of him wanted to prove it to her.

He could teach her, he knew. He could teach her the tricks—the ways to move through these circles with ease. He had the experience, the knowledge. He could make her see the world the way he did, the way his family did, and the way every wizard in those circles had learned to survive. Without the pure blood supremacy, of course. 

But that didn’t explain why he was still obsessing over her, did it? The pull, the attraction, the need to fix it all for her—it felt familiar in the worst way. It made his stomach churn, because the truth was, he didn’t know if it was his ego talking, or if something deeper—something more personal—was at the root of it.

She was Hermione Granger. And he was Draco Malfoy.

There was no alternate reality in which they would even be friends after what they’d endured in their past. 

No chance she would willingly let him put his hands on her body. No world where she would let him bury his tongue in her golden cunt—

Whoa. 

He let out a groan and scrubbed his hands down his face to clear the images tormenting his mind. So, this was what happened when you didn’t immediately fuck everything that walked when you got out of prison. I mean, it was his own fault. He’d had every opportunity but he didn’t want just anyone. He wanted the swot who couldn’t keep her mouth shut at his trial. The girl who’d glared at him across the interrogation table and refused to allow him to throw away his defense because he mattered . The bleeding heart that convinced him he deserved another chance. 

He’d had years to go from seeing her as a thorn in his side to only being able to finish with his cock pulsing in his grip and her pretty freckled face tattooed in his brain. 

Those fantasies weren’t true… But what if they could be?

He dropped back into his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, though he still hadn’t taken a sip. 

He wasn’t ready yet. There were still a few minutes left and his owl still had time to come back.

And then there was the look on her face when she’d read the cards. The way she weighed each choice, even the last one that asked if he could kiss her. The quiet tension between them as she realized how far this could go, the electricity in the air. He hadn’t sugarcoated a thing, didn’t promise her a gentle experience or a sweeping romance. It would be something quieter, more dangerous. 

He’d had to move away from her at that moment because he was ready to force his mouth on hers. So willing to see what her moans sounded like because he was certain that they were the most intoxicating sounds. But he’d somehow been able to hold back. 

Besides… The way her eyes had softened that night, even for just a moment, made him think it wasn’t a question of if , but when he would have her.

And maybe, just maybe, he had been waiting far too long for the right moment to make the first move. So really, who could blame him for taking advantage of a drunk Granger who was sorely in need of help? 

A rustling sound from the window broke his concentration, followed by the familiar tapping of claws on glass. Draco’s head snapped up, and he stood quickly, moving toward the window. The owl, sleek and dark-eyed, was perched on the sill, a small envelope tied to its leg. Draco opened the window, reaching out to take the note from the owl’s talon. The bird gave a low hoot, as if waiting for its reward, but Draco was already distracted, turning the note over to see Hermione’s neat, cursive handwriting of his surname.

She had responded with two minutes to spare.

He tore open the envelope swiftly, his eyes scanning the words before he allowed himself to fully process them. It wasn’t long before he found the part he’d been hoping for: Card number 1.

His heart gave an odd twist. She was accepting the arrangement.

Draco let out a long breath, settling back in his chair and raising the glass to his lips. The burn of the whiskey was familiar. It was steadying. It was the only thing right now that could calm the nerves as he looked at the letter.

But even as the alcohol slid down his throat, it didn’t stop the racing thoughts that she’d actually agreed to all this.

Malfoy,

I can't believe I am actually agreeing to this.

I've chosen Card Number 1: Spend an hour with me, away from the eyes of others. No conversation about politics, blood status, or the past. Simply... be present. Let me see you, Hermione—no walls, no defenses. Just two people, talking as equals, without pretense.

It seemed to be the safest choice.

-H.G.

His fingers tightened around the card as a twinge of disappointment hit him like a sharp, sudden wave. She had chosen that one because it was safest? Of course, she didn't want him touching her or having a heart to heart with the boy who used to torment her. Who could blame her? The only problem was that it wasn't enough for him to allow her to keep herself at arms length. He had plans for her, and he was going to have her for himself by the time this was over. He needed to get her out of his system or he'd simply go mad from the temptation of never knowing what she felt like, how she tasted-.

Draco swallowed hard and set the card down on his desk, staring at the neat black ink on the parchment as if it could answer the questions that were now swirling in his head. The room felt heavy now, the fire casting a flickering glow on the walls, but Draco could still feel the bite of cold creeping in. He could practically hear her voice in his head, soft, careful, demanding he behave himself.

With a sharp exhale, he forced himself to snap out of his reverie. He grabbed a fresh piece of stationery, dipping his quill into the ink, his hand moving fluidly across the paper as he scrawled a response.

See you at 6 p.m. on Friday.

Come hungry, Granger.

I can’t fill you up if you’re not starving for it.

He smirked to himself as the words formed. There was a more respectful way of telling her he planned to have her for dinner, but it was his way of teasing her. His way of reminding her that despite all the seriousness of the game they were about to play, he was still him. Still the man who couldn’t resist a little flirtation, even in the midst of whatever twisted thing they were building.

He wasn’t quite sure what he was hoping for with this exchange. Maybe she’d challenge him, call him out on his cocky behavior. Maybe she’d laugh, or maybe she’d grow irate, the way she always did when he pushed too far.

Either way, he wasn’t going to make this easy for her. He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to.

Draco gave his bird a treat then folded the note and tied it to the owl’s leg, watching as he lifted its wings and disappeared into the night sky, his heart beating a little faster than usual.

For now, it was a game.

But maybe, just maybe, it was the kind of game she wanted to play as much as he did. He knew she'd only had a fling or two since her and the Weasel broke up after the war. He'd bet his entire vault of galleons that she was just as sexually frustrated as him. And he could work that to his... advantage.

As he shut his window, his attention landed back to the note on his desk. Draco couldn’t help but think of the moment when she would walk into his house, unprepared for what he had planned, thinking she chose the 'safe' option.

It wouldn’t be just dinner. It would be more than that. He had an entire hour with her and he would make use of each and every second.

Chapter Text

Still Late Sunday Night
April 27, 2003

Hermione had never been one to second-guess herself, at least not when it came to matters of intellect or decision-making. But when she sat down at her desk that evening, her fingers trembling slightly as she held the note Malfoy had sent, she couldn’t deny the feeling of excitement that gripped her chest. She almost couldn’t believe she’d actually done it—agreed to his ridiculous, maddening game. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known what he was capable of; Draco had always had a certain way of making the most of his demands and he was simply proving that to her.

Yet here she was, staring at the words he had so arrogantly written. Honestly, she expected nothing less to be fair.

See you at 6pm on Friday.

Come hungry, Granger.

I can’t fill you up if you’re not starving for it.

—D.M.

Her cheeks flushed and she used the note to fan herself as she tried to cool down. She knew what he was doing—teasing her, challenging her and trying to make her regret agreeing to this whole thing. But it didn’t stop the way her knickers soaked in response. It was so Malfoy to push every single button he could while claiming to be a gentleman.

But there was something about this arrangement, something about him, that gnawed at her already frayed nervous system. 

She had chosen Card Number 1—the 'safe' option. There was a moment where she actually thought about choosing Card Number 3. It had been ages since she’d slept with someone and she’d be lying to herself if the thought of his lips on hers didn’t awaken something carnal in her. Maybe she should try dating again to get it out of her system because it was certainly her recent abstinence that had to be contributing to these insane fantasies she was indulging in with none other than the dragon of the Sacred 28.

Which is why she settled on the card that she did. She knew better than to put herself in a situation that would only give him ammunition against her. She’d had enough of his mocking over the years and she hoped that Friday would be a chance for them to get to know each other better. 

Sure, she’d written to him in Azkaban (anonymously, of course) so that he wouldn’t go absolutely mad in there by himself. But those were simply updates on current events and some books she thought he might enjoy. All muggle books, though, because the prat should see that muggle-borns weren’t as terrible as he’d been brought up to believe. He rarely responded, if at all, and when he did they were either to tell her to go to hell or to go fuck herself.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what she’d do. Grip his letter in one hand while she snuck a hand between her legs, thinking all the while of how she’d managed to rile him up. It was cathartic to know that she could get under his skin like he had for her over so many years. 

So, Hermione didn’t trust herself to pick the card she secretly wanted. She went with the one that would ensure her safety that evening.

But even she knew that she was giving herself false hope.

With Draco Malfoy, there were no safe options.

Friday
May 2, 2003

It was nearly time. 

Hermione paced around her small flat, glancing at the clock more often than she cared to admit. 

5:27 p.m. 

5:28 p.m. 

5:30 p.m.

5:32 p.m.

5:33 p.m.

5:34 p.m.

5:34 p.m.

5:34 p.m.

Ugh!

Hermione purposefully turned away from the clock and took her watch off her wrist so she couldn’t be tempted to stare at that next, setting it on her coffee table beside Crookshanks.

She had left work early to give herself adequate time to get ready. Her wardrobe was lacking but she was able to transfigure a plain silver blouse into a flowy, knee-length dress that had cuffed long sleeves at her wrists. A quick beauty charm added some light makeup to her face in soft hues of pink as well as securing her curls into a high bun on top of her head. Unfortunately, curls still kept spilling from it to frame her face but it was the most work she’d put into her appearance in years. Part of her lessons would require her to start looking the part and she might as well begin practicing. 

Her fingers ran over the soft fabric of the dress, then moved to her undergarments—oh, Gods, why was she fussing so much? She knew he wouldn’t care what she wore beneath it all, yet she found herself meticulously picking a pair of lacy black panties and a matching bra that had been sitting dormant for longer than she’d ever admit. She hadn’t planned on making this some kind of statement, but knowing she was wearing something racy underneath her carefully curated outfit tonight made her feel like she had some kind of control. Even if she was the only one who would know.

“Why are you even worrying about this?” she muttered to her reflection as she checked it for the fifth time, exasperated. “It’s just a meal, Hermione. Just a meal.”

Hermione planned on arriving early, like she was known to do, and she was determined not to let him catch her off-guard. Not tonight. Not for her first favor.

Her mind drifted back to the night of the fundraiser, the way Draco had looked at her when they’d sat close to one another—so close that she could feel the heat of his thick thigh against hers at the bar, the smell of oak and parchment radiating off of him. She had been too drunk to form coherent thoughts and yet she could remember every detail of how good he smelled beside her. He had always been able to make her feel things she wasn’t supposed to feel. The shame that would wash over her when she’d get off to him at Hogwarts with his voice in her head calling her a mudblood was something that should be studied. A humiliation kink at the ripe age of 16 wasn’t normal, surely, but she couldn’t help how depraved she longed to be. She tried to blame it on the stress of Voldemort’s return and the war… But it was just him. How he made her feel. 

And that night after years of not seeing him… it was too clear that it hadn’t left her system. 

And even though she knew she shouldn’t, she was willingly participating in this exchange of lessons and favors at his manor, regardless if a part of her couldn’t help but know she was about to make a massive mistake.

The sharp rapping at her window startled her, and she quickly glanced in the hallway mirror once more to make sure her hair was in place. Taking a deep breath, she opened it to find an owl, his owl , waiting for her.

Its beady eyes stared at her, and she took the note off its leg with hands that had begun to sweat. Unfolding it, she saw only one sentence:

I’ll be waiting.

Draco was already toying with her, and she hadn’t even left yet.

By the time Hermione arrived at the manor, the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the pristine grounds. She hesitated at the front door, her heart thumping as her fingers brushed the polished knocker. No turning back now.

The door opened before she even had the chance to knock.

“Granger,” Draco drawled and Hermione gasped and took a step back from the surprise. 

So much for wanting to be calm and collected when she first saw him tonight.

He stood there in a well-tailored muggle suit, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to make her heart skip a beat. A smirk curled at the corner of his lips, but she managed to roll her eyes in response even though she was quite nervous. 

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside, but not before he turned his head to appraise her figure in a way that left no doubt he was taking his time to appreciate every inch of her.

She swallowed, fighting to keep her composure. “You look… sharp,” she said, the words sounding weird on her tongue. Why did it feel like every time she tried to be composed, he had a way of stripping that from her?

Draco’s smirk only deepened. “I do have a habit of looking good, don’t I?”

Hermione scoffed, but she couldn’t suppress the faintest tug of a smile. “Your humility is a gift to us all, Malfoy.

He chuckled softly and led her inside, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors as they walked through the grand hall. 

“Glad you made it,” he said, hands slipping into his pockets casually as they strolled through the manor. “I was beginning to think you might bail.”

“I wasn’t going to bail,” Hermione said, lifting her chin and brushing a curl out of her face with a huff. “I’m ten minutes early, Malfoy! I just—” She paused, unable to lie efficiently. What was she going to say? That she’d been worrying about her outfit? That she wasn’t sure what to expect from tonight? 

“Well, in any case, I’m just honored to have you on my table tonight.”

Hermione halted, nearly tripping herself in her heels. 

“Wh-what did you say?”

Draco stopped and turned back to face her, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “I said that I’m honored to have you at my table tonight. Are you feeling alright, Granger?”

That was not what she heard, but she was a puddle of anxiety. She’d most likely misheard him. When she didn’t start walking again immediately, Draco gestured to her outfit. 

“You look... ravishing,” he said, mimicking how she complimented him a few moments ago. He said the words slowly and deliberately like he was caressing the pit of her stomach with them. “I wasn’t sure what to expect based on the last time I saw you dress up, but you’ve definitely exceeded my expectations.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, giving him a quick glance before looking away. “But I’m here for your favor, not for compliments.”

“I’m sure you can handle both,” he teased, moving a little closer. “But let’s not waste time. Dinner's nearly ready and I want to enjoy each minute of my favor .”

Draco encouraged her to follow him again, and she did, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. She had to admit—she didn’t think she’d ever get used to being inside the manor. Expensive, yet understated, with a sharp elegance that reminded her of everything the Malfoy name had once stood for. The walls were lined with dark wood, and portraits of stern-looking ancestors hung in gold-framed silence. But they were all openly glaring at the muggle-born girl traipsing through the halls with their descendant.

As they moved into the dining room, Hermione couldn’t help but notice the table set for two, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the gleaming silverware. The space felt intimate despite the high ceilings and expansive stained glass windows surrounding them on the far side, but that was probably just how rich people ate dinner. 

She was still staring at her surroundings and not paying attention to Draco as he led her to her chair with a gentle pressure of his hand on her back.

“Please,” Draco said, pulling out the chair for her. “You may be my guest tonight, Granger, but don’t make me do all the work.”

Hermione blushed in embarrassment and sat down quickly, glancing at the wine glasses placed before them by a house elf dressed in glittering pink shoes that matched the rhinestones on her apron. 

Draco didn’t sit immediately, though. Instead, he stayed close to her chair, his eyes lingering on her exposed shoulders, the curve of her neck. She could feel exactly where he was staring at her and she crossed her legs tightly to alleviate some of the pressure building between them.

“I’m so glad you agreed to this little game, Granger,” he whispered, his lips dangerously close to her ear. “I can’t wait to start playing with you.”

Hermione shut her eyes tightly as a wave of heat ran through her at his words. The feel of his breath against her ear and the faint smell of peppermint was intoxicating to her senses and she tried to ground herself. 

When she opened her eyes a moment later, Draco had already seated himself across from her, appearing completely at ease. He took a sip of his wine before calling out for his house elf to bring their meals. 

“Tilly, we’re ready to eat now.”

“Yes, Master Draco!” Tilly was gone and back in an instant, two steaming plates of salmon, roasted potatoes and asparagus before them. 

Hermione inhaled the aroma as Tilly popped back in with baskets of bread and different oils to dip them in. 

“This looks wonderful, Tilly,” Hermione praised and gave the elf a warm smile. “I haven’t been so excited to eat dinner in ages.”

Tilly clapped her hands in excitement and looked at Draco who also gave her a smile. “Thank you, miss! Master Draco helped, too! He is always helping Tilly even though Tilly knows how to cook just fine—“

Draco cleared his throat and Hermione noticed a light flush to his skin over the collar of his shirt. 

“Thank you, Tilly. That will be all.” 

Tilly tugged on her ears with a giggle and left with a soft pop .

Hermione opened her mouth to ask what he was doing with a house elf but he beat her to it. 

“Tilly has been with my family for as long as I can remember, though she stayed at our villa in France. After the war and what happened with Dobby… She was beyond distraught. We offered her freedom but she chose to be with her family and joined us at the Manor once it was safe.”

Hermione was speechless. He considered a house elf family? 

“And yes, as you can tell by her outlandish attire, she is compensated quite handsomely. Now, let’s eat before we waste any more time.”

The last of the plates were cleared away by Tilly, leaving them alone once more but without the distraction of their meals. 

Hermione, still trying to shake off the nerves that had been simmering through dinner, glanced at the clock on the wall. There were still twenty-two minutes left in the hour they had agreed upon.

And as much as she thought this night would be over quickly, she knew it was a lie.

Not with the way he’d looked at her, the subtle hints of flirtation in his voice, the way his eyes would linger on her lips when she spoke.

Draco seemed to sense the shift, or maybe he was just enjoying the quiet power he had over her. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass, his sharp gaze never leaving hers. 

“Still have a bit of time,” Draco said, his voice smooth and calm as he stared her down. “What do you think we should do with it, Granger?”

Hermione took a sip of her wine, her fingers curling around the glass as she avoided his gaze. She didn’t want to be too obvious about her nerves, but she couldn’t deny that her heart was thudding like a snitch trying to break out of its box. She had known there would be no conversation about politics or the past, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty to talk about. She’d even spent the last ten minutes talking about her students not being able to play Quidditch since they didn’t have the space at the Ministry. Draco agreed that having Quidditch was a big part of what kept him grounded at Hogwarts and the other students should have the same opportunities.

So, then why had their conversation from dinner halted in its tracks the second Tilly was gone from the room this time?

“What else could we do?” Hermione’s voice sounded breathless, even to her, but she hoped he didn’t notice. She looked over at the fireplace and swallowed as she waited for his response.

He leaned forward, placing graceful arms on to the table that had her attention snapping back to him. 

“The favor said we were to spend an hour with one another, not that it had to be spent talking the entire time.”

Before she could protest, or even form an adequate response, he gave a subtle flick of his wrist, and the lights in the room dimmed further. The delicate sound of a string quartet suddenly filled the air and Hermione stiffened. His wand was next to hers on the table, so Hermione gawked that he had done it with wandless magic. 

“Where did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “They wouldn’t let me have my wand in Azkaban so I had to resort to other methods to keep up my appearance.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, nervousness forgotten momentarily by the egotistical ferret in front of her. “You learned wandless magic because you were afraid of growing a beard?”

“That, and it’s much easier to clean up after jacking off.”

Hermione almost choked on the wine she’d just sipped and sputtered as she set her glass down. 

“Malfoy!”

Draco winked at her and stood up smoothly, his chair scraping softly against the polished floor. The movement was fluid, graceful, and despite her better judgment, Hermione couldn’t help but watch as he approached her with a confidence that made her jealous. Always so sure of himself. Could she possibly learn some of that reassurance with her lessons?

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice causing her nipples to tighten against the lacy scrap of her bra. “We’ve spent enough time at the table, don’t you think?”

He held out his hand to her, his eyes daring her to take it. “Let’s dance, Granger.”

Hermione blinked, flustered by the suddenness of it. “Dance?” she repeated, her voice unsteady. The word alone made her uncomfortable. She hadn’t danced in years.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” she hedged, shaking her head. “I mean, I don’t really remember the steps from school.”

“You really think I’m going to stand here and expect you to perform the waltz like we’re at some ball?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I told you, this isn’t a lesson. Just two people, remember?” Something about the way he said it made her throat go dry. There was no mocking in his tone, no sarcasm, just... the quiet, assured certainty that this was exactly what he had planned to do all evening. And now, with him standing so close, his eyes dark and patient as he waited for her response, she felt her resolve fade into the background.

“I’m not going to bite, Granger,” Draco added with a wry smile, extending his hand further toward her. “Unless, of course, you want me to.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her stomach flipping with excitement. Because deep down, she knew she could never say no to him.

With a sharp exhale, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers with a smooth, possessive grip, and he gently pulled her to her feet.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise making her skin flush. 

Before she could find her bearings, he moved her body with a sudden, quiet force. One hand was placed firmly on the small of her back, pulling her into him, while the other took her hand. His touch was cool and commanding, his fingers warm against her skin.

“Relax,” he said, his voice a low, sensual murmur in her ear. “You’re overthinking it.”

She tried to adjust her stance, but it was no use. His presence enveloped her, leaving her with little space to breathe. He was so close now, their bodies just a breath apart, and the heat of him against her made her pulse spike. And despite all her mental protests, Hermione realized she was already following him, moving with him, as if their bodies knew something her mind refused to acknowledge.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. She couldn’t help but shiver at the sound of his voice so close. 

Hermione tried to steady her breathing. She shouldn’t be melting for him like this. She was Hermione Granger, for Salazar’s sake. She’d helped save the wizarding world and now she couldn’t even stop herself from soaking her knickers because she was pressed against a fit man? 

The music was slower now, a soft, sweeping melody that seemed to put them in a trance. Hermione could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her dress, the pressure of his hand at her back a steady reminder of just how close they were. She tried to focus on the steps, on not stepping on his feet, but every inch of her body seemed to be screaming for him to touch her.

“This isn’t so bad, is it, Granger?” 

She didn’t trust herself to speak. The way his chest pressed against hers, the soft brush of his breath against her cheek. But the silence was almost worse.

“No,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s... not so bad.”

Draco chuckled, the sound rich with amusement and something darker. “That’s what I thought.” He paused, and for a moment, his eyes met hers. The intensity of his silver gaze made her breath catch in her throat. “But there was still one part of the favor we haven’t taken care of yet.”

She didn’t understand what he meant. The music had slowed, the rhythm soft and languid. Her heart echoing in her chest like the pulse of the music itself. 

Hermione glanced at the clock. They only had 6 minutes left. What could they possibly do with 6 minutes? 

“I don’t understand.” 

Draco moved both of his strong hands to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs grazing the skin of her collarbone. Hermione stopped breathing as he leaned in, his face hovering just inches from hers. For a brief, dangerous moment, she thought he might kiss her. The proximity, the heat radiating from his body, was almost enough to make her explode.

But instead of kissing her, his thumbs hooked into the neckline of her dress, sliding the silvery material down her arms. “I said I wanted to see you, Granger.”

When her eyes widened and she moved her hands to cover her chest, he grinned at her. “Let me.”

“You’ve seen me all night,” Hermione gasped out when he gently tugged her wrists free from the sleeves. 

“Not in your entirety. And I’ve been imagining what you have looked like under your robes for years,” he growled as he leaned into her while pushing the bodice down over her breasts. “So, let me enjoy my favor,” He finished as his teeth grazed the tendon in her neck and his hands left her dress bunched around her hips. 

She couldn’t see his face since he buried it in her neck to kiss the skin there softly. But she also couldn’t form words. Her mind screamed for her to stop him but her body pressed into his of its own accord. He let out a ragged laugh, fisted in the fabric at her waist and tugged hard, forcing the dress and her panties to land on the floor at her feet. 

Hermione’s hands reached up in shock to grip his shoulders and push him back–but he didn’t budge, instead he lifted her up and smoothly lifted seated her on the edge of the dining table as she yelped in surprise. “Malfoy!”

“I just want to see you, witch,” Draco taunted when she arched against him as her bare ass hit the cold wood of the table. “Sit still.”

Hermione couldn’t believe what was happening. Her chest was heaving and she realized that it was the only place on her body that was still covered. Draco seemed to notice it as well because as he straightened and looked down at her, he raised an eyebrow at her to see if she would take her bra off herself.

Glancing at the clock, Hermione saw there were only 2 minutes left before their hour was up.

Okay. She could do this. This was fine. She was fine. Totally fine. 

Hermione locked eyes with him as he towered over her and she slowly undid the clasp in the back before letting her bra slide down her arms and onto the floor. Her chin tilted in defiance. If he wanted to play with her, then she would make him just as much of a mess as she was.

“Well? Are you going to look at me?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up at the sauciness in her tone but a grin quickly spread across his face as he stepped backwards to take her in. She picked up her wine glass from where it was sitting beside her on the table and slowly spread her legs as they dangled over the edge and took a long sip. She couldn’t see him but his groan practically vibrated throughout the entire room. 

Good.

Hermione placed her glass back down and watched as his eyes swept over her skin, settling on the apex of her thighs where she could feel how wet she was where the air teased her slit. He moved to step closer to her when the clock chimed, startling them both. 

“It’s a shame we’ve run out of time, Granger,” he murmured, his eyes raking over her flushed face. “Shame, really. I can smell your excitement. And that makes me want dessert.”

The words hit her like a jolt of electricity and she felt her nipples tighten even more than they had when he was taking them in a second ago. 

Excitement?  

Her mind went blank for a moment as the heat in her face flared. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks: he had noticed how she was basically dripping for him. He had smelled it—her arousal, that undeniable knowledge that she wanted him. Now that they’d run out of time, she felt so raw, so exposed. He was so calm about it and she was a puddle before him.

She wanted to disappear into the floor.

"I—I need to go," she stammered, her words tripping over one another. “Next week… for the lessons… I’ll see you then.”

The words barely left her mouth before she was already grasping for her wand on the table. Her skin felt too tight, her mind a mess of confusion, and her heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it. Just like he could smell her cunt.

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t stay there any longer without completely losing her composure. She hurried to set herself down on the ground, wobbling for a moment in her heels and snatched her bra and dress off the floor.  The words were spilling from her in a frantic rush. “I—next week, right? For the lessons. I’ll—”

But she didn’t get to finish her sentence. Draco, his gaze never leaving her, was still standing there, so impossibly close, his presence filling the space like smoke, thick and suffocating. And that look—he was enjoying this, enjoying how flustered she was. 

It was all there, in his eyes. His smirk. 

Fuck him.

"You alright, Granger?" His tone was casual, but the undertone of barely contained desire was unmistakable. "No need to rush."

Hermione’s throat constricted. 

Wand, use the wand.

She straightened and tapped her wand against the clothing in her fist before a hushed spell put them back on her body. "I—" she began, but the rest of the sentence died on her lips. She couldn’t let him get to her like this.

“Yes, Granger?” He pressed, crossing his arms across his chest and looking like he knew exactly how upset she was… and loved it.

“I—next week,” she repeated, the words more forceful now as she turned toward the door. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for the handle, and she could hear her own voice, high-pitched and desperate. “Next week for the lessons,” she said one last time, before pulling the door open and slipping through it quickly.

She heard his voice a moment later. 

“Tilly, please escort Miss Granger to the floo.”

The cool air in the hallway hit her like a bucket of ice water, and Hermione took a shuddering breath, forcing herself to calm down. She didn’t even pause to glance over her shoulder at him but Tilly’s little heels clacked over to her in seconds. 

“Miss does not look so well! Here take Tilly’s hand—yes, take it. Steady, now.” Hermione barely registered the elf as she made her way down the hallway. 

What the hell just happened?

Why did he do that?

She had agreed to the lessons. Agreed to spend time with him, to let him teach her things. His touch, his words—they were pushing boundaries she didn’t know she was prepared to cross regardless of how many fantasies she had of him. 

It wasn’t until she got back to her flat and went to change for bed that she realized she had forgotten more than her wits at the manor that evening. 

She’d forgotten her bloody panties.

Chapter Text

Friday Night
May 9, 2003

Granger was late.

Not early. Not perfectly punctual. Late.

And that made him nervous.

Draco stood by the grand piano in the formal sitting room, fingers absently tracing the intricate carvings on its polished surface. He had always found solace in music, in the structured precision of notes and a haunting melody. It had been an anchor for him throughout the war, a way to channel his emotion in productive ways instead of a pointless killing spree. 

Tonight, though, his mind was too restless to turn to his music for peace.

He exhaled slowly, glancing at the clock in the corner of the room by the fireplace.

6:07 p.m.

Seven minutes wasn’t a tragedy, but Hermione Granger wasn’t the type to be late, not without a reason. And after their last encounter, after the first favor she had granted him, his stomach twisted at the thought of what that reason might be. Because, maybe… she’d actually come to her senses. 

Draco closed his eyes and let the memory of that night wash over him as he leaned against the piano.

She had chosen the "safe" favor, and he had indulged her by making her feel exactly that… for the majority of their time together. He had expected her to be stiff, uncomfortable, unwilling to let down her guard—but instead, she had surprised him.

Over dinner, she had even laughed. Not the polite, measured laughter she offered in public, but something real and charming. He had watched as the tension drained from her shoulders with each sip of wine, and the wary lines on her face softened. She had even complimented the meal—though she had also teased him relentlessly when she discovered he had helped cook it.

He had forgotten what it felt like to have someone look at him without fear or absolute disdain. Aside from those who looked at him adoringly for his galleons, of course. And for it to have been the girl he tormented in his teen years of all people—well, it was a pleasant surprise.

And then there had been the dancing.

Draco smirked at the memory, running a hand through his softly styled hair. He had known she would protest, that she would insist she wasn’t a dancer. And yet, when he had pulled her into his arms, when his hand had settled against the small of her back, she had melted into him in a way that made his blood run straight to his cock.

He had felt the hitch in her breath when his fingers traced small circles against her spine. How her brow furrowed when she tried to focus too hard on the steps was so endearing that he wondered how much he could incorporate dance into their future lessons just to see it again.

And then, there was a moment she had looked up at him, lips parted, pupils blown wide, and for a fraction of a second, he had wondered if she wanted him to kiss her.

He should have.

He almost had.

But instead, he let her go.

Because as much as he wanted to unravel her, as much as he wanted to take her right there on the floor beside the glow from the fireplace…he needed to toy with her first. He couldn’t chance scaring her off completely, not when there were so many weeks left to play. 

Draco sighed, shaking off the memory as he glanced at the clock again. 

6:12 p.m.

His hands fisted for a moment before he forced them to relax.

Shit.

He’d played it carefully all week. Didn’t send her any owls or taunting letters. He didn’t send back her panties coated in his cum after he vigorously jerked off into them clutched around his palm when she left that night.

And that was a testament to his self control because he really, really wanted to.

If she had changed her mind about the lessons, if she had decided that their arrangement was a mistake—

No.

He refused to believe that.

Before he could let himself spiral any further, the flames in the sitting room’s fireplace roared to life, a swirl of green illuminating the space.

And then, there she was.

Hermione stumbled slightly as she stepped out of the Floo, her hands brushing soot from the sleeves of her white blouse and dark blue pencil skirt. Her curls were slightly disheveled, and there was a faint flush to her cheeks like she had been rushing.

Draco narrowed his eyes, stepping forward and rolling up the sleeves of his black dress shirt to greet her. "You're late."

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she straightened her posture. "Yes, Malfoy, I’m aware. Thank you for the unnecessary observation."

He crossed his arms, his dark mark on display as he watched her try and tame her curls over her shoulder. "Care to explain why?"

"I had a last-minute meeting," she said, brushing past him toward the chair she had occupied during their first lesson. "And then Crookshanks decided to be particularly uncooperative when I arrived home to freshen up. You should be grateful I made it at all."

"Oh, believe me, Granger. I'm absolutely thrilled to have the pleasure of your company this evening."

She shot him a glare, but he didn’t miss the way her lips twitched, as if she were fighting a smile. “How did you know I’d arrive by floo tonight?”

He let out a slow breath, the tension that had gripped him easing slightly now that she was here, safe and as fiery as ever. “Well, after I waited by the entrance of the manor for your arrival and you weren’t early like you always are, I figured you’d either come by floo or not at all.” Draco shrugged his shoulders before he continued. “So, I closed the access to the other floos in the home except for the one here in the sitting room so I could be close to the fire whiskey, whichever the outcome.”

"Salazar, your dramatics never cease, do they?”

Draco grinned and shook his head.

“Shall we?" she asked, rolling her eyes in response.

Draco smirked, moving to stand behind her chair as she sat, his fingers grazing the back of it as he leaned in just slightly. "We shall.”

Once she was settled, Draco made her a drink and set it beside her, making sure to take in her body language while he made small talk. He asked her about her classes that week and if there were any promising students such as them when they were young. Hermione barely answered with a word or two in response. 

Obviously, Draco had expected some awkwardness after last week’s… encounter. He had not, however, expected this.

Granger was flustered.

Genuinely, utterly flustered.

She had spent the last five minutes avoiding his gaze, her fingers fidgeting in her lap as she sat stiffly in the tufted chair by the fireplace. 

It was delicious to see the witch in such a state.

"You seem tense, Granger," Draco drawled, leaning lazily against the edge of the fireplace. His silver eyes gleamed with amusement as he sipped his fire whiskey. "Something on your mind?"

Her spine straightened, but she still refused to look at him. "Nothing at all," she replied in a rush.

He smirked. Liar.

Draco could practically see the memory replaying in her mind. The moment she sat on top of his dining table, spreading her legs for him. The way her entire body had frozen as he took her in, his sharp intake of breath the only sound in the room besides their rapid heartbeats. He had done the honorable thing, of course—stayed where he was instead of collapsing to his knees and burying his tongue in the wet heat of her cunt. 

But the fantasies he’d lived on for years were nothing compared to the image of her in real life. And he thanked Merlin every other minute that she still came tonight because the truth was he didn’t think he’d ever be able to leave her alone now that he had seen everything she had to offer.

"Granger." His voice was smooth, coaxing. "You're blushing."

That did it. 

She snapped her head up, her eyes burning with indignation. "I am not."

Draco tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he slowly prowled toward her chair. "A Gryffindor lying so brazenly? Tsk. I thought you lot were above that."

She scowled but said nothing, clearly determined to pretend everything was fine. But the flush on her cheeks betrayed her, creeping down her neck, disappearing beneath the modest neckline of her blouse.

He wanted to see how far it went.

Draco reached out, gripping the arms of her chair as he leaned down, caging her in. He felt the way her breathing changed as it puffed against his face, saw the way her fingers tightened around the edge of the chair beside her thighs. "Tell me, Granger," he murmured, his lips just shy of her ear. "Are you always this distracted, or is it just me?"

She turned her head away sharply, her nose nearly brushing his. "You are insufferable."

Draco laughed in her face and he had a moment where he thought she might slap him. He kind of wished she would. "That’s not a no."

Her glare was scathing, but he caught the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, the way her lips parted just slightly as she struggled to come up with a retort.

Interesting.

He let the silence stretch between them before finally, mercifully, pulling back. He straightened his shoulders, brushing imaginary dust from his pants. "Right, then. Should we begin your lesson?"

Hermione exhaled sharply, clearly eager to redirect the conversation. "Yes. Please."

"Tonight’s topic: the art of subtlety."

She frowned. "That sounds suspiciously like a skill you lack, Malfoy."

“Oh, Granger. I don’t lack subtlety—I simply choose when to use it." He stepped behind her chair, letting his fingers graze the back of it again. "Unlike you. You, who wears every thought, every feeling, every little reaction on that pretty face of yours."

She clenched her jaw to prevent from telling him off and Draco relished the way she fought not to react.

"This will be useful for you," he continued, moving to stand in front of her again. "You need to learn how to maintain composure. How to control your expressions, your body language," he let his eyes sweep over her deliberately, watching as she crossed her legs tightly. "Even when you’re flustered."

Her glare returned full force, but he could see the uncertainty beneath it. She was always eager to please regardless of the situation and that’s what made this so easy. 

"Give me an example," she challenged. "Of when subtlety is necessary."

Draco hummed, pretending to consider. Then, he leaned down again, closer this time, until his lips were right against her ear.

"Like now," he murmured. "When a gentleman notices that a lady’s breath catches whenever he gets too close."

Hermione jerked away, brown eyes dark and blazing. "Malfoy—"

He laughed, stepping back. "You see? You react too easily." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "We’ll have to work on that."

She exhaled through her nose, clearly attempting to regain her composure. "Fine. What do you propose?"

Draco’s smirk was positively wicked. "Oh, I have plenty of ideas."

And he planned to enjoy every single one of them.

Draco took his time circling her chair, keeping his movements slow and watching as Hermione fought to keep her composure. She sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her chin lifted in defiance—but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept pressing her thighs together as if she were trying to keep herself grounded.

She was hot for him, and he had barely started.

"Lesson two," Draco announced, stopping directly in front of her. "Composure is everything. You cannot afford to react to every little thing, no matter how much it affects you."

Hermione scoffed. "And I suppose you have mastered the art of never reacting?"

Draco tilted his head as she looked up at him from her chair. "Oh, I react plenty, Granger. I just make sure no one sees it." His eyes darkened slightly as he leaned forward, just enough to make a small noise of surprise bubble out of her throat. "And I certainly don’t let anyone hear it."

Her lips parted, and for a brief moment, she looked as if she might argue. But then her gaze shifted—lower, just for a second, to his mouth—before she quickly looked away, trying to cover her reaction with a cough.

Draco grinned.

"Tell me, Granger," he murmured, tapping a finger against his chin. "What do you think would happen if I were to..." He trailed off, letting his fingers drift lazily over the exposed skin of her knee, barely a whisper of contact.

Her reaction was immediate and so incredibly satisfying. A sharp inhale was clearly heard throughout the room. Her fingers twitched in her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt tightly in her small hands.

Draco bit back a victorious chuckle.

"That’s precisely the problem," he said smoothly, withdrawing his hand. "You feel too much. And you let everyone know it."

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose, blinking rapidly as if she were trying to clear her mind. "So what’s your solution, then?" she asked, voice tight. 

“Simple. Practice."

“Practice what?"

He stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a performance. "I’m going to touch you," he said casually.

Hermione choked on her own air supply. "You’re going to—excuse me?"

"Relax, Granger." His voice deepened to a seductive tone. "Nothing inappropriate. Just... casual touches. A brush of the hand. A fleeting graze of fingertips. The sort of thing you will encounter constantly in high society." He let his gaze drop to where her hands were now gripping the arms of the chair. "And your job is to not react."

Her nostrils flared slightly. "That’s your grand lesson? Not reacting to—" She made a vague gesture between them. "This?"

Draco leaned in slightly, voice deep and serious now. "This is the exact kind of thing you’ll need to master if you want to navigate my world, Granger." His fingers flexed at his sides. "If a simple touch unravels you, how do you expect to sit through an entire gala filled with politicians, aristocrats, and socialites who will all be watching your every move?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Exactly. Thought so."

She huffed, then squared her shoulders. She didn’t even realize that she was so perfect all riled up. "Fine," she bit out. "Do your worst, Malfoy."

Draco’s grin turned downright predatory.

"Oh, Granger," he murmured, stepping behind her chair once more. "You have no idea what you just agreed to."

The first touch was simple—the definition of subtle.

Draco walked past her as if merely repositioning himself in the room, his fingers barely ghosting over the curve of her forearm.

She tensed immediately.

Draco tsked. "Already failing, I see."

Hermione let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "That doesn’t count. I wasn’t expecting it."

His sigh was loud. Such a big brain in that head of hers and it was faltering over something so simple. "That’s the point."

The next was at her wrist. He reached for the glass of fire whiskey she hadn’t touched yet that he’d set out for her, deliberately brushing the back of his fingers against her pulse point as he did.

Her breath hitched.

"Try harder, Granger," he murmured.

And then he really tested her.

As she sat there, determined to be still, he circled behind her again before placing both hands lightly on her shoulders, letting the heat from his hands sink into the thin fabric of her top.

Her entire body locked up.

Draco leaned down, his breath fanning over her cheek and teasing a curl there. "Relax," he murmured, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots of tension at the base of her neck.

She made a noise—soft, barely audible—but fuck, it sent a rush of heat straight through him. She could be making these noises for him bent over this very chair—hair wild, skin glowing from the flames. She was probably loud in bed, or at least vocal. She was so sensitive to everything that it was most likely impossible not to be. 

Draco swallowed hard, controlling himself. 

"Not fair," Hermione muttered, voice breathy. "That’s a massage, not a test."

"Stop talking, witch." 

Her little sound of protest was ignored as Draco went to work on her. His hands were confident in their strokes to get out each of her knots, circling her pressure points. When his hands trailed over her collar bone as he swept them forward, her head fell back against the chair and he grinned down at her peaceful face. She was so beautiful like this. Pliable and soft and smooth. Every so often, his fingers would drift slightly lower into the top of her blouse, a teasing suggestion over the swell of her breasts, before returning to their proper place.

When his hands hovered over her chest and his fingers undid one button, then two, exposing the top of her bra, Draco had to resist making a sound of surprise himself.

He quickly made sure to cover the mistake with an insult.

“Of course,” He whispered. “It’s impossible to touch the Golden Girl’s wrist without her jumping out of her skin. But, undress her and she’s the picture of contentment.”

Hermione seethed.

"Malfoy," she gritted out. "I hate you."

Draco only chuckled and her eyes opened to glare up at him. 

"Now, now, Granger," he murmured, dipping his head close, practically bent over the back of the chair at this point. "I know that’s a lie."

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, but she didn’t pull away. 

Progress.

After a few more minutes of returning to work her neck and shoulders, he finally relented, releasing her with a pat on the head as he straightened and stretched. 

When he moved to take his seat across from her, he made sure to brush his fingers against her hand again. 

She remained calm and neutral.

"That," he praised, "was a vast improvement."

Hermione scowled, smoothing her hair over her shoulders in an attempt to collect herself before buttoning up her blouse. “I think I preferred it when you just insulted me outright."

"Come on, Granger. That would be far less fun. And at least we now know what you need to unwind before a society function. I’d recommend a shag to relieve some of those jitters but I feel like getting a massage beforehand might be more doable for you and hefty work load.”

Her mouth fell open at his words and she blushed again but said nothing. 

He checked the clock in the corner before he turned back to her. "Lesson complete. You survived."

She exhaled sharply and finally grabbed the fire whiskey beside her. "Barely."

Draco grinned, thoroughly pleased with himself as she swallowed the contents. 

"Ready to pick your favor for next week?" he asked, crossing his arms. He noticed her eyes staring at his muscular forearms and tensed under her gaze. 

Hermione hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. But he caught it.

She was thinking about it. About him. If she could go through with another week of this. 

"Yes," she said finally, placing her empty glass on the table and leaning forward to hold out her hand. “What have you come up with this time?”

Draco simply stared at her open palm then back to her face. “What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting for the cards.”

“The cards?”

“I swear, Malfoy—"

Draco stood suddenly, making the short distance to the fireplace in just a few strides. “You’ll get them by owl later this evening. I’ve decided to make a few adjustments now that I know your comfort level.”

Hermione stood up and smoothed her clothing as she made her way over to him. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ll know soon enough.” He inclined his head, stepping back, allowing her space to leave as he grabbed the bag of floo powder from the mantle.

She grabbed a handful and turned toward the fireplace, pausing briefly before tossing a glance over her shoulder. "Malfoy?"

“Yes, witch?” 

He sounded bored and Hermione’s irritation gave her a burst of confidence because how dare he act like she wasn’t just as capable of messing with him, too? 

"Next time we meet, I won’t be the one blushing."

Draco’s cocky attitude faded for a split second before he chuckled darkly.

"Oh, Granger," he murmured as he trailed a fingertip down her throat before it grazed the crease of her cleavage under her shirt. His eyebrows raised as they locked eyes. She hadn’t flinched. "We’ll see about that."

And then she stepped back to call out her address as the flames swallowed her whole. After Hermione disappeared from his sight, he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling all the nerves he’d hidden from her.

Because...fuck. What was that?

Now he was the one who was flustered.

Draco made his way over to the polished drink cart, pouring himself another glass of fire whiskey before sinking into the tufted chair she had just vacated. It was still warm from her sitting in it all night and her scent enveloped him, making him hard again. 

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his thoughts still replaying the way she had looked at him tonight. The way she had tried to remain composed, tried to fight her reactions—only to fail beautifully every single time.

He was getting to her.

But there was still so much more he wanted from her.

He accio’d three blank black cards from his desk in the other room—the same as the ones he used before. A slow genuine smile spread across his lips as he dipped his quill in silver ink, tapping the edge against his chin as he considered his options. Then, he began to write.

Card Number 1: "Sit on my lap for five minutes. No fidgeting. No squirming. No complaining. Just sit there like a good girl and pretend it doesn’t affect you."

Draco chuckled to himself. That one would drive her mad. He could already picture the way her face would turn an impossible shade of red. Would she pick it out of stubbornness, just to prove she could handle it?  

Merlin, he hoped so.  

Card Number 2: "Allow me to take you shopping. Use my galleons at your disposal. I can rent out the shop for the evening so no one will have to see you with an ex-death eater in public." 

The thought of her picking out lingerie in front of him had his mind going blank with lustful imaginings. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to pick this one or not. Because if she did, he wasn’t sure he would survive it.  

And finally, the third.  

Card Number 3: "Allow me to take you out somewhere private and exclusive. It would be nice to get out of this stuffy Manor for a night and I promise to handle all of the details as long as you arrive on time. There is no time limit for our evening, and you are free to leave whenever you wish."

He stacked the cards, slipping them into an envelope with her name elegantly written across the front before he quickly added a note to the envelope as well.

Hopefully you didn’t blush too much while reading these. 

P.S. You are forbidden to wear your knickers regardless of which card you choose.

There. That ought to set her straight as to who was in charge of this situation. 

Draco quickly scrawled another note to be delivered elsewhere before having his owl take both envelopes out into the evening air. 

Another fire whiskey and a good twenty minutes later, his owl returned with an answer to one of its deliveries.

Draco. My Dearest. Best Cock on the Block. The Silver-Tongued Serpent. 

I had been missing our crazy nights out. Drinks sound good. 

Meet you at the Leaky Cauldron in an hour.

—Theodore Nott

Chapter Text

Later That Night
May 9, 2003

The moment Hermione had stepped out of the Floo and into her flat, she had ripped off her shoes and tossed them across the room, her frustrated curses filling the space and scaring Crookshanks from where he was sleeping on her cozy white sofa. The memory of Malfoy’s hands, his voice, the way he had rattled her throughout the lesson…

She growled under her breath, storming into her bedroom and ravaging the clothing in her closet. She needed something sexy and she needed it right bloody now .

This was becoming much more than she had bargained for and Hermione couldn’t decide if it was worth the critical hit to her sanity—regardless of how badly she wanted to reopen Hogwarts. 

It was too much. 

The way he had touched her tonight with all that delicious control he waved in her face. The teasing press of his fingers against the nape of her neck. The way he knew exactly how much to play off of her obvious sexual frustration.

And the worst part about it? 

She loved that he knew how to read her so well. 

“Gods!” She hissed, ripping a tight, red, strappy, silk dress off one of the hangers and tossing it onto the bed before stripping down to nothing. 

A strong drink was needed. Or two. Or, fucking six at this point. 

She grabbed the dress off the bed and crouched down to pull out a pair of matching red heels that were still in the box from under her bed before walking back into the kitchen, entirely naked. Crookshanks mewled as she placed the outfit onto the sofa beside him and conjured a red satin thong to wear underneath. She wanted to wear her favorite black pair but she’d left them at the manor for his poor house elf to find and toss in the bin. It was a shame but she would not be bringing up her missing knickers to Malfoy. She did not need another opportunity to embarrass herself. 

Her hands shook as she grabbed the bottle of champagne from the top of the refrigerator she had been saving for something special. Because…well, fuck it, this was a special occasion, wasn’t it? Special in the way that Malfoy had clearly made it his personal mission to torture her until her cunt throbbed and her mind short circuited whenever she was near him.

Hermione drank straight from the bottle and had downed half of it when a sharp tapping at her window made her jump.

She whipped her head around which caused some of the alcohol to drip onto her chest, eyes narrowing at the interruption.

Malfoy’s fucking owl.

"You have got to be kidding me," she muttered, stalking toward the window, still completely nude, before throwing it open with more force than necessary.  

The owl simply stared at her and gestured with its beak for her to take the large envelope attached to its ankle.

"I don’t want them," she snapped, crossing her arms over her bare chest, glaring at the creature as if it were personally responsible for Malfoy’s insufferable existence.  

The owl blinked and made no move to leave.

Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose, pressing her lips together. The chill from the night air caused her nipples to tighten and goosebumps to break out all over her body. She had better things to do than partake in a staring contest with an animal right now. 

“Fine. Let’s see what he’s cooked up this time.”

The moment she had unfastened the seal and pulled the cards from their envelope, she shivered—but it wasn’t from the cold this time. 

Because Malfoy was still playing his game. Still giving her favors that could lead to so much more if she wasn’t careful. But, did she want to be careful? 

The familiar pull of lust beneath her belly button made itself known.

No. She didn’t want to be careful anymore.

Hermione’s breathing quickened as she read the cards.

Her thighs clenched.  

He was testing her—pushing her. 

But she could push, too. 

Between her legs, a slow, deliberate burn had settled. The memory of his voice lingered in her ears. The feel of his hands. The way his eyes simmered as he looked at her naked form, just like she stood now. 

She shouldn’t…

And yet—  

Before she could rationalize what a bad idea it was, she turned one of the cards around to its blank surface and wrote that she’d like to choose all three options with a pink muggle gel pen she grabbed off the table. She typically used that one to grade some of the younger student’s work but it would do well to show up on the black cardstock. She also penned a saucy note back for him. 

Once she was satisfied with her own demise being put to paper, she put the singular card in the creature’s talons with a pat to its chest. 

As she watched him take off into the night, Hermione sighed as she locked her window.

It was time to get properly wasted before she turned up to the Manor dressed in red silk and spite.

The Leaky Cauldron was filled with the usual Friday night crowd: post-shift witches and wizards laughing too loud, the warm scent of butterbeer mixing with something a little stronger as booze spilled from enchanted glowing cups as people writhed on the dancefloor beside the bar.

Hermione ducked her head as she slipped through the door, cheeks flushed from the brisk walk from her apparition point and the fact that she was clearly overdressed. But, she looked sexy and she needed that confidence boost after being toyed with all evening.

She ordered a firewhiskey and immediately regretted her decision when it reminded her of her recent evenings with Malfoy. She had to force herself not to scowl and barely had time to take her first sip before a low, amused voice behind her made her shoulders tense.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Professor Granger looking like she’s for the streets instead of the schools.”

Hermione turned to find Theodore Nott perched against the bar like he owned the bloody place, long legs crossed and a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He was wearing all black, of course, with a few silver chains hanging from his neck because Merlin forbid a Slytherin step out of the house without their aesthetic intact.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the ease that washed through her that her friend was back in town. “You’re one to talk. You look like you just came back from an incredible Italian vacation where you seduced all the men and women who were graced with your presence before returning home to your favorite know-it-all.”

Theo’s eyes flashed with warmth. “You do know everything, don’t you, little cub?”

Hermione let out an indelicate snort at that. “Not nearly enough to keep me out of trouble.”

They clinked glasses, the edge of his boot nudging her heel as he leaned in. “Now, tell me, Hermione. What has driven you to drink yourself into oblivion tonight? You never pull out an outfit like this unless you’re horny or heated and frankly, love, you look like you’re both.”

She sighed dramatically, tipping back her glass to down the golden liquid. “Malfoy.”

Theo chuckled as he waved for the bartender to refill their drinks. “You’ll have to be more specific. Is it his hair? His mouth? The outline of his cock in those tight suits he wears?”

She nearly choked. “Merlin, Theo.”

“What? It’s common knowledge he’s hung like a hippogriff.”

Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and adjusted her shoulder straps idly. The dress was backless and low-cut, which was much less than she usually wore in public and she was doing her best to remain confident in the silken fabric. “I know you’ve barely been around this past year but I’m not getting any closer to funding Hogwarts—”

“Empty my vaults, love.” 

“It’s more than just money, Theo. You know that.” Hermione gave him a kind smile. “But I came to an agreement with Malfoy—”

“With the Devil—”

“Hush! We came to an agreement that he would teach me how to fit in with pureblood society by giving me lessons on manners, dancing, and conversation in exchange for some favors.”

Theo leaned in again. “Favors?”

Hermione hid her blush with downing her newly refilled glass. “Yes.”

Theo was quiet for a few seconds, then offered a slow, wicked grin. “And these special days are on Fridays, aren’t they? Like, tonight?”

She pushed against his chest so he wasn’t so close to her but made no move to deny it.

“The war messed us all up, love. But no one who is still alive was affected more than Draco. He’s a wonderful bloke and I’d die for him—you know this—but he’s always been the type to play with his food.”

There was nothing but truth falling from Theo’s mouth and Hermione knew all of this deep down already. She had helped them to the best of her power after the defeat of Voldemort to get them short sentences, live their lives, move on from the past. They were children forced into making decisions they had no right to be making and Hermione had convinced the entire wizarding world of that. She just wished she could convince them that Hogwarts was important, too. 

Her friendship with Theo was inevitable. During the trials, he’d been a whirlwind of positivity—a beacon of hope where most had lost theirs. He only spent six weeks in Azkaban since it was his parents that had been the true issue amongst the Nott family. Theo had even managed to escape getting the Dark Mark which worked another type of magic in court. Thanks to his help and connections, she was able to get his friends out of Azkaban in almost as little time as him. 

All except for Draco, that is. 

He’d done far too much damage to his reputation and taken too many lives. Wronged too many rights. Told her in the privacy of his holding cell before trial that he’d enjoyed it even. It was Theo who convinced her that he’d simply been in survival mode, trying to stay alive and keep his mother safe. He’d known too much of the darkness to be comfortable among the light. Only a well-timed pensieve during the last day of his trial that revealed him muttering a counter spell while she watched him from the floor of his drawing room saved him from a lifetime in Azkaban. Her memory that saved him. The pain made it foggy, but there was no doubt that he’d helped them that day. 

Theo’s smile widened as he watched his friend stare off into space beside him. “Well, I have good news and terrible news.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she brought herself back to the present. “What?”

“The good news is that you look absolutely stunning tonight. Like walking, talking, drinking sex.”

“And the terrible news?”

Theo nodded toward the door just as the air shifted around them.

“That your little problem is walking through that door in approximately—” he checked his watch, “—now.”

Hermione spun just in time to see Malfoy step inside, all crisp lines to his black attire—so much like Theo’s—and the quiet control that he held onto like it was a noose around his neck. His grey eyes scanned the room with purpose until they landed on her almost immediately.

And when he saw her—with Theo, in that dress—his jaw flexed.

“Oh, bollocks,” she muttered under her breath.

“Did I forget to mention that the reason I’m here tonight is because he asked me out for drinks?”

There was little else that Hermione hated more than Theo when he set about meddling in her affairs. She watched as Theo waved Draco over to them and suddenly remembered that she had stupidly agreed to all the favors he’d sent her to choose from for next week. Perhaps he hadn't received it yet. She could hang on to that and run back home before things got out of hand.

“I should go,” Hermione began as she rose from her seat. “Lovely seeing y—“

A strong hand pushed her back into a seated position in her chair. “Do not run away,” Theo spoke in a serious tone. “He’s like a cat and he’ll simply chase you until he’s got your tail hanging from his mouth.”

Hermione sighed and signaled for the bartender to bring her another drink.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

One Hour Later

Hermione did not intend to be perched on a high barstool between two Slytherins tonight—one insufferably smug and the other annoyingly charming. And both impossibly sexy. 

Seriously. 

She could feel the glares from the eligible witches and wizards from every angle as they tried to figure out why someone like her was sandwiched between two could-be models.

“So,” Theo drawled, nudging her elbow lightly with his, “when do we get to see the debut of all you’ve been taught? You know—the posture, pedigree, and killer waltz?”

“She’s nowhere near ready.”

Draco’s hand rested lightly on her thigh beneath the hem of her dress as it had for the last ten minutes or so and by some miracle she didn’t flinch. Must’ve been the alcohol.

Theo made his presence known again as he nudged her even harder this time. “That can’t be true, D. Come on, Hermione. There’s a few wizards here that you could practice on, I’m sure.”

Hermione smiled without showing teeth. “Keep pushing and I’ll spill my drink on your lap.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve done to a man’s trousers,” Theo pointed out as grinned at her.

Draco snorted, sipping his drink—neat firewhiskey, of course, because subtlety had never been his strong suit. “Wow, Nott. It seems Granger isn’t the only one in need of some manners.”

Theo leaned forward on the bar to make eye contact with Draco from where he sat beside Hermione. “Do you think you could pencil me in for the next session? I’d listen so well. I love learning new things.”

Hermione couldn’t help the girlish giggle that escaped her as she sat back to take in the men as they teased one another.

“I think we could make room for Theo to join us one night, don’t you?” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, Hermione was acutely aware that they could be misconstrued into something much more sexual than she intended. 

She blinked at Theo as he stared back at her then she purposefully pushed the remainder of her—what was this, now? Her sixth drink? Definitely time to cut herself off. She swallowed and chanced a look at the blonde wizard next.

Draco glanced at her over the rim of his glass, grey eyes unreadable. “Listen, Granger. You can barely handle an hour with me—how could you expect me to think you could handle us both?”

Hermione inhaled slowly through her nose, and immediately grabbed her drink back. 

Never mind. She was going to need this.

“Now, children,” Theo sang, tipping his glass toward her. “Come on, love—show me a regal smile. You must have learned that by now.”

Hermione has never been so thankful to be so drunk. This is an easy request for her so she doesn’t even have to hesitate. She gives a lopsided grin and straightens her shoulders until she’s sitting unnaturally straight. 

She looks like a lunatic.

“I wasn’t lying when I said she wasn’t ready,” Draco said, without looking at either of them. “We still have months to go. Her aiming for ‘regal’ lands her somewhere between ‘Muggle toothpaste advert’ and ‘uncomfortable bowel movement.’”

Hermione slammed her glass down. “And yet you keep agreeing to these little sessions, Malfoy. Makes one wonder if these little favors I do are worth it to you.”

Draco finally looked at her. Not at her cleavage or her hair or the slightly trembling thigh he still had a hand on—her. The corner of his mouth curled into a sneer. “You mean besides the pleasure of your company and the sight of your skin glowing by the light of the fire?”

Theo cackled reminding them of his presence. “Gods, this is the slowest burn I’ve ever witnessed. Just snog already and be done with it.”

Hermione turned her full glare on Theo now, almost toppling from her seat before both men reached out to stable her. “Oh, piss off. I sometimes wondered why I never spent time with you both before—”

“It took a drunk encounter for you to speak to me after I got out of Azkaban—“

“I’m always on holiday—“

Their voices overlapped and Hermione groaned loudly before continuing, “Clearly, it’s because you like to torture your company.”

Draco’s mouth twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Not entirely accurate.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” she slurred slightly but it didn't stop her words from being forceful.

“You keep saying that. What happened to your big vocabulary, Granger?” Draco was smiling now and Hermione adjusted herself until neither man was touching any part of her body.

“I’m saving it for the next lesson, you prat.”

Theo raised an eyebrow at the pair, enjoying himself far too much. “You two are going to combust at this rate. I’m just trying to provide a safe environment for all this unresolved sexual tension to play itself out. Like a good friend.”

“Bad friend,” Draco muttered.

“You’re not exactly a good friend to her, either,” Theo shot back, nodding toward Hermione. “And yet here you are, teaching her to differentiate between a dinner fork and a salad fork like it’s your calling in life so you can live out some of those prison fantasies of yours. That’s not toxic at all.”

Hermione drained her glass, exhaled, and turned to Draco with something sharp in her eyes. “He’s telling the truth, isn’t he?”

Draco smirked. “Here’s a free lesson: know when you’re out of your depth, darling. And right now, you’re floundering.”

“I think she’s got you wrapped around her pretty little paw,” Theo chimed in before Hermione could retort, “because you haven’t taken one normal breath since you’ve sat beside her all night.” 

Hermione stood, spine straight, chin high. The liquor in her system wreaking havoc as she struggled not to sway on her heels. “I have more important things to do.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “More important than me? I’m insulted.”

She leaned in slightly, just enough that he could smell the warmth of her perfume. And also have the tops of her breasts displayed in front of his face. She watched as his eyes flickered downward and then back to hers as a blush crept onto his aristocratic cheekbones. Finally, she placed a small hand on his thigh, just as his had been on hers minutes ago. Once he was completely at her attention, she spoke.

“Here’s a free lesson for you,” Hermione said smoothly, “don’t assume the whole room revolves around your ego. Even if it usually does.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out, her ass swaying in the tight dress in an exaggerated motion of her hips as she passed by the other patrons on her way.

Theo let out a low whistle before slapping his hand onto the gleaming wood of the bar top. This night had been far more entertaining than he could have anticipated. It was good to be home again.

“You’re going to end up shagging her in your library, aren’t you?”

Draco watched the door swing shut behind her, thought of how many favors he still had to cash in and took another sip of his whiskey.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Friday Morning
May 16, 2003

Draco’s study was filled with streaks of warm light as it filtered through his windows and across his desk. He leaned back in his chair, hands laced loosely behind his head and smirking like a man who had already won.

Because, in a way, he had.

He’d managed to get Granger so infuriated with him that she acted with her impulses instead of that fantastic brain of hers and it was leading her right into the palm of his hand. He cared about her getting the funding and connections needed to open Hogwarts back up again, sure. But, he was honest enough with himself that this arrangement they had went far beyond simple pleasantries. It was proving to be his way right into her fucking knickers if things kept going in this very calculated direction. 

Did he wish he could somehow get into her heart, as well?

Draco sighed and leaned back over his desk. He tapped the thick parchment on his desk once and then another corresponding one that he set off to the side before tucking it into a sleek black envelope, its edges sealed with a quick flick of his tongue. He enjoyed this simple muggle gesture, knowing it would throw her off kilter wondering how on earth he even knew certain aspects that she had grown up with. So, that’s why he did it. Always good to keep her on those dainty little toes. 

When his owl didn’t return until late Saturday morning—and without a response, no less—Draco found it more than odd, but was eager to continue his baiting of the girl that had tormented his mind throughout the years. It took everything in him to wait a few days before reaching out to her again, but he knew he needed to keep the ball in his court when he could.  

The message had been simple:

Granger,

Did you keep my owl for a sleepover?

I do hope that you will invite me next time.

—D.M.

There was no response. Again. But, that was for the best. It allowed him the week to concentrate on exactly how he wanted this Friday to go. And, he knew how to get her attention now that the day was finally upon them.

Miss Granger,

The students call you 'Miss Granger', don't they?

I'm sure they're all insufferable. Do they remind you of me?

If we’re to complete all three favors tonight—and yes, I will be holding you to that—then we’ll need to start early. I suggest you finish your little classes promptly at four. I’ll be waiting.

P.S. This card has been charmed to deliver your replies to me in real time so we can communicate throughout the day. My owl needs his exercise, but not that much. 

—D.M.

After sending it off with his owl, it was time to wait. He'd already arranged the delivery for this morning through the Ministry’s security to allow his bird entrance into the building. Not just the letter, of course. No, that would be far too simple and not hold nearly enough weight. 

The Ministry’s temporary classrooms—some half-abandoned office block Hermione had all but bullied into becoming a “learning space” along with McGonagall—were now overwhelmed with blooms. Well, not all of them. Just the one that she taught from. Just hers.

Roses in every imaginable shade. White orchids. Deep purple peonies. Even a dozen of those obnoxiously rare black tulips he knew she liked because he’d noticed her eyeing them the first day of their lessons when he greeted her at the entrance of the manor. It was excessive and outlandish. It was exactly how he would court her if he could do it properly. 

Draco could only imagine her face when she walked in and found the chaos of color swallowing her little classroom whole and as he looked at the clock, he knew she should be getting his message right about—

The enchanted paper on his desk pulsed with a faint orange glow. She’d replied.

He quickly reached for it and read.

Malfoy,

You’re a menace.

The tulips are beautiful but I fear your mother will have my head if those were taken from the Manor. The first-years are scandalized, and I already had to cast a charm around the roses because one of them is highly allergic.

If you could only hear the rumors, you’d realize that doing things like this come with consequences, and you’ll be hearing from the Department of Magical Education.

I’ll be ready at four.

But that is contingent on you clearing these flowers from my classroom.

Sincerely appalled,

—H.G.

Draco grinned like an utter lunatic. He barely had time to reread her scrawled handwriting that replaced his on the enchanted parchment before Theo strolled into the room, scone in one hand and a takeaway coffee in the other. He was dressed like he’d rolled out of someone else’s bed and stolen their trousers on the way out.

“What’s with the face?” Theo asked, flopping onto the edge of the desk across from Draco. “You look like a cat who finally caught the canary and is trying to decide whether to eat it or marry it.”

“She responded,” Draco said simply, holding up the paper.

Theo took a bite of his scone and squinted. “Is this charmed? Impressive. Did she call you names? Please tell me she called you names.”

“She called me a menace.”

That had Theo’s eyes widening as he let out a laugh. “Merlin, she does like you. Poor girl.”

“She’s promised to be ready at four.”

“And she will be. She’s punctual, Gryffindor to the bone. So, what did she choose for her favor this week? Does it have to do with why I had to ask Pansy to close her shop early tonight for a private shopping excursion?”

Draco didn’t answer at first. He was glad he’d confided in Theo about their arrangement. It was nice having someone he could talk to about it and keep his head on straight. He knew Theo cared for Hermione and that he would keep most of his demons in check if need be. He reread her words, and let the silence stretch a little longer.

“She chose all three cards,” he said finally.

Theo blinked, mid-sip of his coffee. “All three? Shit. Well. She’s always been a wild card.”

“She’s bold,” Draco murmured, eyes flicking up to see Theo watching him intently. “And I love that.”

“Careful, mate.”

Draco sat back, and ran a hand through his hair. “You think I haven’t had years to work this out? She’s like me. In all the ways that matter. Stubborn. Sharp. A little cruel, if she thinks it’ll serve the greater good.”

“Is that all?”

Is it?

“No,” Draco relented as he folded his arms across his chest. “She shares the same darkness as me. I see it in her. I know it’s there. Waiting to come out.”

“And you think that makes her your plaything?” Theo asked, the teasing tone gone from his voice now.

“No,” Draco snapped. “I think it makes her mine to earn. I want her to be obsessed. As obsessed with me as I am with her.”

Theo looked at him for a long time. There wasn’t anything he could do because he knew that Draco was right. No one survived the war without some of the darkness tainting them, but it was apparent that some had more of it in them than others. 

“There’s not a thing I could say to stop all this so I’m going to keep my mouth shut. Just promise you’re not planning to ruin her life. She’s got enough stacked against her with this gala nonsense without catching feelings for a man who spends his mornings scheming over magical correspondence and weaponized floral arrangements.”

Draco’s smile was slow and dangerous as it spread over his chiseled face. In an instant, he was on his feet and leaning against the desk so he was perched beside his friend. “Do you want to hear what the plan is?”

Theo scoffed and he finished his scone with a large bite. “Do you even know me?”

“First stop is shopping. That’s why I needed you to get Pansy to allow us to have our privacy. I’m assuming she agreed?”

“She can’t say no to me.”

“I believe you are the only man to have that effect on her.”

“Which is exactly why you asked, I’m sure. Now… will Hermione really be agreeable to all this?”

“Granger will be reluctant, but she’ll let me spoil her. Pansy and her have a lot in common despite their mutual disdain back in school. And I know that Pans appreciated everything she did to help us, so I am confident it will go well. She’ll protest just enough to justify letting it happen but it’s required by the cards so she will agree in the end.”

“And after that?” Theo asked, poking Draco’s ribs to get him to continue.

Draco swatted his hand away. “One of the other cards stated I could take her out. So, afterwards I'm taking her to Chameleon.”

Theo choked on his coffee. “The sex club?”

“The exclusive one in Diagon Alley, yes.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m completely serious. And when we’re there…” Draco leaned back on his hands as he braced himself against the desk and there was a wistful look on his face as he continued, “I’ll use the last favor. Sit her on my lap. Make her squirm during the performances.”

Theo stared at him, mouth agape. “You’re going to make her watch?”

“Yes. I want her desperate before I ever touch her.”

“I know the tricks they use in that club, mate. You’re setting yourself up to fail. You won’t last,” Theo said, stepping away from the desk and tossing the scone wrapper onto Draco’s desk. “You’ll break first.”

“I won’t,” Draco replied, clearly offended.

Theo paused in the doorway, looking back as he clutched the coffee cup in his hand.

“You better be right,” he said. “Because if you’re wrong, and you do break—make sure she knows she won.”

He was left again with the sun and silence once Theo left. He loved Theo, he did. As the brother he always needed, the brother he could look up to. Because, deep down, Draco knew he was a better man. He just wished that Theo could understand this part of him that longed to claim. Longed to possess the things and people he coveted. But, he knew better than to share certain aspects about himself to such an extent. 

He took a long breath before making his way through the Manor’s halls, past ancestral portraits who thankfully knew better than to comment on his recent behavior with a certain brunette, toward his bedroom.

He stepped inside the walk-in closet with the same purpose he brought to most things in his life now—calm and collected on the surface, but with an intensity humming just beneath his skin for what was to come. The space was meticulously organized, as always. Casual robes in shades of grey, black, Slytherin green, and deep navy hung in perfect alignment thanks to his bejeweled house elf. Shoes polished and arranged by use thanks to himself. Shelves of cufflinks, pocket watches, dragon-hide gloves thanks to the vaults of the Malfoy estate. 

But… It was the far wall, hidden behind the rows of carefully pressed dress robes, that held the truth of just how deep his fixation went when it came to The Brightest Witch of Their Age.

With a flick of his wand, the enchanted wardrobe rearranged itself and he watched as his robes shuffled to the sides like a curtain revealing his true nature.

His shrine.

The dark wood-paneled back wall was a tapestry of his overwhelming compulsion. One that took years in the making. Newspaper clippings from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly yellowed at the edges but preserved by a careful stasis charm that all featured one particular witch. Headlines screamed about Hermione Granger’s long legislative battles, her failed campaigns to reopen Hogwarts, her fight with Kingsley in the middle of a public hearing defending Draco and the other young Death Eaters. The moving images were a sea of passionate displays, confident executions, and heart-felt speeches. Every photo of her was another prize to add to his collection. He’d cut them all himself. Every single one.

But now he knew the real treasures were the letters.

Bundles of them. Dozens. Some torn at the edges, as if they’d been clutched too tightly during long nights with nothing better to do. Some with smudges from damp fingertips attached to a body that was wrung out by its time in a cell. All of them written in the same concise, determined script.

He’d thought they were from Potter at first, but after mentioning them to him a few weeks ago, he knew he’d been mistaken. The Ministry had allowed him to receive mail only with approval. That was the rule. He hadn’t responded. Couldn’t, except to send a few insults here and there for being bothered. But he’d read each one until the parchment frayed at the corners and the ink blurred.

And as he read over the enchanted parchment today as she sent her reply back… It dawned on him.

The handwriting was identical. The same looped y, the sharp t. She’d been sending him the letters the entire time he was in Azkaban. 

The clever little minx.

He ran a hand over one of the older clippings he’d acquired when he got out. A profile of her after the war, standing on the steps of the Ministry with Minerva, holding a welcome sign for the remaining students of Hogwarts to usher them into their new place of learning. 

The photo blinked at him slowly. Her eyes focused, then distant. Proud but defeated because she had done so much and yet, still not nearly enough to satisfy her.

He stepped back, letting the robes drift closed over the wall again with a soft swishing noise. 

Good, he thought. She’s been thinking of me too. For years. Just like I’ve thought of her.

He reached for a fresh charcoal grey suit with subtle silver threading that was tailored to his lean frame. He’d filled out over the last few years, largely in part to keeping his body in shape while he recited old spells in time with sit-ups to keep his mind sharp and his v-line sharper. Beneath it, he chose a dark green shirt, no tie. Just enough to unnerve her. Just enough to remind her that he was not the boy she once knew but he was still a Slytherin to his core.

He fastened the cuffs with onyx studs, every motion calm, methodical, his mind already several hours ahead.

He knew what this was.

Obsession.

It had teeth, and it had roots, and it had survived war, prison, and the slow, agonizing crawl of reform and reputation.

It had survived when so many had died.

And with each passing week, it was becoming tangible. Something he could finally touch.

Someone.

Tonight, she’d model for him. Sit for him. Squirm for him.

She’d see what it meant to be wanted the way he wanted her. And she’d have a front row seat.

All three favors, he thought, lips curling into a grin as he adjusted his collar one final time in the mirror. She doesn’t even know how much I’ve held back until this point.

But she would.

By tonight, she would.

Chapter Text

Friday Afternoon
May 16, 2003

Hermione got through the rest of the school day with her mind elsewhere, often wandering to the glowing parchment that sat in her top drawer away from her nosy pupils. She hadn’t dared to read his last reply while the students were present since they were like vultures and all too eager to think of their teacher involved in a love affair. The flowers already had them out for blood.

So, the moment her door clicked shut behind the final student that afternoon, she drew it out quickly into her hands.

Miss Granger,

The tulips weren’t stolen. They were curated. For you.

Your concern for my mother’s garden is touching. I’ll be sure to pass it along during our next tea.

You’ll find the scent of those peonies enhances concentration and lowers blood pressure. Do keep them in your bedroom. I worry about your stress levels.

You’re welcome.

— D.M.

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a headache. 

Malfoy,

My blood pressure is only high when you’re speaking…or writing.

I’ve confiscated three love notes from students today, all of whom now think I’m in some kind of secret affair thanks to your ridiculous stunt.

Please keep your peonies to yourself next time.

— H.G.

She didn’t expect a response so quickly. The words blinked into view as if he’d been waiting.

Miss Granger,  

I would argue that you are the one turning this into a romantic farce. All I did was send you some silly flowers. And love notes, apparently.

Merlin, Granger, are we corrupting the youth?
How thrilling.

I hope you’re on task to finish on time.

—D.M.

P.S. You didn’t deny the “secret affair” bit. Shall I take that as permission to make it public?

Hermione let out an indelicate snort the same time someone knocked against the classroom door.

She tucked the parchment away again, barely regaining her composure as the door creaked open.

“Theodore,” she said, blinking in confusion. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Theo strolled in with a grin, carrying two bags with him.

“Granger,” he greeted smoothly. “I’ve come to rescue you from the overgrown florist’s dungeon you’ve found yourself trapped in.”

She stared as he began unloading food from the bags. He’d brought sandwiches, her favorite scones, and two steaming coffees. “Did Malfoy send you?”

Theo gave a shrug as he pushed a scone in her direction. “He’s got a big evening to prepare for. I was sent to handle the cleanup.”

“Cleanup?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He gestured broadly at the flowers surrounding the room. “Your request to have the jungle relocated by day’s end? I’m here to make that happen. Also, you’ll need some sustenance if you’re meeting the dragon within the hour.”

“Right,” she said slowly, sitting on the edge of her desk and accepting the coffee. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And,” he added, dropping his voice as he settled beside her, “I wanted to give you a bit of a warning.”

Hermione stiffened at Theo’s words but when she looked at him, he was busying himself with the food he brought. “About what?”

Theo unwrapped his sandwich with such a slow pace that Hermione contemplated ripping it out of his hands and doing it herself. “About tonight.”

“It’s just three favors, Theo. I’m not walking into battle.”

“That’s debatable,” he muttered under his breath. “Look. I know Draco. Always have. And I know when he’s playing at something bigger than he’s letting on.”

Hermione tilted her head before taking a bite of her scone. “He already admitted to scheming.”

“This is more than just a scheme. It’s a—” he waved his sandwich vaguely, “well-crafted emotional siege that goes back years, love.”

“And you’re warning me because...?”

“Because you like him,” Theo said bluntly. “And I don’t want you to get your heart broken. Draco knows how to possess, not love. Or, at least…he doesn’t know how to love in a healthy way. Y’all can have some fun but you need to keep that in the back of your mind.”

Hermione put her scone down and focused on drinking her coffee. She knew that their arrangement was an absolute case study on lunacy but she had no will-power to say no. She wanted to know what would happen next. She was her own personal train crash and she couldn’t look away regardless of the warnings from her friends and her own heart. 

Theo nudged her knee with his. “I’m not saying don’t go. I’m just telling you to be aware. He’s not pulling punches tonight. Not with the shopping. Not with the club. Not with you.”

“The club?” she asked cautiously, as she continued to sip her coffee and adjusted her pencil skirt as she adjusted herself to turn toward Theo.

“Shit. He didn’t tell you about that yet?”

“No...” Her brown eyes narrowed and she was instantly on guard. “What club?”

Theo stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers as he started charming the flowers down to fit in his palm. “You’ll find out. Just remember something for me.”

“What?”

“Just because it’s his game tonight,” he said, backing toward the door with a wink. “doesn’t mean you can’t still beat him. I’d place all my bets on you.”

Hermione pulled the enchanted parchment out again, her fingers tracing the latest message.

“I don’t know about that but I’ll…try. Thanks, Theo. I’ll drop my wards so you can place the flowers in my flat.”

Theo nodded and stepped out into the hallway before poking his head back in. “I better get all the naughty details!”

Hermione was down to the last rack of evening wear when Pansy suddenly turned on her pretty pink heels and stared out into the expanse of her boutique. They’d been trying on clothing for the better part of three hours now and while it was fun, it was also a bit humiliating. Draco made her model every piece and expressed his gratitude with low whistles, curses, and a straining bulge in his dress pants on more than a few occasions. It had also done wonders for Hermione’s ego but trying to find something for this evening was proving to be most difficult. He was very vocal in the distaste he had in the last few dresses Pansy had pulled for her to try on and they were all looking at the collection now in a last attempt to find something suitable.

Thank Merlin they had food delivered to the shop or Hermione wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

“I’ve just remembered! I have the perfect thing,” Pansy announced, already gliding toward the back corner of the boutique. “It's a one-of-a-kind. Emerald silk, structured bodice, scandalously high slit, open back. I originally had it made for myself but, let’s be honest, I have too much green as it is. But, this will be perfect for her tonight. If she’s going to Chameleon, she might as well look like she owns the place.”

Hermione shot Draco a look as she hung up another dress that she wasn’t too excited about. “Do I even want to know what Chameleon is?”

“A private lounge,” he said casually as he sifted through the rack behind Hermione. “High-end. Exclusive. Requires invitation or threat of blackmail to join. You’ll love it.”

Pansy returned with the dress a few moments later. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing she’d ever seen and so very undeniably Slytherin. 

Hermione crossed her arms and backed up into the rack behind her the second she saw it. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not going to be paraded around like some—”

Draco stepped over to stand beside her and whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “You are. This is all part of my favor. And you said yes.”

She practically growled in frustration but couldn’t quite look away from the dress. It was perfect despite the glaring fact that it was fucking green.

Pansy raised a brow at Draco when he straightened back to his full height. “And matching lingerie?”

“Grab the black lace set,” Draco said with a smile at the brunette beside him. “She likes black undergarments.”

Hermione groaned, turning toward the fitting room. “I should have picked one card. One.”

“I’ll do two favors for you tonight to make it fair,” Draco said, voice quiet so only she could hear him.

She stopped halfway into the dressing room as Pansy set the items inside and glanced back over her shoulder. “What kind of favors?”

“The kind you’ll enjoy,” he promised. “Immensely.”

Inside the dressing room, she could hear Pansy laughing under her breath. “You’re lucky she hasn’t hexed you yet.”

“I’m lucky she’s still pretending she might.”

When Hermione stepped out ten minutes later, the room fell silent.

The dress clung like a second skin to her olive complexion. The cut molded to her waist and hips, slit high enough to show off the edge of her thigh where she’d holstered her wand. Backless, nearly down to the base of her spine, while the bodice hugged her chest like it had been stitched with magic to make a soft corseted shape (and knowing Pansy, it most certainly had). Every step she took sent a subtle swish of silk whispering through the room. Draco remained silent but his eyes were so intense that Hermione couldn’t meet his gaze.

Pansy was also not subtle in the way her eyes raked over Hermione in the dress, admiring it from every angle with appreciation and pride at her work. “Almost perfect. Sit.”

Before Hermione could protest, she was ushered into a tall-backed chair at the front of the dressing rooms. With a flick of Pansy’s wand, a mirror appeared before Hermione and she began to work on her appearance. Hermione’s hair cascaded down her shoulders in big, glossy curls. Then, with deliberate precision, Pansy coiled several sections into an elegant upswept crown, pinning them in place with delicate, enchanted silver serpents that wound through the curls until she had a sophisticated half-updo.

Hermione tried to push away the mirror. “This is too much. I’m not—”

“You are.”

She met Draco’s gaze in the reflection and watched his eyes flicker to her mouth when she bit her bottom lip at the heat in his words.

“You’re breathtaking,” he said simply and reached over to tug on one of the curls lying against her shoulder, eyes still fixed on hers.

Hermione swallowed hard, face heating as Pansy started on her makeup. She couldn’t believe how he was talking to her in front of his ex-girlfriend. Granted, she seemed to be more interested in women now that they were older, but still. “Well…You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned in, brushing a finger down the length of her forearm. “And you’re mine tonight. So be gracious, Granger. I’m enjoying dressing you up like a pretty little doll.”

She huffed again, but she didn’t stop Pansy from adding a final charm to her lips which resulted in a rich, sultry pink gloss that gave her an extra pouty look.

“Circe, Draco. When you’re done with her, I might need a taste.”

Hermione turned her shocked expression towards Pansy who stood there, elegant and calm in her black and pink pin-striped dress. She was eyeing her with unbidden lust in her bright eyes before she flicked her wand again and a pair of matching stilettos appeared on Hermione’s feet with coiled snakes on the ankles to match the ones in her hair. 

“I thought you hated me?” Hermione asked bluntly. They’d been cordial all night but there was no sense in denying the awkwardness that lingered throughout their interactions.

“Hate sex is the best sex,” Pansy grinned and began packing the pile of clothing beside the register. “But, no, darling. I don’t hate you. You’ve done more for us than our own families. I could never hate you.” Pansy paused to look Hermione over again as she stood from the chair and Draco placed a hand on the small of her back when she shifted on her heels. “Although, I do hate that you look better in that dress than I did.”

“Pans—” Draco warned.

Hermione interjected and stepped forward. “Thank you, Pansy. Your shop is beautiful and I’d love to come back sometime.”

Pansy gestured to at least a dozen large boxes of dresses, work clothing, shoes, undergarments, coats, swimsuits and more. “I’m pretty sure that Draco has bought out everything in your size so it may be awhile before you need me again.” 

Hermione’s mouth hung open as she took in the amount of items that Pansy was packaging before rounding on the man beside her. “Malfoy! You cannot buy all those things I tried on! Just a few of them will—”

“Shut up, witch,” he sighed. “It’s not my fault everything looked good on you.”

The blush had to be all over Hermione’s body now at his praise. She’d always assumed she looked average at best, but he sounded like he meant it and it felt too good to ignore.

“We need to go now. We’re running late. Shall we?” Draco asked as he held his hand out to Hermione. 

She stared at it, at him dressed in all black aside from the green tie that matched her attire, then at them both in the mirror. They looked incredible together, there was no denying it.

“Two favors,” she stated as she took a deep breath in and looked up into his beautiful grey eyes.

Draco smirked down at her. He wouldn’t say no to anything with her looking at him like that. “Two favors.”

She took his hand.

The Apparition point was discreet, tucked away in a cobbled alley just off Diagon Alley. There were no signs, no lanterns, no people outside bustling about. Just an obsidian door with no handle and a Chameleon etched into the wood. Draco stepped forward first, his hand still curled confidently around Hermione’s, and pressed his wand to the blank panel beside the door. The door glowed green and then blue, before it opened with a soft click and allowed them through.

Hermione had expected something darker and more seedier like a muggle strip club, perhaps. Instead, Chameleon was decadent and sensual. The lighting was low and seductive, flickering over the gold-veined marble floors and velvet-covered walls. Music pulsed quietly beneath her heels and it felt like it traveled right up through her body.

The air was thick with magic and everyone there was dressed impeccably. There was a Veela on the main stage who had everyone’s attention with the way she moved and danced in an outfit entirely out of translucent ribbons.

“This way,” Draco murmured in her ear, and the deep sound of his voice sent her nervous system into overdrive.

A tall, masked host met them just inside the entrance. They didn’t speak, just accepted a small vial from Draco that he offered before they dipped their head and motioned toward a hallway that curved like a half circle. Hermione caught only a blur of other guests who were laughing, whispering, slipping behind curtained rooms themselves.They were led to a door at the very end which opened soundlessly into a room that took her breath away.

A single black velvet couch sat at the center, plush and inviting, facing a small stage. Everything was cast in shadow and candlelight. Heavy scarlet curtains framed the space, embroidered with black lace and shimmering tassels.

Hermione stood rooted, taking it all in. “What is this?”

Draco smirked and gestured for her to sit. “Remember how you threatened to make me blush last week, Granger? I thought I would return the favor.”

She sat stiffly, smoothing her dress as he settled beside her, legs spread comfortably and one arm stretched behind her shoulders. He looked maddeningly at ease and she wanted nothing more than to elbow him in the chest. She wasn’t a prude by any means but she’d also never frequented clubs since she was too busy with her job and trying to re-open Hogwarts. She was lucky when she could steal away for drinks with Ginny and Theo. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione whispered, raising her hand to her throat as she gently cleared it and gestured to the stage, “what the hell are we watching?”

As if on cue, the candles brightened. Soft music began to play, and the stage curtains parted.

Two people stepped into the golden glow and Hermione’s stomach dropped.

It was them.

Her eyes widened, lips parted in disbelief. The woman had her body, her hair, her face. And the man was the same. He was Draco, down to the lazy smirk and the way his hands ran through the platinum hair on his head.

“Oh my God,” Hermione breathed. “How did they get–how did they do this?”

“I plucked a few hairs off your jumper earlier,” Draco said mildly, not looking at her. “You shed like a cat.”

“Excuse me, you prat?!” she whipped around to glare at him, but he just kept looking straight ahead, clearly amused with her reaction.

“They use Polyjuice here,” he added, reaching for the crystal decanter that had appeared on a floating tray beside them. He poured her a drink without asking. It was a green liquid, not one she’d drank before but with this turn of events she would probably have drank rubbing alcohol if it were handed to her. “It’s regulated here amongst the clients. Sometimes the staff participate, too. Fantasy made flesh, all very exciting, very safe. No names. No recordings. No judgments.”

Hermione stared at the figures on stage as they began to move towards each other. Her double stepped into other-Draco’s lap as he sat on a black velvet couch that matched their own and his hands slid up the back of her thighs. The double-Hermione let out a soft gasp, head tilting back in a display of pleasure that sent Hermione’s stomach into knots.

“Malfoy,” she said, voice tight as she fought to keep her emotions at bay, “is this what you wanted? To watch someone who looks like me ride you in front of me?”

Draco finally turned his head, and for once, there was no teasing in his expression.

“No,” he said. “I wanted you to see how I see you.”

He gestured lazily toward the stage, where the copy of her was now straddling the other Draco, whispering into his ear, fingers tugging at his tie with a confidence she never felt when she engaged in sexual acts in the past.

“She’s bold,” Draco murmured. “Unapologetic. Wicked smart. Knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it. That’s how I see you, Granger. Do you see the way my eyes light up when you’re in front of me? They’ve done that since before I can remember.”

Hermione swallowed as Draco took her chin in his hand and forced her gaze back to the performance in front of them. Her face was hot already but it burned where the feel of his hand rested against her jaw. She didn’t know what to do with the image of herself being adored so thoroughly by the person beside her. The duplicate-Draco had his hands in her hair now and the other-Hermione arched into him like he was oxygen. Suddenly there were no clothes on their bodies. They were completely exposed and she watched this version of herself own the man beneath her, running her slick cunt over the tip of his cock as she hovered over his lap and rocked her hips in time with the music around them. It was strange and surreal and intimate .

“I wanted to give you a mirror,” Draco said, breaking the silence, hand caressing her neck now. “A spell only works if the caster sees their power. This—” he nodded to the pair on stage, now locked in a sensual, mesmerizing rhythm as she slipped him inside her finally, “this is your spell, Granger.”

“You’re insane,” she whispered, and yet her voice trembled because why was that such an absolutely brilliant line? Her hand had curled around the glass he’d poured for her, but she hadn’t touched it. She had been distracted too quickly. But now, she brought it to her lips and let the green liquor pour down her throat. 

Blegh, Absinthe.

His eyes were all silver and lustful thoughts. “Perhaps. But you’re the only one I’d let hex me for it.”

The stage dimmed slightly, the scene winding down into something quieter and softer. The Polyjuiced Draco was kissing her shoulder now, fluid and slow, and the double-Hermione was carding her fingers through his hair.

Hermione felt something fracture inside her. This wasn’t about voyeurism.

This was about recognition.

Her reflection stared back at her from the stage, free and fearless and deeply, irrevocably wanted.

“You didn’t need to do this,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Draco said. “But I wanted to. Because no matter how many times you roll your eyes or call me ridiculous, I know the truth.”

“What truth?” she asked, wary.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the edge of her jaw.

“That you can do anything. There is no limit where you’re concerned. Yes, you’ve been struggling to get funding and participate at these atrocious galas. But that’s because you’re so much better than them. I have no doubt that you’ll get through the rest of these lessons on top.”

Hermione turned her head slightly, just enough to feel the heat of his lips on hers, their breath mingling.

“On top?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Draco smirked against her mouth, ghosting his lips against hers when he replied, “You look very good on top, Granger.”

Hermione gasped into his mouth at his words, and his tongue shot out quickly to lick her bottom lip before turning his face back to the stage. Trying to collect herself, Hermione took a deep breath before slowly turning back to the stage and taking a sip of the drink he poured.

He wasn’t wrong. She looked incredible riding Draco and she could hardly believe that was them.

Real Hermione sat frozen, though her body was betraying her. Her heart thundered, and her thighs pressed together as her fake-self began to move quicker in her counterpart’s lap, mouth open in a soft moan.

“You still have one more favor,” Draco said suddenly, his voice dark and dangerous. “And it’s the one I’ve been looking forward to all night.”

Hermione barely had time to register what he said before he was grabbing her over onto his lap.

“Malfoy!”

“It’s my favor,” he reminded her, his hands already at her waist, settling her to sit on his thick thighs. “You were the one who said yes to all this.”

She gave an exasperated huff, shifting as she tried to find a modest way to sit in a dress that clung to every curve. But his arm wrapped around her waist and the other settled warmly over her thigh, anchoring her to him.

“You’re incorrigible,” she whispered, cheeks burning as their doubles began to kiss passionately, fake-Hermione moaning quietly while fake-Draco’s hands gripped her arse and helped her bounce on top of him.

“You keep saying I’m all these terrible things, little witch, but really I’m just inspired,” Draco replied, stroking a slow path from her knee up to where the slit in her dress ended. His fingertips barely brushed the bare skin, but Hermione shivered anyway as her pussy fluttered with the need to feel something inside of it.

She didn’t lean into him. Not really. She simply…settled against him. The warmth of his chest at her back, the lazy drag of his fingers along her skin, the growing want pulsing between them. Hermione shifted again, trying to relieve the pressure building inside her.

Draco hissed.

She froze.

“You’re squirming,” he murmured against her neck, lips brushing her skin.

“You’re hard,” she shot back, squirming again just to be difficult.

“I told you this place was inspiring.”

Hermione turned to glare at him but her breath caught as he curled his fingers around her hips and tilted her forward. Then, with a slow, rolling movement of his hips, she felt him.

Every inch of him, thick and hard beneath her and pressing against her aching cunt beneath the thin scraps of silk.

Her breath caught in surprise and her drink tumbled out of her hand and to the ground. The performance went on with no pause in their activities except other-Draco now had her mirrored self flat on her back while he pounded into her. His hands cradled her face as he made her whimper out how good he was making her feel.

“What are you doing?” She tried to keep her voice steady but it sounded breathless to her ears.

“I owe you two favors,” he reminded her, voice thick now. “You didn’t specify when.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but all thoughts scattered as his hand slipped under the hem of her dress near her pelvis and along her hip. 

“Oh,” Draco breathed as his hand stilled. Then his thumb dragged upward again, more firmly this time, until he reached the apex of her thighs. There, there was only bare, hot skin.

No lace. No barrier. Nothing.

“You’re not wearing them,” he said, his voice dripping with awe at the realization. “You actually listened.”

She turned her head, meeting his eyes. “You said it was part of the favors,” she said, barely above a whisper.

His fingers gripped her inner thigh, thumb brushing over the wet evidence of her arousal as it parted her folds. Her breath hitched.

“You brilliant, filthy girl.”

“Malfoy, you—”

“Shh,” he whispered, nuzzling behind her ear as he stroked slowly, deliberately. “Just watch.”

Hermione tried to focus on the stage. Tried to keep her breathing even as her fake self cried out and arched against her fake Draco. But his fingers were insistent, unrelenting and she couldn’t help but open her legs wider so he had more access to her. Draco murmured how proud he was of her in between kisses on her shoulder and against her throat as his fingers slid against her clit in slow agonizing movements. He pressed his hard length against her as his hips canted upwards in time with his fingers and she let out a soft cry that filled the room.

The performers on stage finally acknowledged that they had an audience and turned their attention on them from their own couch just a mere 10 ft away. The other Draco and Hermione positioned themselves in the same manner with Hermione’s back to his front only they were well and truly fucking whereas they where only simulating the act from their private corner. There was something incredibly erotic about having yourself and the person you lusted for both looking at you while you were getting off in front of them. 

Hermione liked this. Liked being his. Liked being watched. Liked how he made her feel. She shivered, trembling in his lap as the performance in front of her rang out with the sounds of moaning and grunting. She had no idea where the act ended and their reality began anymore.

Draco bit gently at her neck, breath ragged as his other hand tugged her dress open further and higher onto her hips so she was completely exposed to the room. 

“Now tell me, Granger,” he whispered. “Do you like this favor? Do you like the feeling of me playing with this perfect little cunt?”

Hermione tried—truly tried—to deny what he was doing to her but she couldn’t. She wanted this and she knew he knew how badly she wanted this. The only thing she was able to manage was to try and close her legs but Draco’s hands didn’t allow her the luxury of retreat. His palm was firm at her inner thigh, keeping her open, keeping her vulnerable. His other hand cupped her firmly now, two long fingers pressing against her entrance and gathering the wetness there.

“Keep your eyes open, love. I don’t want you missing the best part,” Draco murmured, his lips brushing her temple.

On stage, the polyjuiced version of herself was being spread open by two strong hands holding her ankles propped up on the couch beside his muscular thighs. She was moaning as the Draco-double whispered something in her ear and pushed up into her, his cock glistening with her slick as it dripped down his tight balls.

It was obscene. And mesmerizing. And Hermione couldn’t look away at the sight of their joined bodies, wondering if that’s how large he really was and if she could ever even take him.

“Malfoy, this is—” she tried, but the words broke on a gasp as his fingers slid through the slick heat between her thighs again and pushed into her deeper and faster, keeping time with the people in front of them.

“Exactly what you need,” he finished for her.

“You’re not playing fair,” Hermione gasped out and brought her legs up onto the couch in the same position as her double so she was spread wide, her dress bunches up around her waist and off to the side.

“You’re not complaining.”

On stage, her double was close to coming apart. Legs parted, breasts heaving, face twisted in ecstasy.

“I want you to watch,” Draco said, his voice low in her ear which he then teased with a lick of his tongue. “Watch what it looks like when you fall apart for me.”

Hermione whimpered, hips shifting in his lap as her own body betrayed her. The pleasure was coiling low and tight in her belly, hotter by the second and she couldn’t take much more.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, biting gently at the shell of her ear. “And it’s not even an accurate depiction of how loud I’d make you scream when I finally bury myself in you.”

Her eyes rolled back at his words before landing on fake Draco’s intense stare as he watched her over her double’s shoulder. “You can’t say things like—”

“I can feel your heartbeat in my fingers,” he said, drawing slow, lazy circles against her clit with his other hand now while the fingers of his other hand continued to fuck up into her while the rings on his fingers teased her hot skin with their cool metal. “Every twitch of your thighs. Every little gasp. You’re so bloody close and it scares you.”

“I’m not sc—” she began, but her voice cracked as he pressed deeper, fingers brushing the tip of her cervix before curling into the area of her G-spot in a relentless motion to please. “You are. You’re shaking like you’re afraid of what happens when you finally come for me.”

His mouth was hot on her jaw now, and she tilted her head without thinking, giving him access to the delicate column of her throat.

“You want to hate this,” he murmured against her skin. “You want to hate me.”

His fingers slowed again…just enough to make her cry out in frustration.

“But it’s too late for that, isn’t it, Granger? Because you love how the depravity makes your tight little cunt sing for me. You’ve soaked through your new dress and you’re going to gush straight through the front of my trousers and I. Can’t. Fucking. Wait.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not with her pulse pounding like a drumbeat, not with his fingers stroking her in time with his filthy words that bordered on barely-bottled madness.

On stage, fake-Hermione was panting now, caught in the throes of an orgasm that looked almost too real as fake-Draco’s motions became jerky as she spasmed around his cock. 

“Say it,” he whispered, his free hand moving to palm her breast through the silk. “Say you want it.”

Her eyes were wide as she watched the other-Draco’s cum start to run down his cock as fake-Hermione’s pussy clenched around him. Hermione wanted nothing more than to run her tongue along where they were joined and taste their juices. Fuck, he was right. She was so fucked up.

“I want it.”

“What do you want, witch?”

“You. This,” she gasped as he circled harder, faster. “I want—”

He rolled his hips up again, letting her feel every inch of how hard he was beneath her.

“Then come for me, my perfect, slutty mudblood.”

The double of her onstage cried out as she came, legs trembling, body shuddering against her mirrored lover. And it was that sound—that visual echo of herself, while fake-Draco’s cum spilled out of her—that pushed Hermione over the edge.

Her body bowed in his arms, a strangled moan tearing from her throat as pleasure pulsed through her. Her vision blurred, stars sparking behind her eyes as every nerve lit up. Her magic pulsed throughout the room making the candles flicker and she desperately gripped the couch beside her as she practically wept with the force of her orgasm.

Draco held her through it, whispering sordid words and praise as he watched her, fingers slow now, gentle, savoring the aftershocks of her senses.

“Good girl,” he murmured against her hair. “So perfect for me.”

Hermione curled into him, breath ragged, heart pounding like it might break free from her chest.

“Two favors,” she gasped. “That was only one. Is there more?”

“Yes, Granger,” he laughed quietly. “But you’re going to appreciate the second one in the morning.”

Draco’s fingers finally stilled between her thighs, soaked with her release. She slumped back against his chest, boneless, breathless and his arm curled tightly around her waist, holding her as though she were his most precious possession. Because she was.

Then his mouth found her ear again, voice a low, sexy rasp.

“My second favor…is that I’m going to take you home like a gentleman.”

Hermione turned her head slightly, brows furrowed. “Home?”

He hummed in agreement. “Your flat. Not the Manor.”

She blinked, still dazed. “Why not?”

“Because if I took you there right now,” he murmured, brushing his nose along her neck, “I’d put you in my bed… and fuck you so hard you’d scream louder than the night Bellatrix made your voice echo through my father’s drawing room.”

She went perfectly still in his lap.

His arms only tightened around her.

“I remember every sound you made that night, Granger. Every single one.” His voice wasn’t calm anymore—it was darker, scraped raw and held a darkness she had thought he’d moved past. “And I’ve never wanted to replace them more than I do right now.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her body reacted instantly to his words and she felt shame hit her for how turned on he was making her with such a messed up confession.

“Please,” she whispered, unsure if it was a warning or a plea.

He pressed a soft kiss just below her ear. “I want to rewrite every memory you have of that place. Eventually. And on your terms.”

Silence stretched between them and Hermione looked at the stage to see that their doubles had vanished, the curtains closed around the stage once more.

“Tonight,” he continued, “Was simply to show you how good we look together naked. How badly  I want you. How much you want me. The way that I know we should never be together but not caring because I fucking need you in my life and my bed.”

His lips brushed her shoulder.

“And if you ever let me take you there,” he said, “I’ll make sure the only sounds that echo through the Manor are yours, and they’ll be made from pleasure. Not pain.”

Hermione turned in his lap, looking into his face. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He was absolutely serious.

“So, we’re back to lessons next week,” she said hoarsely. “Since we’re even…”

Draco simply nodded, respecting her changing of the subject as she straightened her attire. “If that’s what you want.”

Later That Night

Draco stepped out of the Floo with the kind of deliberate, heavy stillness that Theo had come to recognize over the years. He didn’t speak, didn’t bother brushing the soot from his clothing. He just stood there for a moment, breathing, before moving toward the bar with the slow, measured movements of someone trying not to shatter from the inside out.

Theo was halfway through a game of Exploding Snap with Tilly, Draco’s far-too-enthusiastic house elf who was currently wearing a rhinestone-studded apron and a matching tiara in bright green and purple shades. She gave Theo a smug look as she laid down another winning hand, then cackled when one of his cards combusted into confetti.

“You lose again, Master Theo,” she chirped, swiping another pile of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into a sparkly clutch.

Theo barely looked away from Draco as he continued to play with Tilly. “I’m starting to think she’s cheating.”

“Tilly cheats with charm,” she replied matter-of-factly, then turned back to her cards.

Draco poured himself a drink without saying a word. Not a glance, not a grunt. Just a silent pour, a knockback of the glass, and the sound of him exhaling like he’d been holding his breath since they left the club.

Theo tilted his head. “So. Granger…”

Draco didn’t answer. He poured a second drink, this one slower, fingers tightening briefly around the decanter as he stared at the wall beside him, lost in thought.

“Is she all right?” Theo tried again, quieter now. 

That earned him a glance. Draco’s expression was unreadable, but his voice was steady. “I took her home.”

“You didn’t bring her back here?” Theo asked.

“No,” Draco said simply. “Walked her to the door. Told her goodnight. Didn’t go in.”

Tilly let out a small, scandalized gasp, clearly disappointed. “Master Draco behaved?”

Draco slumped into the nearest armchair, loosening his tie with one hand. “I was a perfect gentleman.”

Theo stared at him, trying to reconcile the image of his oldest friend with the man sitting in front of him now—rumpled, restrained, and visibly wound tight with what looked to be a large wet stain on the front of his pants.

“You mean to tell me,” Theo said slowly, setting down his cards, “after everything you planned. After the lingerie shopping and the dresses and whatever activity ruined your goddamn pants at Chameleon… you just... dropped her off?”

Draco didn’t move. “Yes.”

“Wow,” Theo said with a laugh. “Just… wow.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to my room to jerk off until my hands stop working.”

Theo chuckled at that. “You’ve got it bad , mate.”

“She had no knickers on, Theo.”

That shut him up for half a second.

“Oh,” Theo said finally, biting back another grin. “So that’s why you looked like you were going to snap your glass in half just now. It would also explain your pants.”

“Can you shut up about my pants? I’m framing these fucking things on my wall to remind me that the Golden Girl came all over my lap tonight and I’m not discussing it any further,” Draco muttered, already rising from the chair. “If I see you on the stairs, I’m hexing your face.”

Tilly watched him go with a pout and a disapproving shake of her tiara. “Tilly thinks Master Draco should have brought Miss Granger home for cuddles and shared dreams.”

Draco paused at the base of the stairs, sighing as if she’d truly wounded him. “Tilly, not tonight.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head as his laughter echoed after him.

“You’re whipped,” he called up the staircase.

“I’m doomed,” came Draco’s dramatic reply.

Tilly gathered her sweets with a huff as she set about playing a new round. “Tilly told Master Draco to take the snake-shaped vibrating ring so he could have a nice time, too. Did he listen? Noooo.”

Theo burst into another fit of laughter and turned back to Tilly, who was already shuffling the deck again.

“Merlin, Tilly. You free elves are something else.”

Chapter Text

Friday Night
May 16, 2023

Hermione leaned her back against her front door, her hand lingering on the knob as she stared into the quiet space of her flat. 

It was jarring compared to the night she’d just had. 

No more murmurs in her ear, no warm press of someone else's body against hers, no wild polyjuice shows. Just the familiar silence of home and Crookshanks sleeping on her little couch.

Her heels tapped softly on the floor as she made her way to the kitchen as her skin still tingled where he had touched her and her breathing tried to even out. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her thighs, the heat of his breath against her neck, the way he’d held her like she was something he had the right to claim.

Like he’d earned it.

"Oh, Gods," she muttered, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leaned against the countertop. "Did I really leave a stain on his trousers?"

She tried not to think about it, but it came to the front of her mind regardless. The way she’d been lifted by strong hands off his lap, dazed and breathless, and caught the unmistakable mark left behind on the fabric of his perfectly tailored slacks. She hadn’t said anything and neither had he. He’d just looked at her, that maddening smirk playing on his mouth and something predatory behind his piercing eyes. 

"And then you let him escort you home like it was nothing," she said to herself, sighing as she removed the charmed snake accessories from her hair and tossed them onto the counter before removing her matching heels. "Like it was a perfectly normal evening."

Her gaze landed on the bouquet of peonies sitting on the counter when she straightened her back. It sat along with the other assortments that filled her classroom earlier that day before Theo brought them here. The blossoms were full and open, a dusky pink with darker edges and a faint, perfect scent that instantly softened her nerves.

He’d suggested she bring them to her bedroom because they’d help her relax and shit, did she need to calm down after tonight.

Hermione moved closer, reaching out to gently touch one of the petals. Her fingers lingered on the velvet surface, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring at the bouquet. 

Her throat tightened unexpectedly and she snatched her hand back.

"You’re not helping," she said to the flowers.“You’re just sitting there looking all romantic when you were gifted to me by a sociopath.”

Even though her thoughts were conflicted, she lifted the vase into her arms and carried it through the flat. She didn’t bother switching on the other lights since the warmth from the kitchen was enough for her to see her way around.

She set the vase down on her nightstand beside her bed and stared at it for a moment. It was like she couldn’t help but follow his orders. 

“You shouldn’t have let him get to you like that,” she murmured to herself. She tapped her wand against the crown of her head and her curls spilled down over her shoulders before she sat down on the edge of the bed. “You shouldn’t want someone who can make all the sense leave your body. Theo was right. You have to be careful.”

But she didn’t want to be.

Gods, she was so tired of trying to save everyone and fix everything. If it wasn’t Harry and Ron, or the whole Wizarding World, then it was Hogwarts. 

Maybe she could just switch her brain off for a few stolen moments? The only one she’d be harming would be herself if things went sideways. And, the futures of budding witches and wizards from around the world if she didn’t get a proper place big enough to allow all of them to attend if Malfoy decided to stop helping her prepare for the gala.

Ugh, that fucking sneaky snake. 

Screw him for putting her in this position.

Laying back on the bed, she didn’t bother changing. Her dress rode up slightly around her hips, and the cotton sheets felt cool against the bare skin of her legs which helped ease her heated flesh. She curled onto her side and faced the flowers, her arm tucked beneath her head as her curls took over her pillow. 

Hermione tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, the evening played back behind her eyelids. He could have asked her to come back with him to the Manor and she probably would have said yes. But instead, he’d taken her home, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and bid her goodnight. 

He’d gone from fingering her at a club and making her ache for his cock…to a perfect gentleman.

Hermione rolled onto her stomach and groaned into her pillow.

It was so much worse that way.

Wednesday Afternoon
May 21, 2003

Hermione sat at her desk, nibbling on half a cheese sandwich she still had to finish. Her lesson plans for the week were already sorted and color-coded in three neat piles. Technically, she was still on her lunch break, though it was almost over and she had just begun looking for a new quill to fill out some paperwork for McGonagall when she noticed the charmed parchment in her top drawer glowing softly with a new message.

She set down the sandwich, brushed her fingers off on a napkin, and carefully unfolded the page. 

Draco’s handwriting presented itself almost immediately.

I trust your weekend was enjoyable.

— D.M.

She glanced toward the half-closed door of her office/classroom to check there were no footsteps or curious heads peeking in, but she was alone.

Still, she whispered, “Honestly,” under her breath, then dipped her quill into ink and scribbled onto the parchment, erasing his words and replacing them with her own.

It was. Is this going to be a regular occurrence now? Messaging me while I’m working?

— H.G.

The parchment glowed again only a few moments later.

You’re not working. This is your lunch break and seeing as how it is 12:21 p.m., you still have nine minutes before your next class. You always stay at your desk and pretend those terrible cheese sandwiches count as an adequate excuse for sustenance.

— D.M.

Hermione had to read the message in front of her several times before her brain simply screeched “What?!”. She looked around the room as if he was spying on her somewhere but there was no one.

She immediately wrote back:

How do you know that?

She didn’t bother to sign the bottom in her haste to know. No response came for a few minutes and she nervously checked the clock on the wall to see that she only had two minutes before her students would arrive. As she started to put the paper back, it glowed again.

I’m looking forward to Friday’s lesson. I’m sure it also brings you some relief as well, seeing as how you get to be a pupil again for the evening instead of the professor. A little role reversal is healthy in a relationship.

— D.M.

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head with a soft scoff. 

The parchment glowed once more as if it had heard her, and one final line unfurled below the last, in that same deliberate handwriting of his.

P.S. I can still hear your moans in my ear.

She gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth, staring at the words like they had just reached down and touched her cunt with ravenous fingers because that’s what it felt like. She instantly felt the wetness gather along her slit and squeezed her thighs together against the sudden ache that settled low in her core.

The sound she made was nowhere near dignified and her cheeks were red in an instant as she heard the unmistakable noises of her students coming down the hall.

“Oh, you are absolutely foul, Malfoy,” she groaned to the parchment, which offered her no further reply. She folded the page back up quickly, returning it to her drawer as if the students would post it on the blackboard if they’d seen it.

She closed the drawer with more force than necessary just as the first student walked in and let out a sigh of relief.

“Good afternoon! Please take your seats so we can get started.”

Friday Evening
May 23, 2003

Coming to the manor still made her feel rather nervous, but she felt she was getting more comfortable as the weeks passed. That was until tonight when the instant she stepped into the sitting room, she was met not by Draco, but by a swirl of shimmering pink tulle, a loud jangling of bangles, and the scowl of a house elf entirely overdressed for domestic work.

“Tilly,” Hermione greeted warily, straightening out her dark blue blouse and brown wool pencil skirt. “You look...very sparkly tonight.”

Tilly grinned and adjusted a diamond tiara that was perched on her head. “Master Draco says Tilly deserves beautiful things for being the finest house elf and it’s not like he can wear these Malfoy jewels better than me. Tilly agrees.”

Hermione smiled despite herself and her heart clenched at the thought of Malfoy allowing Tilly to raid the family vaults to play dress up. “I don’t doubt it.”

Tilly’s big eyes narrowed as she looked Hermione up and down, and then she leaned in close and gestured for Hermione to do the same as if to tell her a secret.

“Miss Granger should have come back on Friday. Yes, she should have,” she whispered, hands pulling on her long ears. “Master Draco was moaning your name all night and touching himself and it kept Tilly awake! Very inconsiderate behavior. All that groaning and groaning. Tilly had to wear earplugs made of enchanted sponges!”

Hermione’s jaw dropped as she gasped out, “T-Tilly—!”

The elf huffed, entirely unbothered by Hermione’s horror as she continued but she was no longer whispering. No, she had straightened and was talking at a normal volume which made Hermione blush even harder.

“So loud. It was like a kneazle dying. ‘Hermione,’” she mimicked in a terrible impression of her master’s voice, “‘Hermione, please.’ Disgusting. And then—”

“Tilly!”

Draco’s voice snapped through the air like a whip, and both witch and elf startled and turned in unison. He stood at the threshold, dressed in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and black slacks perfectly pressed. His wand was in one hand and a bottle of Firewhisky in the other, eyebrows lifted in something between disbelief and horror at what he'd just heard.

“Tilly, what the hell are you doing?!”

Tilly tilted her head to the side as she ran her tiny hands down her dress to smooth it out as she looked directly at Draco and smiled innocently. “Answering Miss Granger’s questions. She’s a guest. Tilly is being polite.”

“I didn’t ask anything!” Hermione sputtered, mortified and she knew her face must be as red as a phoenix now because her ears felt like they were on fire.

Draco strode in, carefully avoiding Hermione as he kept his eyes on the elf. “You cannot just tell people I—Tilly, you’re going to be reassigned to the stables if you keep this up.”

Tilly gasped, clutching her pearls—real ones, naturally. Hermione had to hold back a giggle because she’d heard that term growing up so many times but had never seen anyone actually clutch a string of pearls before.

“Tilly is a delicate creature! The stables are plain and dark and smelly! Tilly cannot sparkle in there!”

“You shouldn’t be sparkling in the first place!” Draco sighed and Hermione could see his jaw clenching as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Tilly sparkles always,” the elf replied, then gave Hermione a side-eye so wicked it could have come from Pansy Parkinson. And that was saying something. “Some people sparkle for Master Draco. Some of us sparkle instead of Master Draco. Tilly sees the difference.”

“Out,” Draco said through his gritted teeth and pointed towards the hall. “Go.”

Tilly vanished with a loud pop, but not before muttering, “Ungrateful, moaning wizard…”

Hermione stared after her, stunned, then turned slowly toward Draco as he stood by the bar cart.

“Did she…” Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. “Did she just say—”

“No,” Draco cut in quickly. “No, she did not. She’s clearly unstable. She’s obviously ingesting too much glitter.”

Hermione shifted on her feet as she looked down at the carpet before training her brown eyes on him. “She said you were moaning my name. My first name.”

Draco poured himself a drink, refusing to make eye contact. “She's a pathological liar. Jewel-addled. Hallucinations, probably.”

“She said you kept her awake.”

“She’s very sensitive to noise,” he said with a shrug that tried far too hard to be casual. It was in vain, however. He was too pale to hide the pink that had risen above his collar and soaked around his Azkaban tattoo. “And I was possibly a little drunk.”

“You were vocalising quite a bit it seemed.”

“I was practicing my elocution. Why do you think us pure-bloods have such impeccable diction and eloquent speech? We must practice at all hours.”

Hermione covered her face with her hands, torn between incredulity and laughter. “You are unbelievable. ”

“Thank you,” he said, lifting his glass in salute, his ears now matching the flush in her cheeks as he finally looked at her. “I aim to impress.”

Hermione groaned and made her way to one of the chairs so she could sit. “I can’t believe your house elf just gave me a full report on your wank schedule.”

“Well, technically you inspired it. I think that makes it your fault.”

She picked up a throw pillow that was nestled against her lower back and chucked it at him.

Draco caught the pillow mid-air with a practiced flick of his wrist, setting it back down on the opposite chair with exaggerated care, like he didn’t trust Hermione not to start throwing his priceless furniture next.

“I still can’t believe she said all that,” Hermione muttered as she crossed her legs and settled deeper into the chair.

“Oh, she left out the bit about the second night. Around three in the morning. Very noisy, apparently.”

“Please stop talking,” Hermione groaned and took out her wand to accio the bottle of Firewhisky sitting on the cart directly into her outstretched hand.

“I’ll stop if you admit that you enjoyed Friday night.”

She narrowed her eyes as she took a swig straight from the bottle. “Are you fishing for compliments now?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, drink still in hand, “I’m requesting a performance review.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help that her lips curled slightly. “Fine. I’ll say this much: I never imagined I’d spend an evening at a club like Chameleon with you… or watch a polyjuiced version of myself ride a Draco-double while you casually complimented me and I sat there in the most exquisite clothing I’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing.”

Draco's eyes darkened and her pussy clenched of its own accord. “I love the way the word ‘pleasure’ passes your pretty mouth.” Hermione looked away and drank from the bottle again as he continued on with his teasing and took the seat across from her. “You left out the part where you squirmed on my lap until I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

“Yes, well. It was certainly an experience,”she whispered mostly to herself.

“An experience,” he repeated, dryly. “Granger, you left a wet stain on my pants. That’s a bit beyond “an experience,” don’t you think?”

Her head snapped toward him, and she suddenly wished she had her own set of pearls to clutch so she could look properly scandalized. “You can’t say things like that!”

“I assure you, I can,” he said simply, shrugging as he leaned against the back of the armchair, far too smug and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. When she glared at him, he paused just long enough to make sure she didn’t throw anything else at him, then added, “Thank you for not wearing knickers, by the way. That was very considerate of you to honor my request.”

Hermione made a strangled sound, and deposited the bottle beside her on the nearby table before covering her face with her hands. “Can we please move on from this conversation?”

Draco laughed but didn’t push further or make any other remarks.

“I also wanted to thank you,” Hermione said, lifting her head with some effort at regaining composure. “For the clothes and the time at the boutique. Honestly, I’m not sure who you are anymore, buying me silk and heels and flowers, too.”

His expression softened and he tried to cover it with a sneer but Hermione saw it. “I told you, Granger. This is all interconnected to allow you the best chance of success in the coming months towards your agenda. And besides, we all know Pansy’s taste is marginally better than yours.”

“I have excellent taste,” she said defensively and gestured to her modest attire that she’d worn at work that day. 

“I see no point proven, love.”

This fucking man.

“What’s the lesson tonight, Malfoy?”

He arched an eyebrow at her clipped tone and let his eyes settle on the smooth skin of her legs beneath her skirt. “So snappy, Miss Granger.”

She crossed her arms, trying to suppress the shiver that went down her body that broke out in gooseflesh as he stared at her. It was too intense—too hungry. She needed to get things back on track. “You’re stalling.”

“Alright,” he said eventually, eyes trailing back up to hers. “Let’s begin.”

“And what, exactly, are you teaching me tonight? How not to spontaneously combust from secondhand humiliation? Because it was touch and go there with Tilly before you walked in.”

“No.” He held her gaze for so long that Hermione had to look away under the intensity of it before he’d continue. “Tonight’s lesson is about…wardrobe.”

Her expression fell flat. “Wardrobe? You cannot be serious.”

“I’m quite serious,” he said with a little flourish of his wand.

In one seamless motion, a full-length mirror shimmered into existence against the far wall, ornate and gold-framed, the kind found in old wizarding ballrooms—or taken from ostentatious pure-blood vaults. A second flick of his wand summoned a rolling rack of clothes that held silks, velvets, and linen fabrics of the highest quality. And finally, a third wave floated in matching shoes and lingerie, the latter of which draped itself delicately over the back of his armchair like it belonged there.

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed again as she watched Draco grab a pair of red lace knickers from the back of his chair over his shoulder. He inspected it and grinned at her as if to convey that he was thinking of what she’d look like in them. She cleared her throat and looked away at the clothing.

“What is all this?”

Draco smirked and stood suddenly, making his way over to the wall beside the large mirror, crossing one leg over the other with an easy poise as he leaned against it with the scrap of red fabric still in his hand. “Your new wardrobe, obviously.”

“Mine?”

“There’s a reason I wanted to take you shopping. It simply worked out for me that your Gryffindor courage got the better of you and you chose all of your cards which turned into such a fun evening,” he said, resting his hand against the frame of the mirror. “And there was also a reason I had Pansy send the delivery here rather than your flat.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Which is?”

“You need to learn how to dress properly, Granger.”

“Excuse me?”

He held up a hand, his tone remarkably calm despite her rapidly growing fury. “Don’t misunderstand. You’ve mastered a certain…bookish aesthetic. Academic couture, if you will. It’s very charming. Very you . And to be fair, I rather enjoy it. But, this style of yours won’t get you through the Greengrass gala.”

She blinked at him in confusion because they didn’t need to do this now. They could simply do what they did last week and choose something closer to the event. Hermione had to admit, she’d simply assumed that Pansy hadn’t gotten around to sending the clothing to her yet, it had only been a week and there were a lot of packages. And everything was so upscale, it wasn’t like she’d need to wear any of it anytime soon. She never even assumed he'd have them delivered here.

“That’s months away.”

“Exactly. We’re on a schedule.”

“So what, this is a fashion intervention?”

“This,” Draco said, enunciating each word like he was speaking to a small child, “is your practical instruction on how to dress for every kind of occasion. High society and every day. You’re going to be the talk of that ballroom, Granger. And not because you stepped on someone's toes during the waltz or gave a riveting lecture on the history of wand laws.”

She scoffed as she rose from her seat, clearly insulted. “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Oh, I know you are,” he said, eyes practically shining as they dropped momentarily to the cleavage poking out of the top of her blouse. “And I’m not saying I will be dressing you. Fuck, I’d love to do it, don’t misunderstand me. But…watching you is it's own reward as I learned on Friday.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned toward the racks, nervous hands brushing the sweat off her palms on her skirt as she walked over and ran her fingers over the fabrics. She did not miss the double-meaning of his words since not only did he watch her model clothing for him at Pansy’s shop, he’d watched her come apart on his lap, and watched as the polyjuiced version of her took his cock like she was put on this earth to do so. “So, I’m just trying on the same clothing I did last time?”

“No,” Draco said lightly. “There's a few more pieces included. You’ll be choosing what to wear based on the occasion I give you. This is a lesson, not a striptease. Though I won’t complain if it turns into both.”

“It’s been a few years since you’ve been properly slapped in the face, hasn’t it?” 

He smiled and conjured a dressing screen beside the mirror across from him. “Entirely too long, if you ask me. That slap had me hard as a rock for three days straight.”

Hermione choked on her lack of air at his admission and ended up knocking one of the dresses off its hanger. He continued as if he’d just told her the score of a Quidditch match and not that he’d been turned on by her back at school while she hastily busied herself with hanging it up again.

“Your first look of the evening will be something you most likely will need to do in the very near future: Ministry brunch with an important donor who’s on the fence about donating to Hogwarts’ rebuilding. He’s an alumni of Slytherin and enjoys the theatre.”

Hermione bit her lip, and she started twisting at a curl nervously as she stared at the clothes. “And if I pick the wrong thing?”

He strode across the space, settled himself back into his chair and leaned back, perfectly at ease. “Then I’ll tell you. And you’ll change. And for every outfit you put together incorrectly, I’ll deliver a smack to your arse at the end of the evening.”

Hermione turned her head slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m sorry, I must have just blacked out. You’ll…do what?”

Draco blinked at her innocently and looked at the knickers still in his hand. “I said: for each incorrect outfit, you’ll get a spanking at the end of the evening. And you’ll wear these.”

Oh, absolutely not. She was not a petulant child to be stricken like it was a joke. How dare he assume she would ever agree to something so humiliating? Hermione had to hold herself back from scolding her cunt as it throbbed at the idea because how could her body want this when her brain couldn’t comprehend this scenario at all? “That sounds like it should be on one of your little favor cards for me to decline , Malfoy. That is not something you make a part of a lesson.”

“Oh, but it is now,” he said, carefully laying the red panties on the arm of the chair so it was close to his person before he brought his drink back to his lips. “There needs to be some kind of incentive for you to use that brilliant mind of yours. Can’t just have you choosing whatever you like to get through the evening. Where’s the motivation?”

She gaped at him, eyes wide with a shock that almost matched the arousal coursing through her. “You are truly the most unstable, insufferable, depraved—”

“And yet,” he said with another sip of his drink, though his words had bite to them now. “Here you are, letting me teach you another invaluable lesson. Don't pretend you're not enjoying yourself. I know the scent of your cunt when it slickens for me, so you cannot stand there and act prideful when I can smell you from here.”

Hermione turned back to the clothes, pretending to study a pale blue sheath dress on the rack to hide the fact she was beginning to hyperventilate and could collect herself because, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? 

Her heart was pounding, and she briefly wondered if he was part werewolf or something, because why could he smell her like that? She wanted to let out a whine and stomp her foot at how screwed she felt but instead, she rolled her shoulders back and focused on keeping her voice steady. “Fine. But for the record, if you try and touch me during the lesson, I will hex you.”

Draco chuckled from somewhere deep in his broad chest and just nodded in acceptance. “Noted. But if your choices are perfect, I suppose you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you, Golden Girl?”

Hermione gave him a warning glare over her shoulder and then pulled a structured dress off the rack that was a deep emerald green with gold detailing that brought out the warm tones in her skin and hair. It was tasteful but sharp and the sleeves had a hint of whimsy as they belled out before tying into delicate bows at the wrists. She snatched a pair of gold strappy heels on her way to change grabbed a black bra and knickers from the back of the chair, purposefully elbowing Malfoy in the jaw as she reached for them which earned her a hiss of pain from the white-blonde man in front of her.

Without a word, she disappeared behind the folding screen and changed quickly. As she stepped out, she straightened the sleeves and brushed her hair over her shoulders, trying to ignore the way he was watching her like she was his own private exhibition.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her and drew his bottom lip between his teeth before nodding slowly.

“Well?” She was not going to stand here all night while he ogled her.

“Color is excellent. You’re finally embracing jewel tones, thank Merlin. Silhouette is classic. Appropriate. And…”

He trailed off, standing up and walking a slow, deliberate circle around her, his gaze lingering far too long on the curve of her waist and Hermione was surprised he didn’t actually reach out to dig his fingertips into her hips because it sure seemed like he would.

“And?” she said tightly when he didn’t finish his thoughts on her outfit.

“And, it’s correct ,” he announced with a loud sigh as he dropped back into his chair.

Hermione’s lashes fluttered on her cheekbones as she blinked rapidly, surprised by the rush of relief she felt. “So no punishment?”

“None for now.” Draco ran a hand through his hair and Hermione watched as it went perfectly back into place. “I should have expected you to do better than I thought, though. I’m almost disappointed.”

She turned back toward the racks, muttering under her breath, “Prat.”

Draco chuckled again and watched her look through the clothing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. 

“Second scenario: Surprise dinner with your old Hogwarts professors, many of whom have moved on to different careers after the war. You’re going to need a full staff to teach at Hogwarts and it will take some convincing to bring them back. You want to impress but not look like you’re trying to.”

Hermione sighed, already reaching for another hanger. She hated how stressful these scenarios were, because they were all too real. Situations she hadn’t thought about that would undoubtedly be in her future. “I hate you.”

“Lie better,” he called after her as she disappeared behind the screen once more with a new outfit and shoes in hand.

After some internal debate, Hermione had settled on a deep plum blouse with delicate sheer sleeves and a sleek, charcoal grey pencil skirt. It was elegant but business-like since she’d be addressing what could be her fellow colleagues. She stepped out from behind the screen, smoothing the front of the blouse, feeling its subtle cling over her ribs. Draco’s eyes flicked up from her black pumps and trailed upward slowly, lazily, like he had all the time in the world to devour the sight of her before him.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Dinner with former professors. This is respectful and professional.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately and she grew impatient as she wrung her hands together behind her back. He tilted his head, that irritating little curl of amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth. If he were a cat, she could almost imagine a tiny mouse tail hanging from it. She forced her thoughts to stop thinking about his mouth in case he scented her arousal again.

“It’s close,” he said finally as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Her spine straightened as she pointed to herself. “Close?”

“It says you’re smart, competent, even impressive. But, it also says you’d rather not be noticed. It’s defensive.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You need to wear something that suggests you’re already part of their group. Not someone still trying to prove she belongs. That gray skirt would be best used teaching in a classroom, not convincing other teachers to follow your lead.”

Hermione stared at him, trying to relax her jaw before she broke a molar. Her parents would have been so disappointed if she did that.

“So…this one is a no?” 

Draco gave a quick nod, his grin turning downright sinful. “Afraid so.”

“You're going to punish me for a skirt?”

“It’s not the skirt, Granger,” he said. “It’s the message. And we’re teaching you how to send the right ones, aren’t we?”

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms just like him and trying to look like she wasn’t bothered with the fact that Draco was now able to strike her bum at all this evening. But she was bothered.

Hot and bothered.

“What’s the next event, then?”

The next hour passed quickly and Draco (now sitting with his shirt half unbuttoned and driving Hermione quite mad) conjured a goblet of wine and leaned back in his chair like a man watching the painting of the Sistine Chapel.

“Brunch with headmasters from around the globe that will allow for a foreign exchange program through Hogwarts. Sunday morning, moderate press coverage.”

Hermione scowled at him from behind the screen as she used her wand to flick some items over to her from the rack and piles. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he agreed unapologetically and took a gulp of wine. “It’s like dress-up, but with higher stakes.”

“Spankings are not stakes,” she called out, then caught herself and winced when she realized she was technically taunting him.

There was a pause. Just like she feared.

“Well,” Draco said, voice low and she could hear him shift in his chair. “We’ll let your arse be the judge of that.”

Pushing the thought of being pulled over his lap later, she soldiered on with her task. This time she picked a lightweight, butter-yellow dress with an asymmetrical hem and capped sleeves at the shoulders. It was paired with plain white heels and had just the right amount of grace and authority for a bright Sunday morning...or so she hoped.

When she stepped out, Draco gave her a slow once-over.

“Not bad,” he murmured, finally when she started to fidget.

“But?” she prompted as she placed her hands on her hips.

“But, you look like you’re trying to attend tea with someone’s grandmother.”

Hermione ran both hands down her face, and let out an unladylike groan that he was all too happy to point out to her. “So that’s another one wrong?”

“Mmhmm. You’re going to have quite the tally at the end of the evening.”

She tried her best to not go running out of the manor at how he delivered his words. They sounded devious and menacing and all too confident. Instead of booking it, she did her best exaggerated eye roll and pretended to inspect her nail beds. She really should join Ginny at some point for a girl’s night and have her do them. Her beauty magic was the best. “This whole thing is absurd, you know.”

He raised his goblet in a mock toast and she wanted to knock that damn thing out of his hand. “And yet, you're still playing.”

She huffed and spun around on her heel, storming back behind the screen.

The next round came as Draco swirled his wine and conjured a timepiece into existence. There were still thirty minutes left of their evening but it was getting close to needing to wrap up. “Impressing Fleur Delacour-Weasley at a private fundraiser. The guest list is ninety percent French.”

Hermione exhaled loudly, as she studied her wardrobe choices. “So you’re saying this outfit has to convince a Veela that I’m chic enough to be invited in the first place?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

She sorted carefully this time. After ten minutes and two dress changes, she finally decided on a black velvet wrap dress with a plunging neckline, long sleeves, and a slit that hinted without revealing. Paired with pointed heels and putting her hair up with the help of her wand holding her curls in a quick updo (which was very reminiscent of their first encounter after his time in Askaban), she felt…sexy.

She walked out, chin lifted high as she showed off her choice and Draco’s mouth parted. He didn’t speak right away but Hermione saw how his hand tightened around the drink in his hand.

“Ah, you chose one of my favorites. Tilly helped me pick that one just this morning,” he said at last, eyes sweeping over her more than a few times. “Now that… that is how you win over a Veela.”

Hermione allowed herself a moment of celebration as she clapped her hands together. The action was so joyful that it caused Draco to laugh at her display of happiness and having won another round.

“Of course,” he added as she settled down, “you’ll need to wear that again soon. Preferably somewhere more private.”

She turned away before he could see her grin and waited for the next round.

She only chose wrong one more time. It was an emerald green pantsuit she had been absolutely certain would win his Slytherin heart over.

“Too severe,” he said, crossing his legs and setting down his now-empty glass. “You look like you’re planning to take over Gringotts, not impress your way through a gala luncheon.”

Hermione muttered something about how that wasn’t necessarily a bad plan since she’d basically done it before.

By the end of the lesson, there were clothes strewn across both chairs, empty hangers clinking softly against one another on the rack, and Hermione was barefoot, flushed, and slightly breathless as she stood in her original clothing she’d come over in as she tucked the blouse into her skirt.

Draco stood and stretched his arms over his head and Hermione was not looking at how his dress shirt tightened over the obvious toned muscles of his abdomen and shoulders. Absolutely was not. “Four wrong out of…Eleven?”

“Thirteen,” Hermione corrected sharply.

“Fine,” he said, standing from his chair and walking over towards her, the mood shifting immediately. “But that doesn’t change the tally.”

“So, what now?” she asked, as she stepped backwards only to feel her back pressed up against the cold surface of the mirror behind her. She was cornered and she knew it. “Am I supposed to bend over a chair and accept my punishment like a well-dressed schoolgirl?”

Draco’s eyebrows rose as he leaned forward and propped his hand against the mirror beside her head before leaning down to brush her hair over her shoulder. “Only if you’ve learned something.”

The worst part wasn’t the teasing, or the threats of playful punishment, or the relentless commentary during their time together. It was that she enjoyed the whole thing far too much and she knew that made her slightly insane. Her fantasies at home when she took time at night to slide her hand between her legs were getting progressively more fucked up and she knew the reason was currently towering over her. 

“Back up, Malfoy,” she muttered, stepping past him but not quickly enough.

He moved with her, blocking her escape with such ease that she should be more scared that he wasn't about to stop crowding her. “You could say “Stop”. Or “No”. Or “I’m done”. Any of those would work and we could end this whole thing.”

His gaze dragged down her body and back up, slow and severe as he wandlessly brought a nearby table over to sit in front of the mirror. When Hermione made no move to speak, he arched a pale brow at her and tilted his head. “If you don’t have anything to say, then are you at least ready to accept your punishment like a good little lion?”

Hermione’s eyes flickered towards the door. Her last means of escape. And, then she made up her mind.

She looked back at him and with a deep breath, she nodded her answer.

“Then turn around and brace yourself over the table.”

It was absurd, really, how her body listened even as her mind screamed against it. But something about the tone in his voice, the way he was watching her with hunger and that hint of challenge sparking between them made her stomach flip in the worst and best ways. She obliged, facing the full-length mirror, her hands braced on the small table before her. When she looked up again, she could see him in the reflection as he stepped behind her. There was a pause as his fingers brushed the hem of the pencil skirt she’d worn all day, his knuckles ghosting up the sensitive flesh at the back of her knee. He tapped his wand against her backside and Hermione drew in a surprised breath as she felt her cotton knickers replaced by lace ones.

“Almost forgot those." Draco went back to raising her skirt, inch by inch, until he had exposed her arse to him in the cheeky bottoms he'd favored all night. He used the toe of his dragonhide dress shoe to nudge her feet apart so she would have more of an anchor for this part. "On your toes now, love."

Hermione raised up onto the balls of her feet and leaned forward more as her weight settled on her forearms.

"Four strikes, Granger,” he breathed as his fingers traced the curve of her bottom. “Let’s hope you're still eager to receive top marks , even outside of a classroom.”

The first spank was more of a sharp pat than anything else, but it made her jolt nonetheless. She gasped, biting her lower lip, and shot him a glare in the mirror.

“Too hard?” he taunted and put on his best look of innocence.

“Not hard enough to match your cock when this is over, I'm sure,” she muttered under her breath and she must have surprised even herself with that sarcastic quip, because her eyes were wide when they met his in the mirror again.

He laughed softly and delivered the second strike which was harder this time, and lower. The heat shot through her instantly before settling in a pulsing of her cunt, and she clenched her fists around the edge of the table.

“I could do this all night,” he murmured into her ear, his breath tickling the curl that was lying across her cheek. “But unfortunately for both of us, you only got four wrong.”

Hermione didn’t trust herself to reply so she drew her lips in between her teeth and took a deep breath.

The third landed with a satisfying smack, the sharp sting fading into a warmth that pooled from her and into the gusset of her knickers. She saw herself in the mirror as she struggled to stay upright on her forearms. Her cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling faster now, pupils blown wide enough that she was worried he’d notice. But Draco simply met her gaze in the reflection with an unreadable expression as he reached forward and pulled the wand out of her hair, letting it fall around her face and shoulders for a moment and then he reached around and presented it in front of her face.

"Open."

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, brows drawing together. "What?"

Draco pushed the length of the wand against her mouth and in one sharp tug, gathered her hair in his fist with the other and jerked her head back. "I said, "Open."

She licked her lips and parted them as Draco pressed the wand until he met resistance with her mouth drawn wide. She was holding it very much like that of a dog playing fetch with a stick.

"Good girl. You look so pretty when you let me have my way with you."

Hermione whimpered around the smooth wood in her mouth and his scent was stinging her nose like it was permanently embedded in that wand. It made her restless and her hips swayed as she struggled to keep her composure. His hand stayed in her curls while the other moved behind her again.

“You should know,” he said, hand trailing down her outer thigh, “that you’ve handled this lesson tonight far better than I expected. Almost makes it worth it to keep teaching you.”

Hermione gave a breathy, exasperated laugh around the object in her mouth. His hand tightened at her scalp and the pain made her hiss in pain. Delicious pain, but still. He released her then and she growled out a broken “Fuck you” around the wand in her mouth.

“Careful, Golden Girl,” he murmured as he grasped her hips in his and pushed his straining erection directly into the crease of her backside in one swift thrust. Hermione couldn’t hold back the moan as she felt his hard length, hot and incredibly thick through his trousers. “Or that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The fourth and final spank made her shudder and her forearms gave out as she allowed her chest to press against the table, turning her head to the side as her cheek rested against the glossy mahogany. He left his hand there afterward, palm splayed across the curve of her plump arse like a man holding something coveted. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart behind her ribs. She gently spit the wand onto the table and wiped the drool that had pooled in the corners of her mouth.

Her voice, when it came, was impressively steady for someone who’d just been spanked by her childhood bully and soaked through her knickers. “Are we done?”

Draco stepped back and slid his hands into his pockets as he held her gaze in the mirror for a long moment. “For now.”

She pushed herself up slowly, trying not to show how shaken she felt. Her skin still tingled and burned where he’d made his mark and she turned to look at her bottom in the mirror where the definite impressions of hand prints were reddened alongside the lace. 

Hermione’s eyes caught Draco’s in the mirror again and he already had a smirk on his lips.

“I hate how smug you look,” she said, pulling down her skirt before grabbing her wand and brushing past him.

He followed her, chuckling as he brandished his wand and began charming all of the clothing into the original packaging from Pansy’s boutique. “You say that, but you keep forgetting that I know how much you enjoyed that.” To prove his point, he gestured to his nose with the tip of his wand and inhaled deeply as he stared openly at her lower half.

“You’re such a pervert,” she hissed at him and bent over to retrieve her shoes from under one of the chairs. 

She already had one on when she felt his hands on her. One splayed along the base of her spine to keep her bent over and the other snaked its way up the inside of her thighs, hiking the skirt up with it. Once the material had bunched at her waist again like it had only a minute before, Draco knelt behind her and gripped the scrap of red lace against her hips with both hands.

Hermione stopped breathing and slowly reached over to balance herself with a hand on the chair in front of her.

“I am well aware that my tastes are far more advanced than the average wizard, Granger,” he practically purred as he slowly dragged the knickers over the curve of her ass. She could feel his breath as it hit the wetness between her folds and she thought she might die of embarrassment because he was staring openly at the most intimate part of her barely three inches from his face. “But, I have this feeling that yours are just as depraved as mine. And, these are staying with me.”

Hermione’s breathing was quick and shallow as she felt him slide the panties off the rest of the way and she stepped out of them without a second thought. She heard him take another inhale behind her and closed her eyes tightly at the thought of him bringing them to his nose to appreciate.

“ Sweet fuck , Granger,” he groaned suddenly and she cried out as one of his hands gripped the back of her thigh. “Shit, it's too much. I have to. I’m sorry.”

Hermione barely had time to register his rushed apology before she felt his tongue dip right between her folds and directly over her entrance.

The shock of feeling his tongue lap at her like a man starved had her eyes rolling back. The noises—Merlin, the noises—were so indecent, she thought she'd never recover as he slurped and hummed against her swollen cunt. When his tongue hit her clit, she choked on a moan and he startled, licking along her slit only once more before he was standing.

Hermione blinked slowly as she tried to comprehend what had just happened. This man had just licked her cunt, practically lapped her arousal into his mouth to savour it and he’d never even kissed her!

"My apologies. I should have known better than to get so close to you."

She didn't respond—she couldn't, quite frankly. He'd completely buggered her mind. So, she put on her other shoe and stood on trembling legs, her skirt falling back into place as she straightened.

"It's alright," she whispered. "I know you're a man of taste. Now, you know mine."

The strangled sound that came from Draco's throat was so feral that Hermione spun on the spot and gripped her wand tightly in her hand. He stared at her with her pink cheeks, wild curls, and he saw the exact moment when her eyes locked onto the glistening arousal that clung to his mouth and chin. They both had the same reaction to the shared moment:

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, FUCK.

Draco cleared his throat softly and moved toward her, as he licked his lips without breaking eye contact. He'd be damned if he didn't drink in every drop of her. "We're passed our time for the evening."

“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath, looking at the clock as he stopped in front of her.

He conjured his tell-tale favor cards and extended them toward her with a slight tilt of his head. “Go on. Pick your poison. Or all three again. I wouldn't stop you.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. Her breathing was still uneasy, but he couldn't tell, could he? “You wish.”

“Oh, I do,” he agreed but his expression looked too serious and almost defeated. Her nerves were frazzled but she could barely suppress the want to reach out to him at how young he looked right then.

The silence that followed was heavy.

"How about I just pick whichever one calls to me and we leave it at that?" She suggested to him and he nodded his approval of her idea. Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out and touched the edge of the middle card. She hesitated and touched the card to the right, then settled on the one in the middle again. “I’m not going to regret this, am I?”

“Statistically? It’s possible.”

With a long exhale, she plucked the card free.

The silver ink shimmered as it caught the light around them on the black card. Her eyes widened slightly as she read it, and she could feel her throat tightening with dread. Or was it anticipation? She couldn't tell for sure when he was standing so close and just had his tongue in her pussy and—

Stop spiraling.

She flicked her gaze to the two remaining cards still in his hand. “Are the rest of them all this…inappropriate?”

“Define inappropriate,” he said, leaning in just enough to make her heart thump. “They’re tailored to the fit the lessons. Strictly educational.”

“Educational,” she echoed flatly.

“I believe in a comprehensive curriculum.”

Hermione snorted, despite herself, and shook her head. “It's a miracle I haven't hexed you, yet. You're like a wild animal.”

“Not true,” he replied, slipping the other two cards back into his pocket. “I can be tamed under the right circumstances.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Draco gestured to the card and asked, "So, which one is it?"

"Card Number 2: An hour where I obey your every command. Clothes are completely optional."

She let the words hang in the air between them, feeling her nipples tighten inside her bra as her gaze locked with his.

Draco’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening until there was barely any gray left. There was no mistaking that she'd picked his favorite card.

“Looks like next week you get to find out just how far I’m willing to take this, Granger.”

“You mean how far I’m willing to let you go?” Hermione whispered nervously as she backed up a step to give them some space as Tilly appeared in the doorway to escort their guest home.

“Sure, Granger. Sure.” Tilly and Draco shared a glance as the elf held her hand out for Hermione to take. “Whatever helps you sleeps this week.”

Chapter Text

Late Friday Night

May 30, 2003

“Was it necessary to hold a meeting with McGonagall on one of our Fridays, or were you just trying to make me sweat?” Draco asked, arms crossed casually across his chest as he leaned against the large ornately carved doors at the entryway to his favorite place in the manor.

Hermione marched down the hallway at a clipped pace, Draco’s house elf hot on her heels. He could see right away that the late hour was not doing much for her already frayed nerves. “Yes. Sometimes I have to do actual important things. Like keeping my job intact. Silly stuff your silver spoon-fed mouth never had to worry about.”

Draco smirked, tilting his head as he reached a hand up to trace his thumb across his bottom lip. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the action and she cleared her throat as she came to a stop in front of him. “Been thinking about my mouth, Granger? You’ve barely experienced it.”

She rolled her eyes before offering a thankful smile to Tilly who had told her where to find Malfoy when she arrived a few moments ago. “He likes to flatter himself, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, come now—”

Tilly came to stand between them dressed in what looked like a floor-length, lavender satin nightgown with a dangerously high slit and an unnecessary feather boa. She bounced on her small feet which were wrapped in fuzzy matching slippers, beaming like the meddlesome little monster of chaos that she was. Her huge eyes bounced between them with an eagerness that was unsettling to say the least.

“Ohhh she thinks about it, Master Draco,” Tilly chimed in brightly, clutching the ends of her boa and batting her lashes like she was impersonating a burlesque star ready to entertain a sold-out show. “That mouth of yours causes all kinds of special touchy thoughts, if Master knows what Tilly means!”

Draco pushed himself off the doors with a shrug of his shoulder and held his hands up for Tilly to shut her mouth but she ignored him. She’d gotten rather good at ignoring him over the years, to be fair, so it shouldn’t have surprised him when she continued. 

“Every time Miss Granger visits, her magic gets all twitchy,” she squealed as she spun in a circle, the feathers from her boa floating about the trio. “And twitchy magic means tingly places, that’s what your mother always said.”

Hermione looked horrified. Draco blinked in shock.

“My mother?” Draco choked out at the same time as Hermione spoke.

“Tilly, Please don’t talk about my—” Hermione paused to lower her voice. “My magic like that.”

“Oh, don’t be shy about your arousal. Master Draco smells it, anyway,” Tilly said, oblivious to the feathers catching on to Hermione’s curls and the way she looked like she was about to forget all about house elf rights and kill her where she stood. “Tilly is just saying what everyone’s thinking. All this bickering and weekly meetings? And not even a kiss? Tilly is devastated. What is the point of lips if you will not be pressing them against other lips? It is like a wand with no spell!”

“Well, there are other uses for lips,” Draco pointed out and winked at Hermione over the top of Tilly’s head as she continued to spin around between them. 

“I—” Hermione sputtered. “That is completely inappropriate—”

Draco, to his credit, tried to keep a straight face, but his mouth was twitching. Maybe it matched the twitch in her magic that Tilly was raving about. He’d like to think so.

Tilly pointed a tiny accusing finger at them both as she suddenly stopped spinning and backed up two paces from them. “You two is wasting all this enemies-to-lovers potential! So what if he called you a mudblood? Or that she slapped you around? You’ve always been a prat. Little pratty master, you was! You know you deserved it. Tilly is tired of hearing the moans, Miss!”

“That’s enough,” Draco said, finally allowing his patience to run out. “I’m going to kill Theo. I cannot believe he told you...” He paused to brush his hand down his face. “Tilly. Bed. Now.”

The elf sighed dramatically and tossed her boa over her bony shoulder. “Fine! No kisses and no weddings and no babies for Tilly!”

She gave them one last look, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Cowards,” and disapparated with a snap of her teeny fingers.

The silence was almost too much as it engulfed them in their own thoughts. Draco shifted on his feet, silently wishing he’d opted for dress robes tonight so she didn’t see him fidgeting but also knowing that his casual brown slacks and white oxford were fitting for their evening together.

Hermione smoothed her black skirt in an attempt to keep her composure. She’d previously worn pencil skirts, but Draco noticed this one was shorter than her usual attire. Actually, now that he had a moment to take her in, she was wearing the deep red silk pleated blouse that he’d picked at Pansy’s. She was utilizing her new wardrobe. 

He barely resisted the urge to tell her what a good girl she was for doing so.

“She’s wrong.”

“Mm.” Draco was only half-listening as he continued to appreciate the way her legs looked with less fabric hiding them away.

“I am not having tingly sensations.”

“Of course not. Neither am I.”

Hermione’s eyebrow kicked up and she stepped closer to bring his eyes off her legs and upon her face. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he said smoothly, his mouth quirking as he leaned towards her. “I’m…twitchy.”

Hermione glared at him and gestured to the large doors beside them. “So what’s behind the doors, Malfoy? Tilly said it was a surprise for me, but considering it’s favor night, I can only assume your little imagination has been up to no good.”

He leaned closer until his breath moved the curl that laid across her forehead and she had to force herself not to move back. “You’re wounding me, Granger. My imagination is massive. ”

She scoffed at his newest innuendo, but the corner of her mouth lifted. “Let’s just get this over with,” she muttered and turned to face the doors, effectively forcing him to stand upright again.

With a flourish of his wand, the towering doors creaked open, revealing the Malfoy Library.

Hermione’s breath hitched and her hand flew to her breast as if she was trying to keep her heart from ripping out of her chest. She didn’t know what to expect. Maybe a ballroom or another office. She wasn’t prepared for the most beautiful private library she’d ever seen.

Soft golden light spilled from the candles floating high above them. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched into the domed ceiling like a towering birdcage. The walls were mainly comprised of stone, but there were dark mahogany accents throughout which brought a warmth that was welcoming. Three large stained glass windows were collected in an archway towards the back center of the room with two staircases leading up to the second floor of the library on either side. The soft sound of a beginning rain filled the air as it pelted against the glass and broke the silence.

Wandering forward, Hermione’s fingers grazed along the wood of a shelf as Draco stayed behind her, letting her get lost amongst the endless rows of books while he watched her closely. 

“You have Herbology of Cursed Forests ,” she breathed as she reached to touch one in particular. “Is that a first edition?”

“Mmhmm.”

She turned back and he took in how her eyes shone with excitement. “I could spend a week in here.”

He grinned at her and reminded, “You only owe me one hour.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to the books, stepping deeper into the shelves. “Well then stop wasting time and—”

Her words cut off mid-sentence.

His wand was already raised behind her. The green light had vanished before the echo of the curse could reach the stone walls.

“Imperio.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. Her fingers, mid-reach for another book, just…paused. Her hand hovered in place, then lowered slowly to her side.

The shift was subtle but Draco felt it down to the marrow of his bones. 

She was his.

“Come here,” he whispered.

She turned around instantly. Her movements were smooth and she met his eyes without blinking, following him to the grand desk in the center of the room. 

“Sit.”

She did.

With a lazy flick of his wand, parchment unrolled before her and a fine-tipped quill dipped itself once in ink and hovered, poised for her to take it. He wanted to start slow because he knew that he needed to keep some semblance of control.

Take it slow and let yourself pretend, just for an hour that she would choose you.

The thought burned him so much that Draco flinched as he stepped behind her, one hand braced on the desk’s edge, close enough to see the beauty mark right under her left ear.

“Write,” he told her. “Hermione Malfoy. Over and over.”

The quill touched down.

Hermione Malfoy.
Hermione Malfoy.
Hermione Malfoy.

Her handwriting was flawless and each repetition etched itself into him. Not the ink, exactly, but the idea that he’d kept close to his soul of what he wanted but could never deserve. The ever-long fantasy that one day he could have her as his own. Lay her down on this desk with her wedding dress hiked high above her hips as he slammed into her from behind while dripping in jewels from his family’s vaults. 

Draco forced himself to memorize her as she concentrated on her task. She looked natural there, seated at his family’s writing desk, surrounded by books and wealth and his devotion.

He swallowed hard, the urge to claim her nearly overwhelming.

After seven lines, he circled her slowly until he was leaning across the desk in front of her. “Change it.”

Her hand stopped immediately as she looked up at him expectantly. “What shall I change it to?”

He grabbed her paper, shoved it into the drawer of his desk and set down a new, blank sheet of parchment. “Property of Draco Malfoy.”

She dipped the quill into the ink and began to write again.

Property of Draco Malfoy.
Property of Draco Malfoy.

The groan that left him was hoarse and he couldn’t resist the urge to palm his erection through his trousers as he watched her. He moved around the desk again to lean down, his lips brushing against her temple. “Say it.”

She blinked once and then her lips parted before stating, “I belong to Draco Malfoy.”

Bleeding hell. 

She said it like it was true. Like there’d never been another version of herself before these last few minutes. Like the curse hadn’t forced her to say it. And for a second, Draco didn’t give a fuck. He touched her shoulder, just to feel the warmth of her under his palm. He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply, letting her take up his senses. Anything to make it real.

And it was real.

It was everything he wanted.

Draco couldn’t bring himself to move for a full minute.

He finally straightened behind her and told her to keep writing. He stared at the page, at the curves of her letters and the ridiculous elegance of her fingers as she wrote Property of Draco Malfoy with the same calm as if she were taking notes in a bloody lecture back at Hogwarts.

I need to stop this.

The thought came, then drifted away just as quickly.

Because she looked so good like this.

Because she wasn’t fighting.

Because this was all he’d ever wanted, wasn’t it?

His fingers found their way into her curls and he dragged them through, watching the strands coil around his knuckles.

“You like this,” Draco hummed as he played with her hair. “You were made for this.”

She didn’t respond. Her hand kept moving.

The quill scratched another line for him.

Property of Draco Malfoy.

He released her and walked slowly to the front of the desk and sat on the edge, watching her face. Her expression was blank and peaceful. Content in a way she never was with him. Not in life, in war, or in their fucked up card game of lessons and favors. Not when she rolled her eyes at his smirks or put him in his place with her sharp wit and saucy comebacks.

But this wasn’t that Hermione. Did he like her like this? Or was it his obsession that was basking in the scraps of his own making?

“Do you remember what you used to call me?” he asked her quietly.

Her hand paused in its writing but she didn’t speak.

“Ferret,” he offered with a small, nostalgic sneer. “Arrogant. Coward. Bully. All fair, at the time.”

No reaction. Just ink bleeding across parchment as she held the quill in place.

He leaned in again, and this time, he whispered right into her skin, just beneath her ear.

“But, you’ve gotten to know me all grown up. And you’ll never say them again. Will you?”

She shook her head once, slowly. The ink was now starting to soak into the cuff of her blouse where her hand held the parchment flat.

“No,” she breathed and he was pleased to see her body shiver from his close contact.

“You’ll call me what I tell you to.”

“Yes.”

“Call me Master.”

“Yes, Master.”

Fuuuuuck.

If that didn’t almost make him explode where he stood fully clothed. 

The control was making him drunk and borderline uncontrollable and he needed to keep a handle on himself. The ease in which she listened under the curse was making him bolder. His pulse was in his throat now, and he didn’t even notice that his fingers were trembling when he reached out and gently took the parchment from her. The quill dropped softly beside it, a stray drop of ink trailing down her finger.

“Stand,” he said.

She obeyed.

“Face me.”

She turned and folded her hands in front of her, waiting for his next command. It undid something in him.

“You don’t belong to anyone else,” he said, his voice deeper now and frantic with the need he felt to hear her agree with him. “Not Hogwarts. Not the Ministry. Not even your fucking friends. You belong to me.”

“Okay,” Hermione nodded, eyes still staring blankly ahead.

He stepped closer, his mouth suddenly dry. “Say it.”

“I belong to you, Master.”

Draco’s eyes flew shut and he fisted his hands down at his sides because it wasn’t enough. Gods, it would never be enough. But he couldn’t stop. He craved to see how far he could take her tonight.

He eventually opened his eyes and his gaze trailed down to the supple curve of her waist, the way her skirt hugged her hips, the swell of her chest beneath that damned blouse he’d picked out for her. She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His cock throbbed painfully behind the tailored zipper as he stared.

And so, in an effort to calm himself, he gave his next command and busied himself by twirling his wand between his fingers.

“Tell me which books matter most to you, pet.”

“Pride and Prejudice,” she began, her tone even but not monotonous like he’d thought she'd be under the curse. “Because it taught me that love doesn’t have to come gently. That it can arrive dressed in arrogance, full of pride, and still be real.”

Something about that answer had Draco freezing, wand clattering to the ground and he hastily picked it back up. He wasn’t surprised that the muggle novel was one of her favorites. It just sounded so very much as if her answer had to do with him and he wanted to know if it did. He just didn’t know whether he felt exposed or understood.

“The Secret Garden. Because I used to pretend I could grow something inside myself the way they grew that garden. And then I got accepted into Hogwarts and proved that I could.”

His breathing was coming faster now and did it feel hot in here, all of a sudden? He loosened his shirt from the top three buttons and rolled the sleeves up to try and cool himself down. He hadn't expected this kind of trust and openness from her during this. Hadn’t expected this to wreak havoc on how he wanted to play tonight by simply taking her body.

“Hogwarts: A History,” she added next,and he could hear the fondness for it in her voice. “Because it made me feel like magic could be studied and understood—that it had rules. And that maybe if I learned them, I’d finally fit in among the Wizarding world and people like you. That I’d belong.”

Draco swallowed. Belong. How many times had he watched her and taunted her, desperate to demean her, to remind her that she didn’t? Not in his world. Not in pureblood circles. 

For their entire childhood. 

And yet, here she was, so deep inside his home (and inside his very being) that he no longer remembered where the hatred had ended and the need to have her had begun. Sure he’d wanted her back at Hogwarts. Wouldn’t have minded that swotty mouth around his cock. But, now he was desperate to have her completely. And it had been growing for years.

“What else?” he asked, voice raw now. “Tell me more.”

“Dickinson,” she said, honey eyes unblinking again as she stared through him. “Because her hope had feathers. And because someone once taught me that even when I was silent, I was still singing. I was important.”

That was it.

Draco stood before her until they were eye to eye. 

“I want to know everything,” he whispered. “Every story that shaped you. Every line that broke your heart. Every chapter you ever underlined in the dark.”

She said nothing, only looked at him with that same quiet calm the curse brought with it. There was no love, no usual irritation, not even recognition.

Just...obedience.

He drew his wand with a flick and whispered, “Accio.” The name of each book surged through his head and in a matter of seconds, the books came flying from the shelves, tumbling softly into a growing pile beside him.

He stared down at them.

Pride and Prejudice

The Secret Garden

Emily Dickinson: A Collection of Poems

Hogwarts: A History

“I’m going to read them,” he said finally, almost too soft for the room because of the rain still hitting the windows. “Every one of them. Over the next week before we see each other again. Even the ones I have already read so I can now see you in every page.”

Hermione took a deep breath but still didn’t say anything, and yet, in the silence, he felt something change within him. It was like this moment had passed from another one of his games to something dangerously real.

Draco stepped toward the pile and gently picked up Hogwarts: A History. He turned to her and held it out.

“Take this,” he said, “and get comfortable. The way you normally would when you read it.”

She took it without hesitation, her fingers brushing his, and then without any kind of warning…she began to undress.

Draco’s body froze but his eyes were all over her, taking her in as each inch of lightly tanned skin came into view. 

First, she unbuttoned her blouse with calm, practiced fingers. Then came the skirt, the stockings, the bra. Each piece fell silently to the rug like petals. She folded nothing, offered no explanation. And then she crossed the room, bare as all hell, and curled herself into the nearest wingback chair, tucking her legs beneath her and cracking open the book as if she’d done it a thousand times.

Like this was normal.

Like this was her.

Draco just continued to stand there, staring, a thousand thoughts slamming into each other behind his eyes. Another minute passed and it wasn’t until he heard her turn the page she was reading to find his voice again. “Do you normally read naked?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, without looking up.

Wow. Alright, then.

“Why?”

There was the slightest pause before she replied with a small smile. “It makes me feel free.”

The words stole the breath from his lungs.

Free.

A single, quiet syllable spoken like it was nothing and here she was, naked, under a curse, in the heart of his ancestral home (where she’d been tortured, let’s not forget that one), completely under his control…claiming she felt free.

He staggered back a step, as if the truth of it had struck him across the face just like she had when he so rightfully—as Tilly had reminded him—deserved it. He didn’t know whether it thrilled him or ruined him. Because some part of him, a part he didn’t want to examine too closely, wanted it to be true.

He wanted her to be free and choose this life with him anyway. 

But, the darker part of him knew he could never keep her here without stupid little black cards and bribery of manners for her precious Hogwarts project. And he let that dark part of him win tonight. He would worry about his conscience later.

“Take my copy of Hogwarts: A History and get on the floor,” Draco ordered, his voice low but sharp as he pointed to the dark wood in front of him. “Spine facing the ceiling.”

Hermione listened and knelt on the polished floor and carefully set the book down in front of her, spine upward, exactly where he had indicated.

Draco stepped forward, wand in hand, and muttered a quick sticking charm. A soft shimmer clung to the book, locking it firmly in place. 

“Good, pet,” he said, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “Now…ride it.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, but she obeyed, settling herself over the spine of the book, feeling the smooth leather against her skin as her core came in to contact with it. 

Draco’s silver eyes never left her, watching as she braced her hands on the floor before her so that she could rock her hips back and forth freely. “Not so fast, Granger,” he warned, “I want to savour this.”

Hermione’s breath hitched as she settled deeper onto the spine of Hogwarts: A History , the now wet leather pressing into her swollen flesh as her clit slid against the ridges. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes drifted closed. 

Hunger roared through Draco as he watched her get off in his library. Gods, he wanted to take her to completion himself, but knew he’d never get away with fucking her and brushing it off like he hadn’t been inside her. No. She’d know when he’d been inside her because he would make sure she would feel it for fucking days .

He moved behind her, wand ready, fingers itching to touch her. He could touch her, couldn’t he? His hand slid up her spine, tracing the curve of her bare skin under her mass of curls as they tousled loosely around her shoulders. The heat radiating from her was almost unbearable when his palm came in contact with the sweat upon her neck. He gripped it and forced her to look up at him.

You’re mine, he thought fiercely as he stared into her eyes. They were wide, like she’d come to her senses, but he knew she was still under his spell as she kept rocking her clit wetly along the book beneath her. 

With a flick of his wand, he made the book vibrate and intensified the sticking charm to make sure it would hold fast with the added spell. The book beneath her was relentless as it pleasured her, a symbol of how she made him feel in his quest to have her. 

“Good girl,” Draco moaned as he licked the shell of her ear, causing her body to shiver. “Feel the history beneath you, pet. I want to watch you come apart for me, love. You’ll get yourself off for me, yeah?”

She shifted slowly, pressing down harder against the spine, a flush spreading across her already hot cheeks. Draco’s breath hitched as his hand let go of her neck to tighten gently on her waist, pulling her closer so that her back was against his chest as he knelt behind her fully. When he noticed her trying to be quiet, he bent to capture her neck with his lips. 

“No, Granger,” he growled, “don’t you dare hold those filthy sounds back. You have no idea how hard this is making me…seeing you make a mess of my precious first edition.”

Hermione froze mid-motion, but still let out a quiet moan as the book continued vibrating against her folds. “First edition?” she breathed.

“Yes,” Draco snapped, voice commanding, “and don’t stop. I want to see you ruin it.”

The sound she let out sounded pained as she moved again and he continued his assault on her neck. 

“Keep going,” he ordered, erection pressing into her back as he moved closer from behind. “I want to watch you destroy every inch of it. Prove you belong to me, you perfect girl.”

Hermione obeyed, pushing down harder, rocking slowly again on the spine. Her movements grew more urgent, the friction of her swollen clit against the book making sinful, slippery sounds. She rocked faster and faster and Draco couldn’t resist reaching around and palming her breasts as she began to fall over the edge.

 With a delicious sounding cry, she climaxed—her body trembling as she came, her cunt spilling over the precious pages beneath her.

Draco held her upright as she convulsed, making sure she was able to kneel again unassisted before he moved to stand in front of her. 

“Such a perfect little pet,” he praised, voice thick with approval as he reached out to stroke the top of her head. “That’s a sight I’ll never be able to forget. I already want to take that memory to a pensieve and wank off to it.”

He unbuckled his belt and watched as her eyes followed the motion. “Now it’s your turn to make me come,” he whispered.

Draco’s breath was ragged as he stared down at her freckled face. He fought to keep control, but inside, he snapped—weeks, no, years of wanting, waiting, craving Granger like this. 

I need her. I need this. I need her.

His eyes bore into hers, his last shred of sanity giving him the ability to ask, “Would you suck my cock, pet? Do you want to?”

Hermione’s gaze held steady on his as she stayed seated against the book that had stopped vibrating and now simply just served as a wet, leather saddle for her to perch on. 

“Yes, Master. I want to,” she said softly, every word like a spark to his soul.

That admission broke something inside him. He groaned low, the sound raw and full of need. “Say it again,” he commanded, voice shaking, “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” she whispered as her hands came up to pull his aching cock from his trousers.

His hand slid into her hair, pulling her head closer. “Salazar, I’ve needed to hear that,” he breathed. “Now suck.” 

He could feel his pulse pounding in his veins, the heat building impossibly fast as she welcomed him into her warm mouth. He watched as his cock slid in and out from between the most beautiful lips he’d ever seen. It was true that they hadn’t kissed yet…but only because Draco knew that he’d never be able to recover.

This? This was sex. 

Kissing was lo—

A sharp tug of her hollowed cheeks as she brought him to the back of her throat had Draco’s mind going blank and his balls tightening immediately. He’d edged himself all night with lies, and broken fantasies—he wouldn’t last.

With a sharp breath, he maintained eye contact.

“More tongue,” Draco instructed. “Yes, p-perfect. Holy fuck, Granger.”

Her eyes were dark and tears had gathered at the edges as he continued to fuck her mouth as she knelt before him. “I’m going to…” His voice faltered.

Hermione looked up at him, eyes wide but trusting. His grip tightened in her curls as she pulled back for a minute, fearing she was stopping but then she spit right on his cock.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned as she swirled her tongue around the tip. “Herm—Granger, fuck.”

Draco pulled back just enough so she wouldn’t gag on him as he moved faster and harder, his hand steadying her cheek. The world narrowed until it was just the two of them, surrounded by books and beauty. Then, with a shuddering groan, he pulled out of her mouth completely and came, hot and fast, painting her face with his cum.

Draco’s gaze softened as she sat obediently with streaks of white coating her cheek, mouth and chin as it dropped onto her chest below. “Sit still,” he murmured.

Hermione obeyed without hesitation, her breath still shaky as she stared blankly ahead. Draco’s fingers moved deftly, collecting a small trace of himself from her skin. He whispered an incantation, the collected spend swirling and solidifying into a delicate princess cut pendant that was silver and white, gleaming softly from the candles that surrounded them. Whispering the spell again, he collected more that turned into a slender chain that he fastened around her neck along with the pendant. 

“You will wear this every day,” Draco said, surprised by the possessiveness in his voice. “So even when we’re apart, I know you’re mine.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed the cool pendant and she nodded. Draco reached out gently, brushing the damp strands of hair from Hermione’s face as he cleaned her up with a soft conjured cloth. His touch was tender, but his mind was still racing from the shock of the moment. He gently moved her off the book and cleaned them both up with a wave of his wand. Then he helped her stand and got her dressed again, making sure her attire was literally in place like when she arrived fifty seven minutes ago.

Now sated, the weight of what he’d done to her hit him full force and he paced the room, trying to compose himself.

“I’m going to say you spent the last hour rearranging the library,” he said as he moved to his desk to hide her writings in the top drawer, “when I lift the Imperius. That you were so bored you fell asleep...”

Hermione’s lips curled into a sly smile before he heard her speak. “You don’t have to,” she said smoothly. “We both know that I would have loved to rearrange your books and would never have fallen asleep.”

Draco froze, heart pounding as he turned his head to look at her. “What?” 

Panic flashed in his eyes as she sauntered over to the desk, grabbing her wand from the pocket of her skirt, and with a quick flick cast a scourgify over the book still on the floor.The pages glowed softly for a second, spotless again. 

“Learning that I was riding a first edition of Hogwarts: A History was almost too much to bear,” she explained, as she stopped beside him. “It snapped me out of it.”

Draco straightened and narrowed his eyes down at her. “You didn’t stop.”

“Nope,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Couldn’t stop.”

He groaned, half in frustration, half in admiration. “You could have said no to sucking me off!”

Hermione laughed loudly, the sound rich and triumphant. “And miss this reaction? Please, master, this is just what I needed.”

Draco watched her carefully, his usual confidence slipping beneath the surface of something far less stable as she glared daggers at him. The weight of what he’d done—not the pleasure or the power, but the curse—was crushing his windpipe. He hadn’t expected her to break it. He certainly hadn’t expected her to keep playing along after she had.

His throat was dry when he spoke again. “Granger…” he began, quieter than he’d spoken all night now that the rain had stopped, “I—”

She crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow.  

He swallowed hard. “I used the Imperius curse on you. You know that, right? You felt it. I made you—”

“You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t already want to do,” she said, calm and clear.

Draco blinked. “You’re not…furious? Plotting revenge?”

“Oh, I am,” Hermione said, stepping toward him and pressing a hand to his chest. “You used illegal dark magic on me to get me to do unspeakable things. To a priceless piece of literature, no less.” She tilted her head, studying him with a sharpness that made his stomach twist. “I could have you sent back to Azkaban for life.”

She could. 

She should.

She had every right to do it…

But instead, she pulled the paper that she’d written Property of Draco Malfoy across earlier that evening from the drawer he’d tried to hide it in, and grabbed the quill. After writing something quickly, she returned it to the drawer, keeping it from Malfoy’s sight as she did so. 

Then, she raised up on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Or,” Hermione whispered as she stepped away from him, her fingers coming up to play with the new jewelry laying across her collarbone menacingly. “I could use this to my advantage. Make you do whatever I want.” 

Draco swallowed and nodded, surprised at this confident (and dare he say, scary) Hermione that stood before him. “You could—“

“I will,” she agreed as she cut him off and began to walk across the room, picking up Hogwarts: A History as she went. “Expect a letter from me this week.”

Draco cleared his throat and touched the spot that she’d kissed with shaking fingers. “Shall I send my owl for you?”

Hermione turned, the book clutched in her hands. “Yes, thank you. No need to wake Tilly, I can get to the Floo on my own.” 

Her heels clicked against the floor as she made her way to the doors and called out over her shoulder, “I’m taking this with me since you clearly have no respect for this masterpiece. Consider it collateral damage.”

Draco took a deep breath and let it out once she’d closed the doors behind her. He braced his hands on the desk and stared at the drawer for a solid minute before opening it and bringing the paper back out to see what she’d written.

There, over her perfectly scrawled handwriting from earlier, in large print was:

PROPERTY OF HERMIONE GRANGER

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Tuesday Night

June 3rd, 2003

It was surprisingly easy to avoid Malfoy for the next three days. It was Tuesday when Theo requested her presence for drinks after work and Hermione was all too ready to share what had happened on Friday.

Hermione adjusted herself on the bar stool so she could cross her legs a bit tighter since her lilac pencil dress was riding up. When she looked up from her glass of Butterbeer after recounting what had gone down at the Manor, she found Theo grinning at her.

“It’s driving him crazy, you know. Sending his owl back every morning without a message for him.”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she took a dainty sip, careful not to mess up her glistening plum lipstick. “He deserves worse.”

Theo leaned in, voice raising loud enough to be heard over the loud music of the bar. “Oh, he knows. He’s been pacing the Manor like a feral creature. He’s not sleeping. Won’t let anyone near the library. Pathetic, really. Tilly is taking full advantage of his sulking and visiting the vaults every day for new jewels.”

Hermione smiled at that. “Good.”

Theo cleared his throat and leaned in a bit closer over the high-top table they were sharing. “He also mentioned he’d tried to contact you with his special magic parchment thing-y.”

“Ugh,” She groaned and closed her eyes. “I know. I’ve had to shove it in the very back of my desk. It’s glowing rather violently.”

“You should respond.”

“I should burn it,” she muttered.

“Why haven’t you?” Theo asked, cocking a brow. 

Hermione opened her eyes to glare at him. “I don’t owe you an answer.”

“No,” he said easily, “but you not burning it is an answer, isn’t it, darling?”

Hermione drained the last of her drink and set it down with a little too much force. “Theo,” she said with a warning edge in her tone. “He doesn’t get to violate me and then beg for scraps of redemption through enchanted letters.”

Theo swirled the last of his drink. “He doesn’t want redemption.”

“What does he want, then?”

“You.”

That single syllable sat between them like another unexpected curse—a far less welcome one than the one she’d been under a few days ago, even. 

Theo leaned back slightly, his sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking from beneath tailored cuffs. He was wearing a dusty pink suit which was so elegant and yet he looked so menacing with how he filled it out with his broad shoulders. Hermione focused on his hands for a moment as he played with his glass and contemplated the turn their talks kept taking.

Then Theo opened his mouth again.

“Alright, Golden Girl. His birthday is on Thursday and I think I know just the thing to push him over the edge. The poor bloke is expecting rage. What he’s not expecting,” he said, eyes practically sparking as he continued, “is humiliation.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, intrigued. 

That sounded like a nice plan. 

“So,” Theo said, “we throw him a party.”

“A party?” Hermione deadpanned. 

That seemed to be the opposite of what she’d like to accomplish as punishment.

“Especially if it’s for him,” Theo added. “He can’t stand not being in control of everything. You know this, I know this. And the attention? For such a priss, he truly doesn’t like to be the center of it.”

Hermione frowned and tucked a loose curl from her low bun behind her ear. “Then why would he show up?”

“We don’t give him a choice,” Theo laughed harshly. “You make it…mandatory. Like his favors but it’s one he has to do. Honestly, Cub. You know he’s not going to deny anything to get in your good graces again.” He lifted his glass in a salute as if he’d figured it all out and brought it to his lips. 

“And,” Hermione added, her voice suddenly very low as she slammed her hands onto the tabletop, “he wears a cock ring. All night.”

Theo choked on the last sip of his drink. “What?”

“Yes! And I still have some time so I can charm it to listen to my commands while he interacts with people.”

Theo let out a exhale as his eyes went wide. “That is…wildly inappropriate. And also entirely deserved.”

“I can even charm it so he can’t take it off without my permission.”

“That’s diabolical. I love it.”

“Thank you,” she sniggered and sat up straighter as if she were quite proud of herself.

When the handsome, middle-aged bartender came over to see if they wanted another round, the duo declined politely. It didn’t surprise Hermione when the gentleman slipped the tab to Theo with a message scrawled on it before heading back to the bar, but Theo seemed to be. 

“Rather forward of him to do that,” Hermione mumbled and glared at the man who was now getting a round for a group of young witches. “We could have been on a date!”

“We could have been on a date and you never told me?” Theo teased. “Fuck, Draco would love that. Maybe we should skip the party and just Clockwork Orange his ass and have him watch us ruin his posh sheets?”

Hermione stood and busied herself with smoothing the creases in her dress, even though she could feel Theo’s eyes on her. “I’m going to forever regret giving you access to my VHS player, aren’t I?” 

She didn’t have to look up to hear the pout in his voice.

“It’s not my fault those muggle films are so addicting. Would you rather I do drugs?”

“You already do drugs, Theo.”

“Fair point.”

“You should share them sometime.”

“I’m sure Neville would happily add you to his roster.” There was a shift in the air before Theo gripped her hand in both of his and stood beside her. “I missed this version of you, Granger.”

Hermione pulled her hand back before she adjusted her wand where it was located on her thigh, lashes lowered. “I know.”

Theo’s sigh was so loud that some patrons looked over at them. “You do know that this means he most likely undid your suppressing curse, right?”

“I know,” she said, again. Of course, she knew. “All those hours of research and perfecting the damn incantation. And bottling the shadow of a Lethifold? We almost died, Theo. We can’t do it again.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed in sudden realization as his eyes caught on to something, and moved his gaze to Hermione’s throat. “I’m sure you could convince Draco to do it for you. I keep telling you that—”

“He’ll do anything for me, yeah?”

“Yes! And as for that necklace you’re wearing…”

Hermione’s fingers twitched toward it before she could stop herself. The pendant still hung around her neck from Friday, deceptively innocent although the contents of it were anything but.

“It’s new,” Theo said, leaning against the table to stare pointedly at it. “Pretty.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

She had left out this particular part of the evening, because it had been such an act of possession. One that she could barely admit to herself that she’d enjoyed. The way Malfoy’s eyes had darkened into such a desperate state while he placed the jewelry on her collarbone like he was staking his claim.

She hadn’t taken it off since.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, trying to act nonchalant. “Just…liked the shape of it.”

Theo’s gaze lingered on her a second too long. Not questioning or curious. Knowing exactly that there was more than what she was letting on.

“Right.”

Hermione cleared her throat as the bar erupted around them when a group of wizards shouted out it was time for shots. She continued to stand beside the table and shifted on her little gold heels.

“Do you think we can get Pansy to help?”

Theo cocked a brow and grabbed the lapels of his blush suit jacket before countering with, “Can you get Ginevra and Mr. Ginevra?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Hermione smiled brightly, thinking about how much fun they would have sharing in the planning. Well, Ginny would, for sure. Harry had rather come to be fond of him, but Hermione knew she would be able to convince him to take part nonetheless.

“Poor bloke,” Theo sighed. “I almost feel sorry for him. Being on Hermione’s bad side is a rough place to be.”

“Theo…All my sides are perfect.” 

Theo’s eyes wandered dangerously over Hermione’s chest and he reached out to tug on the chain that held her new secret. This obviously warranted a middle finger salute from his companion.

He laughed as she stared him down and swatted his hand away.

“Just admiring all your sides,” Theo replied with a quick grin. “Now, if you could turn around…I haven’t seen your arse in that dress, yet.”

The groan that Hermione let out was playful but she did do a quick turn for him which resulted in his exaggerated applause.

“Merlin, no wonder you two tossers are best friends. Terrible flirts, the both of you. Now either take that man home or me so we can start planning.”

Wednesday Morning

June 4th, 2003

Draco crossed the room slowly, eyeing the flash of wings outside the library windows. There was still the hope that perhaps Granger had finally written: A reply. A curse. A single word.

Any fucking thing, really.

He opened the far-right window and his owl fluttered inside, hooting softly, his eyes searching his face because he knew he had disappointed him. 

“I told you to stay until she answered,” he said sternly as he patted the top of its dark-feathered head.

The owl nipped at his wrist—not to hurt, just to scold a bit—and flew up to perch in the rafters above the bookshelves.

The library was cold now. He hadn't lit a single fire in the room since Friday night. He didn’t deserve warmth after the stunt he pulled and she’d want him to suffer, so he was saving her the trouble.

He stood there, staring at the floor, unmoving. Not even his wand flicked.

What was the point? Warmth couldn’t reach the parts of him that had frozen over since she walked out of this very room. 

After several moments, his attention caught on the desk where her handwriting still lay across his parchment and he couldn’t decide which part of that night haunted him more: the things he made her do…or the moment he found out she wasn’t under the curse anymore and knew what he’d done. The moment he realized she chose to stay and play along. When her lips parted not from one of his selfish commands, but from lust.

Draco made his way to the desk and sank into the chair, palms pressed against his eyes until he saw nothing but the past racing across the inside of his eyelids.

He’d never been good at regret. He was raised on pride and cruelty and Malfoy purity lessons. But whatever this was—this ache crawling under his skin, this bloody need to see her again, to speak to her—it was eating him alive.

He hadn’t realized it was possible to crave a reckoning, but he did. He’d gladly let her do whatever she wanted to him at this point. She could Crucio him for a week and he’d thank her just for giving him the time of day again.

Draco had gotten too confident, too sure of himself and their connection. He shouldn’t have taken it as far as he had…and for what? Everything was ruined now.

He reached for the enchanted parchment on the desk that was tied to the one she kept at work.

The last message still glowed faintly from yesterday, dripping with anxiety, and totally pathetic.

Granger, I’d happily let you hex me. Just at least let me watch you do it. 

He hadn't had the nerve to send another this morning after the last dozen had gone unanswered. It felt pointless, but he was spiraling harder than when he was actively trying to catch the snitch on the Quidditch field. 

Unable to stop himself, Draco picked up the quill again.

Tell me how to suffer properly, so you’ll come back.

He paused. Looked at the words. Almost crossed them out. Found himself wondering if he should let Tilly have access to the Library again so she can save him from making a complete ass of himself.

Instead, he touched the tip of his wand to the parchment and the words vanished from his copy, glowing to life somewhere on hers.

Then before he could dive into another pit of self-loathing, there was a knock at the door.

He didn’t move. Tilly knew no one was to bother him.

Another knock. Louder this time. He was bringing his eyes up from the parchment when the door opened.

Malfoy cursed himself that he hadn’t warded the doors to prevent such an intrusion but that was neither here nor there as Harry Potter stood in the doorway. 

“Still awfully good at brooding, I see,” said Potter, his voice annoyingly casual. “You’ve got that dark Slytherin prince thing going again. Girls would go wild if you’d actually entertain a date or two, mate.”

Draco shot him a cold look as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Is there a reason you’re here, or did you just fancy a Malfoy sulk in the flesh?”

Harry stepped in, hands in his pockets. “Kingsley wanted me to ask again. The Auror Office is still short. You’d be a damn good field agent, and you know it.”

Draco snorted. Not this again. He’d really thought he’d been quite clear that it wouldn’t be the best idea for him to come work there. “I participate in a war, kill countless people, torture your best friend and the ministry wants me to go work for them? How poetic.”

Harry’s expression flattened as he adjusted his glasses. “You didn’t torture her. Don’t even start that shite.”

“You weren’t there.”

“No, but she never reported you. And she’s Hermione. She would’ve if she felt you deserved it . ” Harry’s face took on a stern expression, as if he were giving a lecture to a small child. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be terrified of what’s inside you? What you’re capable of? Did you forget that my path was laid out for me, as well?”

Draco didn’t respond but his owl made a screech amongst the books above them.

“I think you want to punish yourself more than she ever could,” Harry said quietly. “But this—” he gestured to the cold, empty library, “—isn’t what either of you need. It’s penance with no end.”

Draco looked down at the parchment, willing it to respond so he could prove to himself and the dark-haired man in front of him that it was worth it. But there was no reply.

“I can’t focus on anything else,” he said hoarsely. “Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. It’s all…her. And me. And the fucking space between that I literally put there, Potter.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He knew there was something going on with the Slytherin and Hermione, but aside from what Ginny had found out through Theo, he didn’t have all the details. “Then do something. Take the job. Train with us. It’ll give you something to pour it into.”

“Will it bring her back?”

“No,” Harry said. “But it might keep you from becoming someone she won’t come back to.”

He didn’t wait for a reply before he turned and left, the door shutting softly behind him.

Draco exhaled again, slower this time as he mulled over the proposal.

He waited a good ten minutes before resigning to the fact she wouldn’t give him the response he so desperately craved. So much for trying to get her first thing in the morning. She had children to teach, for Salazar’s sake. 

Maybe Potter was right. It wouldn’t hurt to give himself something to do other than host events and attend galas with his mother. And if Granger didn’t want him anymore, then the rage would inevitably be all-consuming. He’d want to hurt someone.

It would be the best job to do that—legally, that is. 

His voice called out to where his owl was tucking in to rest after spending the evening outside of Hermione Granger’s flat for the fourth night in a row (since she didn’t allow him in for another sleepover). 

“You’ll go back tonight,” he demanded. “Again.”

The owl knew better than to argue.

Thursday Morning

June 5th, 2003 / Draco's Birthday

Draco’s eyes were bloodshot as he rubbed at them with ink-stained fingers. It was another restless night and he’d be a lying sod if he said he wasn’t sore as hell from sleeping in the chairs of the library. He knocked over his ink pot as he went to grab the enchanted parchment and cursed as he hurried to keep it from getting ruined. He’d told himself he’d stop after today. Just one more message. Just one more ignored attempt. Then the bloody paper could burn for all he cared.

His owl had returned just a few minutes ago and lacked any response, although he'd not planned on it at this point.

He was about to pour himself a liquid breakfast when the doors to the library slammed open.

Draco flinched as Hermione Granger stormed into the room, heels clicking like judgment against the marble floor. Behind her trailed a bemused Theo, sharp in a plum suit and a devilish grin, and Pansy, radiant in a structured silver sundress, looking as though this was the most entertaining thing she'd seen all year.

“Get up. You’re leaving,” Hermione said flatly.

Draco sat up straight in his chair, slow and cautious, like she might disappear on him if he moved too fast. “What?”

“For the day,” she clarified, waving one hand as if she were bored by the whole concept already. “Hurry up, Malfoy. No arguing.”

“You want to spend the day with me?” His voice cracked like he’d barely used it all week (which he hadn’t, aside from his run in with Potter). 

She blinked, stunned for only a moment before she flattened her hands down the pleats in her long crimson skirt. The fact she was in her Gryffindor colors was not lost on him. “No. I want access to your entire Manor and grounds until midnight. You? I want gone.”

Theo beamed so much that the sun could have been coming directly from his face. 

Pansy let out a dramatic sigh. “This is already so much fun.”

Draco stood slowly, eyes moving between them before settling on Granger. “And if I say no?”

She narrowed her gaze. “You can’t. You have a favor you owe me.”

“Technically, that's—”

“You do, ” she snapped, and it cut like a whip. “In fact, you owe me quite a few things—like a little submission, Malfoy. And if your messages prove anything, it's that you're not above begging. So, make me happy and get the hell out of here.”

Draco exhaled and rubbed his temples as he looked to Theo, who gave him a small shrug, and then to Pansy, who raised a brow like she dared him to refuse. These were supposed to be his friends, damn it. 

Without another word, Draco stepped out from behind the desk and called out, “Tilly.”

There was a pop, and the small elf appeared, adorned in a lavish yellow velvet pinafore and several new rings that glittered from each finger. She looked like she’d robbed the vaults entirely.

“Yes, Master Draco?”

He didn’t take his eyes off Hermione as he spoke. “Add Miss Granger to the wards. Do whatever she asks. She has full access to the Manor and the grounds until midnight. If she wants the wine cellar or the east wing or the apothecary or the—”

“Already planning to use the apothecary,” Hermione said sweetly.

Theo whistled low. “She’s terrifying when she’s focused.”

“How does she even know what’s in the manor?” Pansy whispered to Theo as she leaned in.

“I drew her a diagram over a bottle of wine last night,” Theo chuckled. 

“Anything she wants,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “Anything.”

Tilly turned to Hermione with a deep curtsy and an eager nod. “Tilly is being honored, Miss Granger. I was worried the master had mucked things up for good, this time, I did. Glad to see you sweep in and take him by the balls, Miss!”

“Thank you, Tilly. I’ll have a list for you soon,” Hermione said with a polite smile, but she was most definitely stifling a laugh.

As the elf disappeared again, Draco stepped forward, tilting his head toward her. “Granger—”

“No,” she cut in immediately, taking a step back. “You don’t get to talk to me.”

“I just—”

She raised a hand and then pointed it at Theo. “Take him.”

Theo looked positively gleeful. “Oh, with pleasure. Happy birthday, darling. You’re ours now.”

Sweet fuck. It was his birthday. He’d forgotten in his pit of self-loathing. And now…

Pansy looped her arm through Draco’s. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll get you so pampered and distracted you won’t even think about how your house is being defiled in your absence.”

Draco looked over his shoulder as they dragged him toward the door. Hermione was already turning away, conjuring a large chalkboard where her ideas were scribbled. When Tilly popped back in to ask if she’d like to use the ballroom, Hermione’s face lit up and she nodded as she pointed to the board while she spoke quietly to the glittering ball of sunshine. His owl came down from the second floor of the library to land on the board and it watched intently as if he were part of the plans. Draco wasn’t so sure now that his owl hadn’t been having sleepovers over Granger’s all week.

Lying, feathered, lucky, son of a—

“Draco, do watch your step. I’ll make you buy me another pair of shoes whether it’s your birthday or not,” Pansy hissed as she staggered into his side as he tried to get one last look at the woman in his library. The one that looked like she’d been painted into the portrait of his life.   

She didn’t wish him a Happy Birthday. She didn’t glance back at him. She didn’t forgive him.

But she hadn’t taken off the necklace, either.