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Hermione thrusts out a sigh. Cormac’s hand is slipping further and further down her back with every new step into the Top Box of the Quidditch stadium.

“I don’t recall your hand being on my arse as part of the deal,” she mutters, as they meet the tall window and a view of the Dublin pitch.

“I thought the deal was to attend as my date, and usually I get to cop a feel of my dates, Granger.”

Without bothering to hide her eye-roll, she sits in the last chair of the first row, eager to displace his touch. It's her own fault. Using Cormac for his Quidditch connections isn't necessary, but attending the match this way seems most advantageous to finding something newsworthy. Cormac is in the Ministry Department of Magical Games and Sports, in the know, and in the good graces of nearly everyone Quidditch involves. That’s her logic, anyway.

She also doesn’t need to do a rotation in the Sports department of The Prophet, but there is something enticing about proving to herself (and perhaps others) that she can write for any section of the paper. She wanted to write about the ecological impacts of Quidditch, seeing as many of the pitches are erected in forested land, but the Chief Editor immediately threw out that idea. Now she's void of leads and desperate for inspiration. Desperate enough to be fending off Cormac’s advances.

As the game starts up and the packed stadium roars, she realises she knows next to nothing about this match. She knows the rules and positions, of course, but she hasn't even bothered to ask who is playing. Hermione simply jumped at the opportunity to get into a place where the press is typically not allowed. Her obliviousness must be obvious. Cormac begins narrating every Quidditch player's move, adding little titbits of commentary like “nasty lad,” or “dating a woman thirty years his senior,” which Hermione tries to shape into some sort of story in her mind and fails catastrophically.

They are only twenty disastrously long minutes into the game when Cormac says, “There’s Malfoy, seeker for the Falcons. Ah! Looks like he's spotted the snitch.”

He indicates ahead, which is pointless given that Malfoy is suddenly taking up the majority of her view. She can't see much else except his lithe frame atop a broom, and for some reason, she can’t bring herself to look away.

Hermione hasn't spoken to the wizard since school. Not had a conversation, anyway. She did receive his written apology during his trial, and since then, she's occasionally spotted mention of him in the papers, heard of his generous donations to St Mungo's, and perhaps even attended the same events without directly crossing paths.

Hermione’s well aware of his reformed image. She’s also aware he’s a talented player—she's seen him play quidditch at Hogwarts, of course… but she’s never seen him like this.

His thick thighs tightly grip the broom as he twists upside down, following the path of the darting golden ball. As it hovers in place, his arm reaches out. Long fingers extend. But while everyone else is no doubt keenly tracking the movement of his hand, Hermione notices how his grey shirt drops back with gravity, revealing his stomach and the lines of muscle. He didn't look like this during school, did he?

If he were any other wizard, she'd be thinking about how delicious it would be to run the point of her tongue down the ridges of those muscles. What is she saying? Who cares that it's Malfoy? No one knows she's admiring his form. No one can tell her gaze is running down the white bottoms of his uniform, which highlight the toned shape and hug the curve of what she typically terms a perfectly biteable arse. If only he could angle a little further on the broom, she's certain she'll glimpse the shape of his—

“Hermione?”

The crowd cheers and she drinks in a deep, lung expanding breath. She's forgotten that Cormac is talking. Didn’t even realise Malfoy caught the snitch.

“I said,” he begins, “now that the game’s over, did you want to come to the post-match party?”

She hums noncommittally.

“The players will be there.”

Hermione finally turns to see Cormac. “Perfect.”

Barely fifteen minutes later, she's standing in a larger room decked in gold-framed portraits of Quidditch players, overlooking the empty pitch and holding a flute of champagne. She's entertaining a conversation with Cormac and a retired player. Well, more so giving a sliver of her attention as she turns over article ideas in her mind: the mental resilience required for a demanding quidditch season; the stamina of the Falcons Seeker; the secret to a star quidditch player's muscular body… Now she sounds like she's pitching articles for a bloody tabloid.

There's an obvious agitation in the room when Malfoy walks in. Conversations trail off, people stare, and suddenly Hermione can't seem to look anywhere except at the tall, broad-shouldered wizard. Malfoy's smirk is intact, like he knows he's taken everyone's attention. His Quidditch uniform has been exchanged for a sleek shirt and trousers, and the only thing on him that isn’t black is the glint of his signet rings. His platinum hair is a little tousled over his forehead, giving him a more carefree look than when they were younger, and somehow he may be even more attractive than when he was hanging off his broom.

Cormac must notice the direction of her gaze. “What do you think then, Granger? Have a brilliant story in mind?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

She shoves her champagne into his hand, swipes both palms down her black dress, then crosses the room with a little swivel to her hips.

Through the guests, Hermione sees Malfoy's eyes latch on to her before she even reaches him. She stops before the Seeker, firmly within his lush fresh scent, and shows a polite smile.

“Good game,” she says.

“Granger?” He casually slides a hand into his trouser pocket. “What are you doing at a Quidditch match?”

“Looking for something newsworthy.”

He tilts his head, brow furrowing a little.

“I write for the Prophet.”

“I’m well aware.” She's forgotten his posh drawl, how he doesn't just look wealthy but sounds like he drips galleons.

“You are?”

“It’s difficult moving through life without hearing about the Golden Girl and her achievements.”

There's no bite in his tone like she expects. The fact he's conscious of her success brings her a little satisfaction, but before she can reply, a voice booms from behind:

“Mrs Malfoy has just departed and has advised that she's taken Scorpius to the manor.”

With his gaze past Hermione, Malfoy nods his head in recognition.

“Scorpius?” she asks.

He smiles effortlessly. “My son.”

“Oh, you’re Daddy Malfoy now, are you?” Hermione realises what she's said far too late, and in a tone much silkier than intended.

Malfoy’s pale brows curve in and his mouth pulls down with an attempt to stifle his smile.

Hermione quickly realises that, to naive ears, it might sound like she’s simply remarking about his parental status… which was her intention. Truly, it was. But to more experienced ears, she’s told him the way she likes it. 

“Scorpius is four,” he says, still evidently fighting against the urge to smile. He ends with something lop-sided, and now Hermione’s not only burning due to embarrassment, but because he suddenly appears even more ridiculously handsome. Knowing he’s a father only makes him more attractive again… perhaps she has a type lately.

Hermione’s cheeks are aflame, but it’s the good kind. She wants more of it. Something about the way his eyes dance all over her feels dangerous, as if he can see beneath her clothes. See what she’s thinking. See the double meaning in her words.

What is she doing? Is she truly thinking this way about Malfoy? Who cares that he’s a father (a ridiculously fit father)—it's Malfoy. Besides, he's married. She needs to remember her goal for the day, the reason she's here: the article.

“Four,” she repeats. “He must keep you and your wife extremely busy.”

“Oh.” His smile droops. “Astoria, she’s… she passed away.”

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry.” She holds a palm to her forehead. “I truly don’t know how I can make this conversation any worse.”

He laughs and it’s a beautiful sound. The knot of discomfort at her chest loosens a whit, and she attempts to hide her smile as she briefly peers at her feet.

“I just came over to tell you about my Prophet article.”

The manner in which his lips curve fools her into thinking he's receptive to the idea. If he didn't want a bar of it, he wouldn't be entertaining this conversation, would he?

“What’s your article about?”

She tilts her chin so he can better see her determination. “You,” she says with all the confidence of a woman who knows she’s going to get an interview.

Malfoy is staring down at Hermione like it’s the very first time he’s laid eyes on something he likes. A little wide-eyed, a little hungry. His flagrant gaze moves down to her lips and her skin prickles from the blatancy. Her nipples tighten. She tells herself it’s simply because he’s a famous Quidditch player… It certainly can’t be because he’s Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t speak to the press, Granger,” he finally says.

She angles her chin down a fraction, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes.

His smile revives. He dips his head closer, then when his voice arrives at a rich low timbre—intentional and quiet, just for her—she feels a throb of anticipation at her centre. “Even when they look like you.”

Hermione burns with renewed heat. The compliment has her all hot and bothered, but she wants nothing more than to project her confidence. “I'm going to get a story out of you, Malfoy, and we can either do it the easy or the hard way.”

His eyes narrow with a little competition. “I think I prefer it the hard way.”

***

Draco spends Sunday afternoon reflecting on his team’s loss. It was supposed to be an easy win. The bookies had them at 2.4 odds—1.8 he’d catch the snitch in the first thirty minutes. So when they lost by over three hundred points, Draco took stock of his every move leading up to the game. He thought he’d perfected the process for maximum luck. He wore his usual match socks, used his good broom—the one with a little less power for height but with more pace—and the team performed their usual chant before they took to the air. Draco can’t help but feel the key difference since their last win is Granger.

It’s his desperation to win that takes him to Diagon Alley. The Falmouths still need to thrash Puddlemere to have a chance at the quarter finals, and Draco believes this is the only logical solution.

Granger is exactly where he assumes she'll be on a Sunday afternoon: Flourish & Blotts. He decides that strolling into The Prophet office would be like entering into the lion’s den, considering the things they've written about him over the years and the number of interviews he's declined. An ‘accidental’ public run-in seems far less impersonal than an owl—that's what he tells himself as he waits.

As Granger emerges, her nose is in a book and her steps dawdling. Draco stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black wool coat and waits until she comes to a stop no more than a step before him, close enough that her sweet floral scent is apparent and he can see that she’s reading a book on the history of Quidditch brooms.

Finally, she slowly rolls her eyes up to meet his. She doesn’t greet him with a smile in the way Draco expects, but rather, her eyes are round, nearly apprehensive. Then she narrows them as she snaps her book shut. He supposes he’s ignored her two written requests for an interview, the last of which detailed her impending deadline.

Draco shows the barest hint of a smile at witnessing her irritation. Her brows attempt to meet, nostrils flare, and pink plush lips cinch in. She’s beautiful. He’s never thought about Granger that way before; at least, not until the other day. Even then, he’ considered it an irregular occurrence. But here, with her dark curls spilling over her trench-coat and honey-coloured eyes locked on his, he can most definitely say that it’s not an isolated incident.

“I need you to come to the game this weekend.”

Her affronted expression quickly melds into confusion. “Excuse me?”

“You weren’t there last week and we lost.”

She tests a small smile. “I would never pick you as superstitious, Malfoy.”

“Granger… I’m asking nicely.”

“Also, I missed one game. That doesn’t even form a pattern. How could you be sure it's anything to do with me?”

“Fine, call me superstitious. Call me anything you want.” He gains some satisfaction from the brief tremble of her expression. “I don’t want to waste another game waiting to find out that I’m right.”

Granger averts her gaze, holding her new book to her chest. She nibbles at the inside of her lip and he knows she’s fighting the urge to say yes. But there’s something holding her back.

“McLaggen doesn’t need to know that you’re my guest, if that’s your concern.”

She flings her gaze back to his. “What does Cormac have to do with anything?”

“I assumed he was your…”

“Don’t assume anything of me, Malfoy.”

She’s fiery again. He enjoys it when she’s like this. “Then indulge me.”

She cocks her head. “What do I get out of it?”

“To watch me play quidditch?” he answers with a chuckle.

Granger rolls her eyes.

“How about the only interview I’ve given during my career. An exclusive with me for your article.”

He can see he’s piqued her interest. With the barest hint of a smile, her eyes are calculating.

“Anything goes?” she asks.

“Anything.”

“Nothing off the table?”

He surveys her for a moment, seeing how hope ignites her eyes, and it causes something like a flutter in his chest. But no matter how much he wants this deal, Scorpius means more to him. “My son,” he says. “I won’t answer any personal questions about him.”

Granger rolls in her lips as she thinks. The corners kick up and he knows her decision even before she says, “I can work with that. Just tell me when and where.”

***

Hermione is a little flattered by the fact Malfoy thinks she’s his lucky charm. She blames this flattery for the reason she can't stop reliving their brief conversation in Diagon Alley, recalling the beautiful hopeful look that had simmered beneath the suave demeanour he keeps these days. Hermione doesn’t consider herself lucky—especially where Quidditch is concerned—but it doesn't matter. She won’t forgo this opportunity.

Come Saturday, she attends the match wearing something tighter and shorter than usual. Strangely, she enjoys the game. Malfoy’s fast and nimble as he flies, but then he’s also in the fray, biffing players, feinting, and then, curiously enough, pausing his breakneck lap around the perimeter of the pitch to stop in front of the glass of the VIP suite. He flashes Hermione a cheeky look before zipping off.

Their win looks easy. Malfoy makes it look easy. The game is barely over two minutes before a short wizard ushers her several levels down to the changing rooms, where she’s told nothing except to wait. She loiters outside, listening to the team’s racket through the open door while the warm menthol scent of heat rub meets her head on.

Just as she’s considering how much longer she'll wait, she hears, “You’re my lucky charm, Granger.”

She has a small smile ready for him, but it droops a little seeing he's already exchanged his Quidditch uniform for dark trousers and a fitted white shirt. At least the first couple of buttons are undone and she can vaguely see his muscle through the thin material. Her thoughts are blatant now, her stare flagrant. She doesn’t care. She finds Draco Malfoy attractive and wants nothing more than him to know as much.

“There’s no such thing as a lucky charm,” she tells him in a playful tone.

“Whatever you want to believe, Granger.” A smile slowly glides over his face. “You’ve just scored yourself an interview.”

Her heart trips over a few beats and she blames it on relief. Relief that he’s truly held up his end of the deal. “When?”

“Now.”

Her eyes briefly dart past his shoulder to the other players walking around half-dressed, but before she has time to consider the specifics of an interview in the changing rooms, he snatches her hand and she experiences the telltale squeeze of Apparition.

When the hard ground exchanges for plush beneath Hermione’s heels, she realises somewhere along the way that she’s turned in towards the wizard and her hand is now flat on his chest. He’s firm beneath her palm, scented with an intoxicating sharp cologne, and when she glances up, she finds him staring down at her with a heart-stuttering look.

Hermione drops her touch and glances around, if only to avoid his intense gaze. “I’m surprised we’re not in the manor.”

They’ve landed in his library. A room as large as her flat, with every wall wrapped in ceiling-high shelves. She meanders over to the nearest and fingers the golden-lettering on a book spine.

“I left it to my mother not long after Scorpius was born.”

She turns to view him past her shoulder, his hands now slotted into his trouser pockets.

“Any chance I'll meet him this evening?”

He shakes his head, expression neutral. “I don't introduce him to people unless I'm certain they'll remain in my life.”

Perhaps she should be more curious—he’s so private that she could no doubt make his fatherhood an impactful story. And yet, she keeps her mouth closed. It's sweet that he's protective and caring. Nothing she ever would have imagined given their history.

Malfoy’s journey towards Hermione is so slow and deliberate, his silver eyes so intent on hers, that she doesn’t realise he’s in her space until she needs to lift her gaze. If he continues this way, she can’t imagine sourcing anything useful enough to write a sentence, let alone a whole article. But as his exhale brushes her cupid’s bow, she’s finding it difficult to care. Her lips tingle. Instinctively part.

“I've been wondering…” His gaze draws a searing line over her lips and his mouth might as well already be on hers. No doubt he can see how arousal has caused her cheeks to pinken. “What if I kissed you?”

Hermione's centre pulses desperately. A protest against the words that are about to come from her mouth. “It might bias my article,” she whispers.

There's a brief disappointment in his eyes, but she doesn't witness it for long. Malfoy retreats from her space and she despises it. Despises herself. Why did she have to say that?

“I can see it now,” he says facetiously. “‘Seduction By Star Quidditch Player.’”

His suggestion robs Hermione of breath.

“Or…” He wanders closer again, his eyes holding her captive as he says, “‘The Seven Steps to a Screaming Orgasm.’”

Desire heats warmly below her navel. A sweet, seductive feeling that’s quickly causing her not to care about her article at all.

But this is Malfoy, and she has a job to do.

She brushes past him, walking into the centre of the room to collect herself. “I don’t write for a trashy magazine, Malfoy.” She folds her arms at her chest as she turns to face him. “And seven? Who needs so many steps before an orgasm?”

His smirk is fully fledged. He assesses her for a beat, then says, “Come,” before walking through the archway.

Her heels clack sharply as she meets the hardwood floors. She doesn’t bother to take in any of the artwork in the hallway as she journeys, her eyes too caught up on Malfoy’s gorgeous form. What is wrong with her? Stuff the bloody article. Why is she writing for the Sports section anyway? Her talents lie elsewhere.

They veer into a larger room, where there’s nothing except a grand dining table with two silver settings at one end. Hermione pads deeper into the space as she counts two plates, one dish, six sets of cutlery and one ice bucket chilling champagne. Now she has absolutely no doubt about his intentions. He's had this planned all along, likely right down to his false story about a lucky charm.

Hermione turns on her heel to see him. “Were you thinking your typical routine would work on me?”

Malfoy’s mouth is angling for a smile, but he keeps it contained.

“How many women have you wooed with a six course meal and expensive champagne?”

“You think I do this for other women? I don’t need to, Granger. Witches throw themselves at me.”

She emits a soft, humourless laugh. “Then you like a challenge.”

“I like that you called me Daddy.”

Hermione’s heart leaps.

They regard one another as if attempting to measure their next moves. Waiting to see if Hermione dares to take the lure despite the fact she’s declined to play several times already.

But how is this a difficult decision? Draco Malfoy, star Quidditch player, is standing there all suave with distressingly sharp angles at his cheeks and jaw, rolled shirtsleeves revealing ropey veins, and with a body she typically only sees in carved stone and kept in museums. The very body she's pretending she hasn't been admiring all day.

As Hermione meanders along the length of the table, running a finger across the high top rails of the six chairs, she smirks to herself.

“You didn’t want me at your game because of luck, did you?” she asks. “This was all just an extravagant way to get me here, wasn't it?”

Hermione pauses at the final chair. She’s finding it difficult to be offended. Frustrated, yes—she doesn't have a single coherent idea for this article and his advances aren't helping—but certainly not offended.

“The way this is going, I'll need to use your seven steps to a successful orgasm idea.”

“Screaming,” he corrects.

She laughs lightly to herself, then decides to give him something to work with. “What's step one, then?”

“Setting the mood.” His smirk flourishes, but he swipes his thumb down the edge of his jaw in a way that almost paints him as uncomfortable. “Let’s forget this.”

Every single piece of crockery and cutlery on the table vanishes, but the mumble of soft jazz music stays.

He indicates towards the table. “Take a seat wherever you please.”

Hermione wanders back along the row of chairs. She’s drawing out the simple request as she considers her next move. She knows what she should do… her deadline is in a week. But the slick between her legs is telling her to do the exact opposite.

Suddenly, she spins on her heel and moves back towards Malfoy, where he’s already seated at the head of the table. “What if I want to sit here?” Her voice is quiet from the thrill of her question.

With his lips lifting at the corner, he answers by grasping her waist and pulling her down to sit across his lap. One hand falls to her knee while the other snakes into the curls at the back of her head, as though he’s been raring to firm his grasp there all along.

“Don’t worry, Granger, you’ll still get your story.”

“The seven steps to a screaming orgasm?”

“Is that what you want?”

She nods once. “If you'll teach me.”

“Hm.” He’s so close the bass of his voice cuts through her chest and she aches to feel it closer. Against her. “Are you going to ask properly?”

She narrows her eyes into something more sultry. “Yes, Daddy.”

The muscle in his jaw feathers. His inhales are suddenly sharp. “You’re a fast learner, Granger. Has anyone told you that?”

They both have humour lasting on their lips. “I think I like it best when you tell me.”

He hums softly as his hand draws up her inner thigh, fingertips gentle. Searching. “Do you understand how much I’ve been thinking about what's beneath this dress of yours? I could barely concentrate on the game.”

His touch stops just beneath the tight fabric around her thighs and she squeezes her knees together with a desperate ache to feel his long fingers deeper.

“Thinking about what shade of pink your nipples might be,” he continues. “The taste of your cunt.”

Hermione's breath hitches.

The satisfaction on his face is plain. He’s delighting in the effect he has on her.

“The second step is teasing.” Malfoy’s fingers dance higher and higher, leaving a tingling lick of heat as he goes. When he stops at the crevice of her thigh and just short of her centre, she whimpers. The whisper-soft touch of him is driving her wild. She’s clenching around nothing.

“And step three?” It comes out a little more desperate than she intends.

Malfoy’s eyes drop to her lips.

She holds her breath as she waits, arousal spiking.

With his grip still in her hair, he leans in until their lips brush gently and, without his eyes leaving hers, whispers, “And four.” His fingers at her thigh finally skate forward until he meets the heat of her centre. A delicate stroke up her wetness with the pad of one finger, curving up to meet her clit. He hums. “No underwear, Granger?”

Hermione’s trembling breaths bounce against his lips. Her centre aches, ready to feel him… feel the delve of his fingers and the stretch of his cock.

Malfoy bridges the negligible distance and his mouth is on hers, tongue parting her lips, then stroking against hers as if in celebration. Like he’s truly won all the luck in the world. Hermione’s already pliant. Her mouth opens further for him, her legs stretch wider, and his finger slides down through her arousal until he presses inside smoothly.

Malfoy swallows her moan.

Step three and four: kissing and intimate touching. What is step five? She can’t think straight as his teeth capture her bottom lip and his single finger retracts from her centre, only for two to push back in. Hermione whimpers. She grasps at the placket of his shirt, desperate to feel him as close as possible. Desperate to have him heavy on top of her at this very minute. His fingers slip from her centre and he draws away from her lips to slot a digit into his mouth and lick it clean, then he presses the other slicked finger against her mouth and she obediently whirls around her tongue, tasting herself.

“Didn’t expect you to be so eager, Granger.”

He’s still making assumptions and she resents it. The thought drives Hermione to her feet and she stares down at him. “Let me guess, step five is to remove all impediments?” Before he can answer, she yanks her dress over her head and drops it at their feet. She’s wearing nothing but her heels and the perfume on her skin.

The lines of Malfoy’s throat sharpen with his inhale. He immediately seizes her waist.

“Fucking Salazar, Granger.”

He widens his legs, pulling her in close enough that he can press a kiss between her breasts. His palms journey down the length of her back until he’s grasping beneath the curve of her bum, his fingers creeping inward towards her folds. “Are you ready to feel what you've done to me?” he asks as he plays in the gathering of her arousal.

But just as he moves, ready to capture her tightened nipple in his mouth, she folds to her knees.

She can certainly see what she’s done to him. The straining bulge in his trousers is preposterous, and her tongue waters a little, thinking about finally feeling him fill her mouth.

His pupils are blown wide, and yet he says, “This isn’t one of the steps, Granger.”

She simply smirks as she edges forward until her breasts press against his inner thighs. Her only reply is the downing of his zipper.

There’s a trace of surprise in his expression. “You're such a good girl. I don't know why I expected anything less.”

Hermione’s clit pulses from the praise. She reveals his hardened cock out from his pants and gasps lightly at the silky, hot feel of him in her palm. He’s rigid and thick, the head shiny with pre-cum, and she’s ready to dart her tongue along to taste. But he distracts with a gentle palm on her cheek. As he traces her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, she meets his eyes. Feels his length twitch in her grasp.

Then he’s on his feet, causing her grip to fall away.

She sits tall on her knees, eyes verging on imploring. “If you think this doesn’t assist in my orgasm, then perhaps it’s you that has something to learn.”

Draco chuckles as he scrunches his fingers into the curls at her crown and points her chin, making her closed mouth meet the head of his cock. Her eyes remain on his as he sweeps it along her lips, painting her with the beads of pre-cum. She wants to drag her tongue along the slit. But she waits for his next order like a good girl, delighting in the fact she can already taste the saltiness of him and feel her arousal trail along her folds.

“Tongue,” he commands and she obeys, sweeping her tongue over the glistening head, then twisting around the sensitive crown, causing him to hiss in a breath through his teeth.

As much as she loves feeling dominated, Hermione wants to see him falter beneath her touch. She curls her palm around his shaft, thickened further under the quick flick of her tongue. He’s already so beautifully responsive. What’s he going to do when he finally experiences her mouth?

Above, his chest rises and falls fast as she teases out the moment. His fist in her hair loosens.

Finally, she delicately presses her lips to the thick head, letting the pool of saliva she’s collected drip over before slicking it up and down with her grip, and a clipped groan sounds above. Then, as she simultaneously works her hand, encloses her mouth on the tip of him and swirls around her tongue, his rumbling groan comes out at full force.

“Fuck—Granger. You're…” His attempts at sentences are stop-start.

As she uses two hands to stroke the whole of his length, up and down with a gentle twist, he grits out, “Are you going to be a good girl and take all of me?”

She doesn’t even wait a beat. With her grip on his thick thighs, she takes him so deep and snug that he bucks his hips instinctively. She’s ready for it. Delights in the jerk of his tip against her. Hermione dips so low that his hairs tickle at the end of her nose. Three, four, five times she bobs, letting his length ram into her, and her hums and light gagging seems to only spur him on. He muffles his tortured moans, sucks in escapable breaths, prays to the gods and then swears their names.

When she cradles the soft flesh of his balls, still working her hand towards the head of his cock, he groans out, “Good girl,” like a man full of torment.

Hermione’s eyes are watering and her mouth feels stretched, but it's worth it as she looks up at him to see his lips slightly parted for his panting, and brows cinched in with a show of disbelief. Her arousal is dripping. She desperately needs to touch herself. But as her fingers skate down, Malfoy breaks his trance to make a noise of reprimand like she’s an unruly animal.

“That’s mine,” his voice is very nearly a growl.

With a little huff, she abides, redirecting all of her attention into hollowing her cheeks around him, and he hangs his head back to view the ceiling and grind out an afflicted, “Granger.”

His fist hurriedly constricts in her hair and he draws her mouth away.

“I am not allowing you to make me come in your mouth,” he says, his jaw iron.

In one deft move, he pulls her up to her feet and his lips are on hers. With his cock hot and sticky against her stomach, Malfoy guides her back towards the table until she's laid atop and he’s caging her in. His mouth is immediately on her throat, nipping then sucking, drawing out her little moans. His tongue makes a line down until he murmurs against her skin, “Erogenous zones—step six,” and Hermione laughs. She’s forgotten about their preposterous article.

When he captures her nipple in his mouth, she gives a pleasurable hum, nails scraping through the short hairs at the back of his head. His fingers massage at the flesh of her breast and teeth graze the sensitive skin of her nipple, and she bows her back, pressing deeper into the sensation.

“Delicious dusky pink,” he says with a satisfied flick of his sight up her way, but she replies with a needy whimper at the loss of his tongue. “And the most perfect fucking tits.” He kneads his fingers into her flesh as his mouth charts a path south, making her stomach flinch with the sudden tender pressure of his lips. But then it stops, his heat dropping away entirely.

Hermione props up on her elbows to see him standing at the end of the table, drinking her in. He’s still fully clothed with his cock poking out from his trousers, which he fists once or twice as his eyes snake down her body, ending between her open legs.

“Granger, you are divine.”

Two fingers land featherlight on her pelvis, trailing down until they slip between her folds and glide through her arousal. Down and down again with a torturously slow circle, spreading her wider to see her opening, then skating up to press her skin taut and reveal her clit.

“Look at the beautiful blush of your cunt.”

Hermione writhes beneath his praise, gentle touch, and insatiable gaze.

“You’re dripping on my dining table, love.”

“Then you better do something about it.”

Hermione only just registers the flash of his smirk before his large palms grasp at her hips, wrenching until she’s at the very edge of the table and immediately into the path of his scorching tongue. It curls around her neglected clit, drawing a soft whine from her lips. Then as his fingers piston in and out, the rumble of his moan vibrates through her core and his tongue beats in a way that makes her skin thrum and prickle and heat. She falls back against the surface with an unrestrained moan. How does she already feel like she’s on fire? Searing from her cheeks, all the way down to her peaked nipples and straight through her core.

Hermione’s orgasm is within reach and she knows Malfoy can feel it when he says, “Look how good you are. Such a good girl for Daddy.”

Hermione has never been this sensitive in her life. She arches into his determined tongue. Arches deeper into the sensations inside and out, feeling her legs tremble as a beautiful heat blossoms. When her nails scratch at the table for purchase and come up short, she clutches at his hair instead, and Malfoy angles to make his grey eyes meet hers. The spark of her orgasm flares. She writhes beneath him, but his hand is heavy on her pelvis, holding her down so she can't flinch away from his ministrations.

“Are you going to come for me, love?” His voice is a raspy whisper.

“Yes,” she breathes, and with his tongue insistent on her swollen clit, fingers delving in out with a beautiful cadence, she repeats that single word over and over like a dirty prayer until the heat washes over her whole body. Until a sob wrenches from her lips. She’s still seizing his hair as his fingers slow to coast in and out, and he sucks and then grazes his teeth over her clit, wracking her body with little aftershocks.

With her eyes cast up to the chandelier, she can’t help but think she could write a whole article about the star Seeker’s tongue if it were any way appropriate for the Prophet.

Hermione’s breaths are still shallow and fast when she says, “So much for seven steps.”

She feels his mouth hot on her inner thigh, where he chuckles against her. “I’m not done with you, Granger.” He bites into her flesh and she yelps, pushing up onto her elbows in time to see the mischievous look about him, the lower half of his face glossy.

“You’re delicious,” he says against her lips, then his tongue is on hers, sharing the taste.

Hermione is still capturing her breaths, her nerves still singing all over her body, when he straightens and flicks his cockhead over her clit. She flinches with every pass as he makes the sweet, warm afterglow stutter. She’s spent. And yet she still wants nothing more than to feel him thrust inside and paint her inner walls white.

As he lines up at her entrance, he asks, “Are you ready for me, love?”

She flashes a small, seductive smile. “Fuck me, Daddy.”

Malfoy’s severe expression cracks alongside a groan low in his throat. He presses in down to the hilt with one smooth motion, stretching her wide and earning a sharp cry from Hermione. With his grasp at her waist, he delves in with a testing stroke at first, but then he’s quickly relentless. Punishing.

“I think,” he begins between his harsh breaths, “we can find some better ideas for your article.” His cheeks are pink from the exertion. “How about, ‘Hermione Granger Takes Falcons Seeker So Well’?”

She hums her amusement. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll fly.”

“Star Quidditch Play Gives Golden Girl Best Orgasm of Her Life,” he says, lips angling for a smile.

She has every intention of laughing, but he folds down to take her nipple in his teeth and his strokes grind against her clit in a way that causes her to momentarily forget how to breathe. She’s clawing for breaths. Her cheeks are blazing. 

Hermione quickly realises step seven: dirty talk, compliments, praise. He’s showering her in all, and she adores it. He’s stoking her like no other has ever done, drawing out another orgasm, and she can't help but believe the reason is truly his seven silly steps.

Malfoy thumbs at her chin. “Are you going to be a good girl and scream for Daddy?”

Hermione whimpers faintly in reply. Every new pass of his cock brings her closer and closer. Then his fingers swirl at her clit and she curves her spine with the mounting pleasure. After she rocks up to meet Malfoy’s thrusts, gripping his cock with her inner walls, grinding down at the base and sending him deeper than ever before, he suddenly halts his every move.

“Granger.” His chin drops to his chest, breaths coming ragged. When she clenches around him, feeling her orgasm beginning to revive, he moans. “Look at what you’re doing to me.” There’s an edge of disbelief in his tone.

He’s made assumptions of her, and it’s too satisfying to see them shatter.

“I’m not going to let you tip me over just yet.” He shakes his head curtly. “I need you to be a good girl and come on Daddy’s cock.”

When his thrusts start up again, he rolls into her with a cadence that beautifully clips at her front wall before seating as deep as he can go and she’s again gasping for breath. Beginning to see stars behind her eyelids. The deep press of him. The stretch. The drag of him along her sensitive inner walls. She’s so close. Then Malfoy’s fingers take over at her clit and the pleasure is an assault from every direction. Her centre is already pulsing when he says, “That’s it, love. Come all over my cock.”

This time, the sensation is swift. All at once. She squeezes and flutters around his length. A prickling heat races to every end of her body, causing her to arch and shiver and scream. She sobs out “Yes, Daddy.” And with his silky satisfied, “Good girl,” she ignites all over again, prolonging the sweet reverberation through her body.

“Did I mention the part where we repeat those steps all over again?” asks Malfoy.

Hermione gives a pale laugh, body too wracked by the pleasure to even move and see the wizard. But suddenly he’s fastening her legs around his waist and lifting up her weight without even bothering to detach their bodies. He sits in the chair where this all started, Hermione now in his lap, bearing down on his length.

“You’ve surprised me, Granger,” he whispers against her lips. “Do your worst.”

His eyes have lost their fiery command and she feels the need to begin slowly. Leisurely, she rolls her hips, gently and rhythmically buoying her weight up and down with the point of her high heels pressing on the rug, her forearms over his shoulders, keeping her steady. He’s incredible at this angle. Deeper than before. Closer.

When her speed increases, Malfoy traps a hum in his mouth. She knows riding him is working him up in the right way when he presses his head back against the chair and his fingers dig into the round of her arse. She attacks the show of his throat with her lips and teeth, sucking and biting harshly enough to leave bruises and he lets out a moan on parted lips.

As Hermione lifts then sinks all the way down, she smells nothing but the musk of sex, sweat and Malfoy’s worn cologne, and experiences an all-encompassing beautiful warmth in her chest that she blames on the lingering effects of her orgasms. She watches him and he gazes intently in return, seemingly mesmerised as if she’s the starlet in a play. An epiphany. A lucky charm.

“Are you going to come for me?” she asks softly.

He nods tightly.

Hermione tilts back a little, riding him at a different angle so he can see the jolt of her breasts as she slides up and down.

As she grinds back and forth, experiencing the novel heavenly drag of him, she whispers, “Fill me, Daddy.”

Malfoy groans lightly through a gritted jaw, brow furrowed. The tendons in his throat strain with his shallow breaths. His thighs tense beneath.

When she places her fingers on her clit, swirling, his gaze drops to watch and he grinds out an agonised sound, as if refusing to meet his climax. Suddenly he bucks beneath her with a growl. Hermione gasps sharply with the deeper incursion, before whining and whimpering as he drives up into her, holding her down by the hips and making her feel every deep thrust.

She kisses him, just as his movement below stutters and she feels the twitch of his thickened cock spilling inside. He moans into her mouth as he unloads. His strokes beneath slow. Fingers twine into her curls at the back of her head, deepening their kiss. But it’s not insatiable this time. It’s sweet and lingering, and Hermione tries to convince herself it’s the long-lasting lustre of incredible sex that makes the flutter in her chest manic.

Malfoy sweeps his hand around to her bum before laying a smack. The sound snaps loud into the tall ceiling. He nudges her up off his cock and, without detaching their kiss, she stands over him, fingers toying at the back of his lush hair.

“I want to see the mess we made, love,” he says against her lips.

She can’t stop it if she tries. Their cum is already trickling out from her centre, but as she straightens her spine to stare down at him, she clenches to help it along.

Malfoy grasps at her thighs. “Mm,” he hums, before sweeping two fingers along her slit. His eyes return to hers as he passes over her swollen lower lips and tender clit, causing her to flinch. Collecting the gathering of cum, he sinks his fingers back inside with a satisfied rumble somewhere deep in his throat.

“What do you think?” he asks as he drags her back down to sit on his lap. “Worthy of your article?”

Hermione bites back a grin. “I don’t think the Prophet readers are going to be impressed to hear about my orgasm.”

“Screaming,” he corrects.

Malfoy hooks a stray curl behind Hermione’s ear in a way that suddenly makes her feel self-conscious. She drops her gaze, only for him to nudge gently beneath her chin, forcing her to witness his unbearable affection.

“Don’t worry, Granger. I promise you’ll still get your story.”

She’s only allowed a beat to read the sincerity in his gaze before he picks her up again, her legs secured around his waist.

“Where are we going?” asks Hermione.

“The bedroom,” he says. “You’re going to rest, then we’re going to do that all over again.”

***

An Exclusive with Daddy Draco Malfoy

Falmouth Falcons Seeker, Draco Malfoy, provides his first Quidditch career interview, alongside his greatest supporter: his almost five-year-old son, Scorpius.

Daily Prophet reporter, Hermione Granger, in conjunction with Malfoy’s “greatest life achievement,” asks the questions readers have been dying to know. Scorpius is platinum-haired and grey-eyed, just like his father, but perhaps his calling is journalism rather than Quidditch. He’s direct and confident.

“What’s your good luck charm?” is the boy’s first question for his father, and although the Seeker chuckles (and perhaps reporter Granger notes a flash of skepticism as he meets her gaze), his eyes are firmly on his son when he says, “You.”

Hermione pauses her reading aloud. She lets the paper flop over her raised knees, revealing Malfoy walking back towards the bed, brilliantly nude with his silver scars, broom thighs, and hardened cock on display.

“Very smooth for a wizard that doesn’t actually believe in lucky charms,” she says. “A wonderfully sweet sentiment for your supporters to read.”

He laughs as he kneels between her legs. “If there were no Scorp, then you wouldn’t have called me Daddy. I think that’s a pretty lucky chain of events, don’t you?”

In one swift move, he grabs the paper from her grasp and throws it onto the floor beside, then presses her legs wide and dips his tongue into her centre.

“Yes, Daddy,” she coos, ready to surrender to her second screaming orgasm for the day.