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Chapter Text

With a heave, Hermione shoved open the door to her private dorm room, tossing her bag onto the floor beside the desk. “After this week, all I want to do is curl up in my bed with a good trashy novel and fall asleep for once on the pages of a book that doesn’t contain magical texts.”

Ginny followed inside. “You know there’s a unity party thrown by the snakes tonight.”

“Ugh.” Hermione flung herself onto her mattress and shielded her eyes, before peeking underneath her arm. “Must I go?”

Ginny smirked, tying her hair up into a ponytail. “These bloody group bonding nights were your concoction with McGonagall. Though, I dare say they’ve been rather brilliant.”

“You’re only saying that because Blaise makes eyes and flirts with you all night.”

Scoffing, she loosened her tie. “You act as if I’m the only one noticing Slytherins of the opposite sex.”

“I have no idea as to what you are referring, Ginerva. And I resent the implications.” Hermione harrumphed.

Just because a certain blond-haired wizard had grown into an attractive man, didn’t mean Hermione was noticing. She’d merely observed. Who hadn’t?

“And yes, I mentioned interhouse mingling might encourage bridges to be built. I didn’t, however, consent to fraternizing into all hours of the night.”

“You’re not a priss, Hermione. If you’d let your guard down, you might actually enjoy yourself one of these nights.”

“I enjoy myself just fine thankyouverymuch.”

Ginny peered into Hermione’s mirror, pulling tendrils of copper hair from her pony to frame her face. “Carrying on polite conversation and participating in tame games with minimum effort is not enjoying yourself. That’s like giving yourself a badge for unspectacular achievement. This is not the Hermione Granger I know and love. You’re a fierce competitor and relentless in your quest to succeed. I’m surprised you haven’t been giving out trophies to the students who have demonstrated the utmost commitment to house unity.”

She groaned.

Ginny wasn’t wrong. Hermione was just so utterly exhausted, a bone-deep weariness. She’d been a nonstop force, always onto the next task to help Harry save the wizarding world. With the war’s conclusion, she’d been able to breathe for the first time in years. An instinctual part of Hermione urged her to protect the shattered remnants of her identity.

Even though hope had been on the horizon after Voldemort was defeated, rebuilding seemed to demand an even greater amount of energy. When she returned to Hogwarts for her eighth year, Hermione assumed this would be the do-over her, Harry, and Ron deserved. To experience a school year without death looming overhead. But they’d just returned after winter break, and she’d felt no more rejuvenated than she did on her first day.

“Listen,” Ginny plopped down onto the bed next to Hermione’s prone form, “tonight is a PJ party, so at least we can go hang in the common room and be comfy.”

“That is a plus,” Hermione conceded.

“See? Just promise me one thing.”

Hermione waited because she would not make any promises without full disclosure. She knew better than to give Ginny unlimited access for her antics.

“You’re going to do the opposite of what you’d normally do. When someone asks if you’d like a firewhisky, you’ll say yes instead of turning it down for water or pumpkin juice.” When Hermione opened her mouth to protest, Ginny held up her palm. “Dit. If someone asks you to join in on a game of say, Truth or Dare, you’ll give an enthusiastic yes instead of playing Exploding Snaps with Ron and Harry again. And so on and so forth.”

“Gin,” Hermione groaned.

“Just one night, Hermione. One night. And then you can go back to your unadventurous ways, and I won’t say a word.”

Hermione lifted her index finger. “One night.”

“That’s all I ask.” Ginny smiled. “Now change into your cutest, comfiest pajamas and get your sexy butt to the common room. I’ll meet you there.”

As Hermione made it down the stairwell, chatter and laughter filtered up. From the sound of it, the majority of the seventh and eighth years were already congregated.

Hermione had changed into her baby pink, stretchy fleece set. The bottoms hugged her hips while flaring out at the knees with the loose top drooping into a V at the neck. It checked all the boxes Ginny required. Cute, cozy, and warm enough for the drafty common room.

She hesitated at the threshold, one hand still on the railing, taking in the sight of the recently expanded common room filled with a kaleidoscope of house colors. For a fleeting moment, she felt like an outsider, a ghost of the war, observing a camaraderie she wasn’t sure she was meant to be a part of. She should be filled with a profound wave of relief, the tension in her shoulders, a constant companion for years, receding in the face of this unfamiliar peace. But she was filled with an entirely different kind of tension. The pressure to be the poster girl for cohesion and harmony among the future generation.

Her gaze swept the room, landing on a circle of girls where Cho Chang and Pansy Parkinson were laughing together, a sight she would have thought impossible a year ago. The air, thick with the scent of Butterbeer and newly baked treacle tart, felt as comforting as a warm hug. So, why couldn’t she be as carefree as Ginny asked her to be?

Finding a quiet spot near the fireplace, she allowed herself a quick moment to simply exist and observe, a silent spectator to the beginning of a new, peaceful era. Hermione felt the warmth of the fire on her face, and tried to revel in the fact that she didn’t have to worry about a sudden interruption or a hidden threat.

A flicker of genuine delight crossed her face when she saw Ron and Malfoy, of all people, engaged in a quiet, competitive game of wizard’s chess. Those two would’ve been the first to deny any chance of camaraderie, but their recent, tentative friendship was an unexpected fit.

After the war, both of them were trying to figure out who they were outside of their previous roles. Ron was no longer simply Harry’s best friend, but a war hero with his own identity. Malfoy was no longer the pure-blood bully, but a man seeking redemption. Ron was the first to extend an olive branch when they were forced into a partnership in DADA.

Though they were raised in vastly different households, they shared the burden of pressure. Ron, growing up in the shadow of his older, successful brothers, combined with feeling overshadowed by his poverty and Harry’s fame. And Malfoy, who grew up with the pressure of pureblood ideologies, just to have his family name tarnished following Voldemort’s defeat, knew all too well what it was like to be defined by his family’s history.

Not to mention their love of quidditch. Their rivalry transformed into a bond, bantering over their respective teams and strategies. It also helped that both Ron and Malfoy had a very similar dry, sarcastic wit. While this was used to fuel their feud, it matured into a shared sense of humor. They traded playful jabs about their past behavior and found humor in their post-war struggles.

Hermione took a moment to smooth a stray curl from her forehead, a nervous habit, as she took in the lock of blond hair that swooped across Malfoy’s pale eyes. She could admit to herself the period away during the rebuild was favorable to him. He was no longer the frail, hollow-eyed boy carrying the weight of a failing world like a heavy cloak, but a chiseled, sinewy man driven to earn the respect of his peers and reclaim his honor.

Gods, she was not admiring Malfoy and waxing poetic about his atonement.

Her eyes, though still carrying the shadow of past battles, darted away and softened as she watched Luna Lovegood charm a group of students with a story about a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Some things never changed.

After a while, Ron plopped down beside her, perched on the hearth. “What do you think the Slytherins are planning tonight?”

“Isn’t this it? A pajama party?”

Harry sidled up to her other side, sipping a butterbeer. “You know it’s never that simple with them. We’ll probably get roped into a game of Seven Minutes in the Broom Closet, possibly slipped a babbling beverage or a crush confessor.”

“What?” Hermione rubbed the soft fleece of her pajama bottoms between her fingertips. “They haven’t done anything like that the least couple of times they’ve hosted.”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry asked. “Don’t you remember Seamus being dosed with a blushing brew and confessing to trying to impress a girl in his village by making a flower levitate, but it turned into a tiny, farting troll that chased her around the yard until his mum had to chase it off with a broom?”

“What?” Hermione laughed.

Ginny appeared out of thin air. “She crept off to bed before that happened. Cute pajamas, by the way. Very innocent looking.”

Ron cut in, “What about when Luna was given a Tell-All Tonic and revealed a fellow Ravenclaw sucks his thumb in his sleep, but she wouldn’t say who?”

Ginny popped a hip, swirling the amber beverage in her glass. “Hermione snuck a book and blocked us all out while she holed up in the window seat.”

“Mione,” Ron scolded, jabbing her waist with his elbow. “This was all your bloody idea, and you’re not even joining in?”

“The hell I’m not. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And she promised to be present all evening.” Ginny smirked, but didn’t divulge the whole gamut of her promise. And she better not. She didn’t need Ron and Harry coming up with ridiculous ideas because they knew she was likely to say yes.

“Welcome, my merrimakers, to our PJ party!” Theo must have cast a Sonorus because his voice amplified above the crowd. “You know Minerva and her desire for perfect synergy. Getting into your cozy jammies is a rather clever way to break down barriers, wouldn’t you say? Seeing others stripped down to their most secure selves, intrinsically linked to the feeling of home and safety. But we think introducing another element to the party will add an extra dose of fun.”

Without hearing about this additional element, Hermione knew whatever Theo was about to reveal wouldn’t actually add an extra dose of fun.

Pansy stepped forward instead, raising her glass with a cunning grin. “Oh, did we forget to mention that PJ stands for polyjuice?”

Oh, bollocks.

“Ain’t no party like a polyjuice party!” Blaise lifted his palms in the air like he was raising the roof. Where could he possibly have learned muggle dance moves? And Merlin, please stop.

The room erupted with lively chatter—Theo reveling in the chaos—before quieting down to listen to the rest of what the Slytherins had to say.

“We collected hairs from strangers while on holiday. All above board, I assure you.” Theo winked. With the volume of the room quieted, he cancelled the charm and stepped onto a stool like a ringmaster. Quite fitting, really. “They are all of age and not a single person from wizarding London. So, whoever you’re mingling with tonight, you will not know if they’re Slytherin, Gryffindor, Racenclaw, or Hufflepuff.”

Everything about this was an ethical nightmare, but Hermione took a small breath of relief with the knowledge that her body wouldn’t be the vessel for someone else’s depravity. Thank Godric for tiny mercies. Though tonight, she’d made a promise, so she’d be hanging her moral compass at the door. Merlin help her.

Blaise raised his voice. “We’ll be free to be ourselves without preconceived notions. And if some engage in little debauchery, no harm done. It’ll all be on your own terms. Each person will be given their gender. So, sorry, Weasley, while I’m sure you were dying to know what it’s like to be inside a woman for the first time, you will be transformed into a bloke.”

“Oi!” Ron flipped him off, but chuckled.

Hermione did not want to know if that was actually true or not. Ron’s business was his own. Apart from their spontaneous kiss during the battle, nothing had transpired between them, and she was content to keep it that way.

Pansy raised her hands in the air to quell the rising chatter. “The potion will run out before midnight, but everyone should get to know who they’ve been spending their night with. So, we can’t say for certain when the polyjuice will lose its effects. It’s been different for each of us who have tested it.”

As Hermione scanned the room, each student held a different expression. Some excited, some worried, some downright horrified. When she reached Malfoy, he appeared rather put out, but that was always his state of face. For all Hermione knew, this was his idea.

“Oh,” Theo said, “and a little tweak was made while brewing. The potion will not allow you to reveal your identity until it has worn off. No matter what is asked, if it’s too revealing, your lips will be sealed. Metaphorically that is. So, there will be no cheating. Everyone will remain anonymous. So, when you return to your rooms to take the polyjuice, go ahead and leave your pj’s on, but charm them to look a little different, in case someone is playing extra close attention and knows what you’ve originally put on, or they’re a little too familiar with your wardrobe.”

Hermione couldn’t decide what emotions were bubbling up inside of her. Was it panic? Or excitement? Did she regret making that promise to Ginny? Or was it rather convenient for a night like this?

“And lastly,” Blaise said, “in order to keep anonymity, disillusionment charms have been placed on hallways so until you’ve reentered the common room, no one will be able to tell who came from what room.”

Pansy held up a basket. “Take one and pass it down. Females are marked with a white tag. Males are marked with black. That’s it. Have fun!”

Once Hermione chose a vial, she shared commiserating looks with her friends and made her way to her dorm to change behind closed doors.

And then the full reality dawned on her. No one had to know who she was tonight. She could say and do anything—within reason of course. She wasn’t mad, but she could engage in whatever debauchery she wanted without needing to set an example, without needing to use caution. All Theo said was that the potion would wear off sometime before midnight, but not that they had to share their identities. She could sneak off as she always did in a couple of hours, well before midnight. There was no reason anyone had to know.

Knocking back the potion, she stared in the mirror, enduring the deep discomfort, and watched her body transform. Her skin tingled and rippled, muscles and bones reforming until the person reflected back at her was unfamiliar.

Before her, stood a blue-eyed woman only a couple inches taller than Hermione was, with straight, long honey-blonde hair and a creamy complexion. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. And she was beautiful. Of course, the Slytherins wouldn’t gather DNA from anyone who wasn’t. Merlin forbid they wind up in the body of someone with less than perfect genes. Though, Hermione knew they likely hand-picked their own polyjuice, and cast off the remaining ones to the rest of them.

Charming her pajamas black, Hermione tightened the fit to form around the curves of her legs then widened and rounded the collar to hang from one shoulder. Still cute, cozy, and warm. Okay, maybe it was a little sexier, but she was following Ginny’s advice and silencing the voice of her instincts.

Her bra no longer fit, this woman’s breasts a size smaller than hers, so she decided forgoing the constriction was the right move to make. Sure, she could have transfigured it smaller, but the black solved the dilemma of her nipples, concealing them well enough, and she was freer than ever.

Tonight, she didn’t have to be Hermione Granger. Tonight, she was indulging and unleashing. Tonight, Hermione was going to be whoever she wanted to be.

Chapter Text

Polyjuice vial in hand, Draco sauntered down the hallway to their dorm rooms. “You realize this plan is destined to fail spectacularly, don’t you?”

“Live a little, Draky poo.” Theo patted Draco’s cheek. “Don’t pretend you aren’t eager to expand your selection of witches to more than Daphne and Pansy.”

He scoffed. Selection of witches. As if one night would make a difference. Draco wasn’t delusional. Whoever he hung out with would bolt as soon as they realized who they’d been spending time with. Or if he was really unlucky, hex his bollocks off.

“I think you’re confusing me with Blaise.”

A sly grin curled Theo’s mouth, his gaze holding a devilish spark. “Oh, he doesn’t need a selection. He already has his sights set on a witch.”

Of course he did. “Well, there isn’t a witch here who would prefer my company over literally any other bloke, so just prepare for the inevitable fallout when the polyjuice wears off.”

Theo’s head lolled back with his overblown eyeroll. “For the love of Salazar. You’re far too self-deprecating. You haven’t received a sneer or biting jab since the beginning of the year.”

“And how would you know?” Draco lifted his chin, staring down his nose at Theo. “We’re not always together.”

“Okay.” Theo crossed his arms over his puffed up chest with his back to his private dorm door. “Have you received a sneer or biting jabs since the beginning of the year?”

“That is beside the point.”

Theo laughed. “Quit being a drama king and get your arse back to the party. I expect peak Draco for the evening.”

“You’ll get peak Draco when I get peak consideration for ludicrous party planning,” he called over his shoulder as he proceeded to his room and Theo’s rumbling laughter echoed down the corridor.

Behind closed doors, Draco tipped back his foul-tasting vial to see who he was going to be for the evening. A glimpse in the mirror showed him a bloke an inch shorter than his six-foot frame with dark toffee-colored hair. Vivid green eyes stared back at him, his jawline more broad than Draco’s angular chin. He’d do, Draco supposed. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of staying fully present.

Charming his emerald crew-necked pullover and black joggers to a matching slate grey, he marched to his door to get this night over with.

As one of the first to return, he tipped back a glass of firewhisky and refilled it. Finding a spot near the window, he stood to have a decent vantage point of the whole common room.

With a slow sweeping gaze, he scanned the groups beginning to form. He kept his expression one of bored superiority, his eyes briefly lingering on a particularly awkward exchange between a couple trying to flirt but failing miserably. Probably a bunch of Hufflepuffs. He let out a quiet, mirthless chuckle, a sound so low it was almost a hum, before he moved on.

Draco took a long, slow sip from his glass when a witch with light caramel strands crossed the threshold of the main area, hovering on the outskirts. He wasn’t sure what drew his attention to her in particular. Most of the polyjuiced witches were eye-catching, but this one held a different air about her. Confident, but reserved. A spark of life, but somehow weighed down. She navigated the crowd not by pushing, but simply by existing, her presence creating a natural opening for her to pass through. He followed her purposeful walk, head held high, to the counter of alcohol as she side-stepped several approaching people without so much as a glance in their direction, like she only had eyes for one thing. Maybe she needed the nectar of oblivion as badly as he did.

Dressed in all black, he was lost in the way she moved. Her stride was a subtle dance of grace and purpose, her hips swaying gently, not in a display, but in a natural rhythm that belonged only to her. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place who. He knew it couldn’t have been Pansy or Daphne. Their gaits were more pronounced, overtly suggestive.

Then a cocksure raven-haired git appeared in his line of vision with a cavalier grin, blocking the beautiful witch, and he wanted to punch him square in the nose.

***

It was strange entering the common room and not recognizing a single face or voice. Logically, Hermione knew they were all her classmates, that Harry and Ron were mingling among the crowd, as well as Ginny and Luna, but not having a grounding point was a bit unnerving.

What did it matter? It wasn’t Hermione Granger standing alone on the outskirts of the room, it was whoever this woman was. She wasn’t being skittish, she was observing. Several minutes later, Hermione still hadn’t moved.

Okay, maybe a firewhiskey would help.

A long table, usually used for studying, was laden with plates of cauldron cakes, pumpkin pasties, and tankards of foamy Butterbeer. Beside it was a collection of liquors lined up on the countertop, drawing a horde who were filling their glasses.

As she was about to pour a shot of firewhisky, she was accosted by a girl with rich, brown ringlets cajoling her into a game of quidditch pong. Had Ringlets known who she was recruiting, she might have chosen another. Taking a deep breath, Hermione smiled and followed her to a recreational table.

Hoops were charmed on either side of the table to float, moving erratically, and Hermione knew this girl would regret her choice in partner immediately. But Hermione’s fierce competitive nature wouldn’t allow her to give anything less than her best.

On the opposite side of the table was a tallish guy with an obsidian mop of hair, the wavy strands brushing the collar of his knit dressing robe, his chest bare. He was trying to cajole another into teaming up with him. The other leaned against the wall, arms crossed over a charcoal henley, the top few buttons unfastened.

He was a solitary figure, short russet hair tousled just so, while looking effortlessly perfect despite the chaos of the party. His features caught the dim glow of the torchlight, highlighting the serious, almost pensive set of his jaw. When his gaze landed on Hermione, his piercing green eyes seemed to hold a whole universe of unspoken thoughts. She felt a jolt—they were the kind of eyes that saw right through a person.

Rolling his head in obvious defeat, he shoved off the wall with his shoulders blades and unfolded his arms to stand opposite her. Merlin, he was fit.

Hermione was given a small plastic ball charmed to look like a golden snitch without the wings. She could do this. She could toss a ball in a hoop.

“You ready, goldie?” The dark-haired wizard smirked.

Her head whipped up, confusion furrowing her brow. Did he know she was a Gryffindor?

As if reading her mind he said, “No names, remember? And your hair is a golden shade.” Gesturing to her cascading strands, his answer put her at ease.

“Oh.” She tucked a lock behind her ear. “Right.”

Hermione was wrong. She could not toss a ball in a hoop, especially when said hoop wouldn’t hold still for one bloody second. She tried, truly she had, but it was useless. She had to refrain herself from stomping her foot again after Green Eyes smirked with a cocked brow.

“Copper, I’ve got to thank you for choosing Goldie here as a partner.” The black-haired wizard tossed the golden snitch and it sailed perfectly through the highest floating hoop.

Hermione’s partner leaned into her, lowering her voice enough to be drowned out by the volume of the common room. “I truly didn’t care about winning, I just wanted to play because I thought he was hot, but his smug grin makes me want to wipe it right off. I have faith in you, Goldie. Make the shot.”

Okay. Merlin. She could make one shot. If she could fight a mountain troll and single-handedly trap a horde of pixies and ride a sodding dragon, she could score one bloody time in this ridiculous game.

Narrowing her gaze, Hermione focused on the moving hoops. She traced the exact path the ball would need to take to fly through the hoop at the precise right moment. With a steadying breath to calm her nerves, she flicked her wrist, sending the ball in a high arc. It skimmed the rim of the hoop and fell in.

Hermione pumped her fists in the air, her teammate erupting with a whoop of celebration. She turned to Hermione, giving her a high-five, and they spun to their opponents with smug grins of their own.

The obsidian-haired git rolled his eyes, but gave a slow clap, mouth twitching with a smile. The fit one with brown hair laughed, the first of the night. It was a low, rumbling sound that made his intense eyes crinkle at the corners.

As they continued their game, Hermione couldn’t help watching him. He was a study in contrasts: the warmth of his hair against the coolness of his green eyes. He had an air of brooding mystery about him that was utterly captivating, as if he carried a secret he was aching to tell but couldn’t.

Hermione was dying to figure out who he was. Maybe if she hid herself when the potion wore off, she could witness the unveiling of everyone. Particularly the one currently destroying her in quidditch pong despite her single shot.

When she lost the game for Auburn Ringlets, Hermione gave her an apologetic smile, but she didn’t seem to care.

“It was a win, getting an in with the dark-haired smokeshow.” Her copper eyebrows waggled as she slipped around the quidditch pong table.

When Hermione turned back to Green Eyes, he’d disappeared. Damn. Her eyes flit about the room, but she couldn’t spot him anywhere.

As she wandered away from the table, two other pairs entering their own round, she was dragged into another game. A wizarding version of Simon Says. Dean Thomas must be a part of this group considering he was the one to come up with the idea in sixth year.

Scanning the circle, she tried dissecting mannerisms and facial expressions, but everyone remained a stranger.

One guy with ash blond hair wore a replicated form of the Sorting Hat and called out, “Everyone ready?”

Maybe that was Dean.

Hermione already had her fill of butterbeer during quidditch pong, so she switched to firewhisky.

Clearing his throat, Maybe Dean said, “The Sorting Hat says, ‘If you’ve ever skinny dipped in the black lake, drink.’”

Thankfully, Hermione had a pass. She didn’t want to be sloshed by the end of the night. She told Ginny she’d partake, and she would, but she also wanted to have her wits about her.

Only a couple people drank. Maybe they’d gone together. Merlin knew Hermione would avoid everything that lurked in the Black Lake unless forced again.

“The Sorting Hat says, ‘Anyone who’s ever been to the room of requirement, take a drink.’”

Hermione knew her luck would run out. She tipped back a sip of firewhisky, feeling the burn down her throat.

“The Sorting Hat says, ‘Anyone who’s shagged someone from another house, drink.’”

Bugger. Hermione took another sip. If only she hadn’t had that mistake with Justin Finch-Fletchley within the first month of returning to Hogwarts. She could admit it was merely a means to an end. That end being a need to forget. Unfortunately, the means also meant a two minute shag where she was left wholly unsatisfied.

And while maybe she should, she didn’t regret Anthony Goldstein making it up to her a month later.

She wasn’t sure what the purpose of the game was tonight, considering no one knew who anyone was. Unless someone was paying close enough attention to remember who answered what after the polyjuice wore off. It seemed the sole purpose of the game was to get sloshed, which, fair enough.

The game continued on.

All the virgins, drink.

If you’ve ever had a threesome, you’re safe. If not, drink.

Anyone who’s been caught shagging after curfew, take a drink.

After five more orders, Hermione took two more sips of firewhisky before she slipped away from the game unnoticed.

While all sorts of debauchery were indeed taking place—couples groping in corners, some out in the open, one clearly shagging behind the counter—there was a palpable sense of shared relief in the room, an understanding that they were all simply grateful to be there, to be together, to be alive.

The clink of glass punctuated the hypnotic beat of a magical gramophone playing a lighthearted tune. In the center of the room, spontaneous dancing had erupted, a whirl of bodies swaying in a unified rhythm, their joy a physical force. But Hermione didn’t feel a pull to anything. Not another game, not dancing, definitely not another drink.

Maybe Hermione couldn’t return to her dorm room yet, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t escape to somewhere quieter for a moment. Just a moment.

Chapter Text

Tucked away in a far corner, Hermione chanced a gaze around to make sure she was unnoticed before tracing her finger along a rune on the side of the bookcase. The shelf slid aside a fraction to let her slip behind into the hidden reading nook. Tugging it closed behind her, she turned to the secret space she’d discovered a month ago, and froze.

Green Eyes was a vision of relaxed elegance seated in a quiet corner of the room, the dim light of a single lamp casting a soft, golden glow on his face.

“Oh. I hadn’t realized anyone else had discovered this place.” Hermione swiveled back to the exit. “I’ll just—”

“You can stay.”

Pausing, she glanced over her shoulder. “You don’t mind?”

“There’s enough room in here for a quidditch team. I think we can manage.”

With his legs clad in dark grey joggers stretched out before him, a casual, confident posture belied the intense focus of his eyes. The long, elegant fingers of one hand were loosely wrapped around the spine of a thick, well-worn book, his other hand rested on the armrest.

Swallowing down her nerves, Hermione sank into a plush chair she’d grown fond of. Its position was angled a touch away from the one he’d chosen, which was helpful. A respectable distance to give him space, but not so far to appear like she was avoiding him.

Reaching beneath the chair, Hermione pulled out the book she’d been reading.

“Your own secret stash?”

A light laugh came easily. “Couldn’t risk someone else pulling it from the shelf and losing my place.”

“Clever girl.” He gave a subtle, amused nod, a wry grin curved the corner of his mouth as he lowered his eyes back to his book.

And Hermione’s thighs pressed together, her core clenching. Godric. Why did that turn her on?

They read in silence for a bit, but every subtle shift he made or quiet exhale, disrupted her concentration. She was very aware of him. For the last couple minutes, she’s read the same paragraph no less than five times.

She cast furtive glances, determined to unravel the mystery of his identity, but as if sensing her gaze, he would glance up from beneath his fringe, catching her. And she’d be forced to focus back on her book. Or rather, look at it and not absorb a single thing.

Whoever he was was a beautiful storm in human form. And Hermione had a quiet suspicion telling her it had more to do with the person underneath than the outside appearance of this stranger. His light brown hair looked like it had been blown by the wind, and his eyes—those striking green eyes—were like a calm, deep sea in the middle of a tempest. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. His presence spoke volumes.

“This whole thing is barmy, isn’t it?”

Which part exactly? The polyjuice bit? Or the pajamas. Or the part where they were hiding in a secret reading nook when they should’ve been mingling?

Hermione lifted a questioned brow.

“The forced unity bit. If people are going to forgive, they’re going to forgive. If not, they’ll join in on the revelry for appearances, while casting unspoken judgment and remaining guarded.”

“Perhaps. But guards tend to be in place to protect, not to drive away. And this forced unity allows the option, doesn’t it? Those on opposite sides of the war were much less likely to mingle without a nudge.”

His lips twitched with a half-smile. “People could surprise you.”

“And they have. Have they not surprised you?”

With his mouth crooked down on one side, he gave an unhurried shrug. “I think bleeding hearts will always be bleeding hearts, and cynics will always be cynics. Those are difficult traits to reverse in a school year.”

“Wow. You’re very pessimistic.” Hermione chuckled. “Are you saying the war didn’t change you?”

“I didn’t say that. But I think it’s harder to forgive some than others. And some deserve less forgiveness than others.”

Hermione hummed in contemplation. “I think those that were less deserving of forgiveness are either dead or in Azkaban, and rightfully so. Every student here was thrust into a fight they didn’t choose and influenced by older generations into what to believe.”

“You make it sound like there wasn’t a right and wrong side.”

Eyes rolling upward, she let out a half-hearted sigh. “I’m saying a lot of those on the wrong side didn’t have much of a choice, most having been indoctrinated since birth.”

Green Eyes tilted his head, appraising her with quiet scrutiny.

Subtle movements betrayed Hermione’s unease as she adjusted her hips in the cozy armchair. Even in her anonymity, she felt rather exposed. As if her points in the discussion unmasked her real identity. And maybe that was his goal, whittle down the possibilities. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t doing the exact same thing.

She knew he couldn’t be Ron or Neville. He was too eloquent. Theo wouldn’t have hidden away when the entirety of the seventh and eighth years were partying in the common room. And Harry wouldn’t have been caught reading while everyone else was having fun. He could be in Ravenclaw. Maybe even Hufflepuff, but his brooding made it unlikely. She supposed there was a chance he was Blaise, but she’d need more to go off.

There was one possibility she left unexplored, because if he was who she suspected him to be, she couldn’t stay hidden away with him. And she really didn’t want to go back out there.

Hermione and Draco Malfoy had a complicated relationship. Could it even be called a relationship? It wasn’t a friendship, but it was more than an acquaintanceship. They had an understanding, she supposed. A rapport, if you will. They’d been paired for a couple class projects this year, and had mostly cordial interactions. Apart from one disastrous encounter when she’d accidentally found him snogging Theo in an alcove.

She was sure they’d been a secret item, but the very next day, she saw Theo snuggling Blaise in the common room. And a few days after that she stumbled across Malfoy with his hand up Pansy’s skirt in the astronomy tower. It was only by some stealthy manoeuvres that he hadn’t noticed her before she ran off.

When Hermione couldn’t handle the ambiguity of the situation, she approached Malfoy, opening the discussion by apologizing for interrupting him and Theo. He shrugged her off and said they were just fooling around, that there were no romantic attachments. It appeared the Slytherins just enjoyed a bit of friendly benefits with whomever was in the mood.

However, the core dilemma Hermione struggled with was that Malfoy had somehow morphed into a vision of male perfection since his trial. He didn’t have an ounce of wasted bulk, all corded muscles and sinews. Like his body was no longer in survival mode, so it was allowed to live off of more than dark expectations and fear.

His blond hair was longer and thicker, though neatly shorn on the sides. His skin less pale, holding a healthy glow. His jaw was defined, so defined in fact, that Hermione had once imagined running her tongue along the edge just to see what it felt like. She was in her ovulatory phase, okay?

It was so bloody distracting.

But he was Malfoy and she was Granger, and their backgrounds were a fundamental mismatch. If their friendship defied all logic, anything more would be a cosmic joke.

“Well,” he closed the open book in his lap, “this has shifted into a rather deep conversation that I was not expecting tonight.”

“What. Dissections of the war weren’t at the top of conversation topics for you?” She quirked a crooked smile.

A light, rumbling chuckle reverberated in his chest. “No, actually I figured I wouldn’t be having any conversations tonight.”

“I did offer to leave.”

His tongue swiped his lower lip before he softly said, “And I didn’t want you to.”

A flush of heat rose up her neck as her heart fluttered. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

“So, do you think the polyjuice part of this evening is just as barmy as the intent behind it?”

“Barmy? No.” He chuckled. “Crafty? Quite. Because the sole purpose obviously isn’t as innocent as house unity.”

“Well, that much is obvious, but what do you believe the sole purpose is?”

Leaning back, he propped his ankle over his knee. “It’s a ruse to have a chance to bed someone who wouldn’t normally consider them as an option.”

A short retort formed on Hermione’s lips born of pure contradiction, but the irrefutable logic of his statement stopped her.

“Oh my gods, of course it is.” She laughed. “These harmony fostering nights have become a hotbed for debauchery.”

“Yes, but people are still selecting from their familiar circles. This way Parkinson could seduce Potter. Finnegan could make a move on Bulstrode, if he wanted. Or Nott could live out his fantasy of being spit—” The palm of his large hand clamped over his mouth, swallowing gasped laughter. “For your sake, I’ll spare you the end of that sentence, but you grasp the general idea.”

A tiny, high-pitched squeak escaped her, her cheeks growing so hot, she worried she resembled a ripe tomato. Clearing her throat, Hermione asked, “Are you a Slytherin?”

“You know I can’t answer that.” His eyes danced with a devilish gleam. She recognized that roguish glint. Few possessed the ability to pull it off the way he did. “Even if I wanted to, the potion won’t allow it. Too telling.”

“But if everyone chose at random, how would they know who was who?”

“I have no doubt the ring leader somehow charmed certain vials so only particular individuals would grab them, allowing them to know who to pick out in the crowd.”

Hermione scoffed, but honestly, there was no doubt that was exactly what happened. “That’s absolute bollocks.”

“They’re Slytherins, darling.” A sly, confident grin reached his eyes. “Do you honestly believe they’d play fair?”

“No.” Hermione sighed, but jolted with a new thought. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Hard to say.” Beneath his piercing gaze, she was a fragile balance of nervous energy and giddy anticipation. “I have my guesses, but I was not a part of planning this soiree. So, I have no idea who pulled what vial.”

If Slytherins planned tonight, and he took no part, it was unlikely he was who she hoped and dreaded he was.

“You just said soiree, so that narrows down my guesses quite a bit for who you are.” She laughed to hide her sudden disappointment. “Though, if you didn’t plan this evening, that eliminates Slytherin from the possibilities.”

A knowing smirk played across his mouth, which she ignored. The point Ginny was trying to make was for Hermione to allow herself to shut off her brain. And that meant no more attempts to narrow down who he was.

“But quite frankly, I want to live in oblivion tonight.”

Chapter Text

“That makes two of us. Goldie, was it?” He smirked.

She gave a theatrical eye-roll, unable to quell the smile breaking free. “How about you call me Maya?”

“And I’ll be Leo.”

She nearly blurted, “as in Dicaprio?” But he wouldn’t understand the reference or why it was so comical to choose the name of a blond teenage heartthrob. “Nice to meet you, Leo.”

“Likewise, Maya.”

“How much longer until midnight?” Hermione glanced around for a clock, but not seeing one.

“Ready to be rid of me already?”

She chuckled. “I just want to know how much longer we have until the polyjuice wears off. I realize the whole purpose of the evening is to see who we’ve enjoyed hanging out with, but I’d rather embrace the anonymity of it all and be in my dorm room when midnight strikes.”

A faint smile graced his face. “Well, let’s make good use of that time then.”

Hermione’s thighs pressed together to alleviate the ache at the apex of her legs, her chest heaving. He didn’t mean that the way it came out, did he? And it wasn’t as if this were Malfoy, that he was lusting after her. He was lusting after the modelesque witch she’d transformed into.

Green Eyes leaned over his spread legs, resting his forearms on his knees. “Okay, Maya. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do, but held yourself back because of who you are or think you’re supposed to be?”

She laughed to hide her scoff of disappointment. “Gods, Leo. What a loaded question. I suppose it depends on what sort of thing we’re referring to. Something daring? Nefarious? Sexual?”

A chuckle got caught in his throat, pink twinging his cheeks.

Sexual? Why the hell did she say sexual outloud? Oh, probably because her cunt was throbbing, and her nipples were so hard they were rubbing against the fleece of her sweater. She wished for a chasm to open and swallow her whole.

***

“That does leave quite the divide between options,” Draco said, doused with arousal and a side of flustered. “Why don’t we work our way down the line?”

“Cheeky.” Her warm blond eyebrow arched. “Okay, but for every answer I give, you have to give one.”

“Fair enough.”

“All right. Daring?” Settling into the corner of the large armchair, she curled her legs underneath her. “Trying to think of something that wouldn’t be too revealing. Oh, I’ve been wanting to get a tattoo.”

“That’s not a euphemism for the dark mark, is it?” Possibly a joke in poor taste, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“What?” She opened her mouth, aghast laughter falling from her full, pink lips. “No.”

He cracked a smile, reveling in the easy teasing. “What would you get?”

“See, that I can’t tell you, but I can tell you where.”

Tipping his chin down, Draco prompted her to share with a look of intrigue.

“Either behind my ear or on the back of my neck. Or maybe on the side of my ribcage.” Her fingertips brushed just below her breast, and his cock twitched, already half-hard after she hinted at a sexual aspiration.

“And you don’t feel like you can get a tattoo because of who you are?”

Her tongue peeked out, lightly grazing her bottom lip as she tilted her head in thought. “I’m not sure if that’s really it. It’s not like I’ll be judged for getting one, just maybe judged for what I want tattooed.”

Draco leaned further forward, his posture a physical embodiment of his eagerness, but he couldn’t help himself. “Well, now I really want to know.”

“I bet you do.” She chuckled. “Your turn, Leo.”

“Very well.” Lips tucked between his teeth, he contemplated. “I would summon the courage to ask a girl from another house out on a date.”

“I thought you believed the unity thing was barmy,” she teased. “Why choose from another house?”

Draco scratched the nape of his neck. “I don’t particularly fancy any of the girls in my house.”

Her blue eyes, filled with rumination, seemed to search for the secrets hidden in his mind. “Do you have a girl in mind?”

He did, but her consent was so beyond the realm of possibility, the idea was no more than a fleeting notion. It wasn’t as though Draco harbored feelings for the formidable witch. More a passing fancy.

“Maybe,” he said.

“So, why don’t you?” She shrugged. Shrugged. Like the concept wasn’t the most daunting suggestion.

Draco exhaled a dry chuckle. “She’d probably slap me or hex me, or laugh, thinking it was a joke.”

And there she went again, holding his stare with a quiet intensity, and yet with a glint of encouragement. “Never know until you try.”

He got the distinct feeling she was trying to confess a deeper truth, but then she blinked and her lips curved into an impish half-smile.

“Now onto a nefarious act. Hmm…trying to pick just one will be a challenge.” She tapped her chin, gaze narrowed on a spot above his head. “Okay, if I could, I’d release a truth serum into the water supply of the ministry to expose its corruption. Or enchant all copies of the Daily Prophet to display secret, but truthful headlines and stories about Ministry scandals.”

His jaw dropped in silent awe for a moment before a sharp, surprised laugh burst from his throat. This witch. “That is quite nefarious. And well thought out. I have a strong sense that this is not the first time you’ve given this matter serious consideration.”

“Maybe a time or two.”

Draco had a definite inkling of her identity, but he forced the thought from his mind, unwilling to be pulled from the present. If he pondered the possibility for too long, he’d get inside his head and ruin the easy conversation.

“If you ever decide to make one of those a reality, I’ll pull up a seat.”

A faint smile, holding a touch of sass spread across her face. “Okay. How about you?”

Clearing his throat, he said, “I think I’ve done enough nefarious things in my life.”

Why couldn’t the polyjuice shut him up when he said things like that? Theo and his fucking modifications. With a confession of that nature, she was guaranteed to eliminate more than half of the seventh and eighth year students.

Would it be so bad if she figured it out? He’d let a few minor exposing things slip, and she was still here. Could that mean she had an idea, but was okay with who he might be?

Maybe he could devise a stupidly nefarious prank like charming Filch’s broom to sweep in the opposite direction or transfigure his pants into a pink tutu.

Before Draco could prattle off something, she said, “Okay, how about something honorable? Doesn’t have to be something you wouldn’t do, just something you’d like to do.”

Oh, Merlin. She couldn’t know he was on a quiet quest for honor, but probably would never achieve the goal.

“I want to create a charity dedicated to helping the children who lost their parents, as well as help the families and victims of the war rebuild their lives and heal from their trauma.”

The warm, encouraging light in her eyes was replaced with a stunned stare. “That’s rather noble.”

“Or a meager attempt to make amends,” Draco mumbled, hoping she didn’t hear him.

She untucked her legs, hands gripping the armrests as she leaned forward with a bright, eager gleam. Her whole body seemed to hum with energy. “So, why don’t you?”

A scoff rose to his lips, but he forced it back, unwilling to be the one to sour her mood. “I fear it would prove to be a hollow gesture, dismissed as a self-serving attempt to cultivate a favorable image rather than an actual genuine endeavor.”

“I would support it.”

So simple. No ulterior motives or quid pro quo. Just a desire to contribute. Draco already had a strong suspicion, but now he was certain she wasn’t in Slytherin. This was some Hufflepuff or Gryffindor shit.

His eyes softened as he ducked his head with subtle gratitude. “Thanks. Maybe someday.”

“Onto the last one,” she said, but her voice was less confident.

Sexual.

Though her brow was smooth and calm, her eyes flickered with an anxious but coy sparkle. A tiny quiver in her closed lips failed to conceal a laugh. One of private amusement? Of nerves?

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.

Was he sure? His cock would tent his joggers if he weren’t leaning forward, concealing the bulge. “Am I a teenage male?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

A soft, perfunctory laugh escaped from Draco’s throat. There was a student or two who’d turned twenty, but he was not one of them. “Touché.”

Her delicate fingers fidgeted in her lap before she tucked them beneath her thighs. “This is going to sound silly, but I’ve always wanted to try dirty talk.”

He knew his words would come out rough, but he resisted the urge to clear his throat for fear of revealing his lack of composure. “Dirty talk?”

“Yeah, you know.” The tension in her shoulders seemed to melt away as she explained, “Every guy I’ve been with has been rather silent, or vocal but in an unintentionally unsexy way.” She chuckled. “I just want to know what it’s like one time to have a man say all the right things at the right moment. And I would love for my words to bring him to his knees.”

Draco was a statue of stunned awe and sweet, sweet tension. A hopeful ache on the verge of wrecking him thrummed in his veins. Not Granger was going to bring him to his knees now.

“Okay. Please.” She patted her cheeks. “Now it’s your turn, so I can stop feeling so embarrassed.”

His head shook. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. That’s really fucking hot, actually.”

Creeping faint crimson stole up her neck and stained her cheeks. “Yes, well, the one time I mentioned wanting my partner to try, he said it was too weird and would ruin the mood. So.”

Absolute idiots. What kind of moron would make a woman feel embarrassed by something she might enjoy in bed?

A resonating current hummed beneath his skin, waiting for her touch to complete the spell. Draco was in a state of half panic, half exhilaration like a caged Erumpent who saw the door left slightly ajar.

“For me it’s sex. Just sex.”

“Sex?” A puzzled wrinkle appeared on the bridge of her pert nose before smoothing with clarity and non-judgment. “Oh, are you saying… Are you a virgin?”

There was no reason for him to be so embarrassed by his admission. She didn’t know who he was, and being a virgin was nothing to be ashamed of. He was aware, but the knowledge did little to stop the sting of mortification. She was obviously experienced if she had multiple partners.

“My reputation would suggest otherwise, but yes. I have not had sex before.” He swallowed hard. “Fooled around a little, but not the typical cock in cunt intercourse.”

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, a subtle shudder passing through her lithe figure. “Is that something you’re saving for someone or…?”

The air grew thicker, an unmistakable tension growing between them. “More like it was something I was expected to save, and then life spiraled into one giant calamity. Haven’t really had the option to…”

He swallowed again. “I haven’t exactly had many interested witches since the war.”

There he said it.

“Understandable.” She quickly amended, “The saving yourself bit and then life getting in the way, I mean. It happens.”

Her fingers, once resting on the chair’s brocade, began to slowly trace patterns on her thighs. The soft fabric of her fleece bottoms begged to be stroked. “You know…we could remedy that, if you’re amenable.”

A sharp intake of air lodged in his throat, and his strangled cough morphed into a raspy chuckle. “If I’m amenable?”

Draco swiped a hand down his face. As if he would be anything less than amenable. He was eager. Enthusiastic, even. Fuck, he was downright desperate for this witch.

“I promise there’s no need for such propriety. We’re just two strangers hiding away in a secret nook.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was trying not to be crass. But if you prefer, do you want to fuck me?”

This time when laughter and breathing collided, he couldn’t make a sound. His fist pounded his chest to regain the function of his lungs.

“You wanted me to do away with manners.” Her eyebrow quirked, a perfect pairing with the coy curve of her lips.

“No, it’s fine. Truly.” Draco swiped a hand over his jaw, fighting back a smile at Not Granger. “I just can’t say I’ve ever been propositioned so blatantly before.”

“I’m a direct sort of woman.”

“I’m realizing that. But what about when polyjuice wears off, and you don’t like who you see?”

Draco had a lot to atone for, more than any other Slytherin. He was acutely aware of his failings, and what he didn’t deserve. And the Gryffindor princess definitely fell into the category of witches he’d never be worthy of.

“Maybe it would be the other way around.” She glanced around the nook, finding the clock on the wall. “We still have an hour until midnight. And I don’t plan on being around when we transform back.”

Then her confidence wavered as she said, “Though, some want their first time to be special. Shagging with anonymity in a hidden room may not fall under that category.”

This witch was serious. She wanted to fuck him right here, right now. Without knowing who he was. Merlin, Morgana, and Salazar. His blood hummed, his cock filling to near painful length.

Draco’s tongue peeked out, swiping his bottom lip. “Or it could be the best first time story. No expectations or assumptions.”

If this was Granger, this was quite possibly the only chance he’d ever get. Not that he was pining after the witch, but he couldn’t lie to himself and say it never crossed his mind. He’d just never let anything develop beyond a fleeting fantasy. There wasn’t a point.

“True.” She scooched her arse to the edge of the chair. “Are you saying you’d like to take me up on my offer?”

He nearly lunged for her, but Draco didn’t want to appear too eager. Even though he was. He really fucking was.

“As long as you’re the forgiving sort.” It took every ounce of strength to keep his voice steady. “I can’t promise a good experience, but I do promise to try.”

“It’s a good thing I love to teach.”

Chapter Text

Draco flushed, and his stomach swooped. There was only one witch in particular he knew loved to lecture, but shit. Was Granger truly this brazen? Of course she was ambitious, but would that transfer to the bedroom, or was it because of the polyjuice? Was it that the potion allowed her the freedom to do and say things she’d never felt she could before?

Not Granger crooked her finger, and he was on his feet with little hesitation, closing the short distance between them.

From her seated position, her head tilted back as she gazed up at him. “If this is your first time, do you mind if we have a warm-up round?”

He gave a look of polite confusion, silently requesting she elaborate. A warm-up round could mean so many things. Was it like a practice session? Foreplay? Only a bit of snogging?

She curled her fingertips at the waist of his joggers, waiting, but if a warm-up round meant freeing his cock, he didn’t care what she wanted to do.

He nodded, and she tugged on the elastic waistband until his bottoms rested below his arse, his black pants still acting as a barrier.

“We can let you come once first to give you a chance to last longer when you’re inside of me.” He couldn’t bite back his low whimper. “Though, honestly, being unable to hold in your release because of me would be unbelievably sexy, so don’t feel ashamed if that happens.”

It might happen before she even has a chance to touch him. Precum dampened his boxer briefs at the head of his cock. He could only nod to acknowledge having heard her. What were words?

And then with deliberate slowness, she slipped his black pants down, his abs flexing from her warm fingers. As if unfurling a present, his cock sprung free, and her gaze widened before heating.

“You said you’ve fooled around. Has anyone ever sucked you off before?”

Draco’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “No.” More words were on the tip of his tongue, yet he bit them back, fearing they would turn into a pathetic whine.

“Has anyone stroked you before?”

He gave a curt nod.

“That’s a helpful starting point.” Her fingers caressed up the underside of his shaft and back down, watching him twitch. “This is a lovely cock, though I can’t help wondering what yours looks like.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Of course, he’d checked this bloke’s dick before leaving his bedroom. And Draco’s was thicker, but not as long. Would she prefer length over girth? His cock was nothing to scoff at, but that didn’t guarantee every woman would be impressed by it. Internally, he smacked himself. What did it matter? She’d never see the real thing anyway.

Her thumb circled the bare tip and his hips thrust forward, her mouth a breath away. The warmth slipping past her lips washed over his length. “Fuck,” he whispered.

And then her warm, wet mouth was on him. A raw groan tore from his throat as he sunk further between her lips, her tongue lapping the underside. The portion she didn’t take was wrapped in her petite palm, holding firm around the base. Oh gods. Fucking hell. This was nirvana. Better than what The Great Beyond could possibly hold.

Not Granger drew back with a light kiss to his head before swallowing him down deeper and deeper. A primal rhythm seized him, his hips no longer under his control as they rocked until she gagged. “Shit. Sorry, sorry.”

Instead of pulling off of him, delicate hands gripped his arse, holding him close as she bobbed her head. Caressing every inch of her mouth, his cock experienced the perfect combination of heat and slick, and his head fell back. This was how he was going to meet his end, and he was all right with that.

Her soft tongue was a level of blissful torture he didn’t know could exist as she swirled and licked. He didn’t think this could get any better, and then her eyes lifted, staring at him below long eyelashes. She moaned. Godsfuckingdammit. He could no longer hold back. His fingers took hold of the roots of the long honey-toned locks he’d wished were wild. With the tips of her fingers pressed into his arse, she encouraged him to thrust against her mouth.

“Fuck, you’re incredible. This is incredible. You’re sucking me so well.” It didn’t even matter that his voice cracked and pitched higher with each bob of her head. “I’m gonna come. Shit.”

Her lips suctioned around him as he tapped the back of her throat, and his legs buckled, sending him falling forward. His hands shot out to brace against the back of the chair.

She tapped his thigh, and he nearly sobbed when his cock left the warmth of her mouth, and his climax receded. “It’s just a little difficult from this angle. Will you kneel on the floor?”

He dropped to his knees, falling back on his haunches. There was no holding himself upright any longer. She slid off the chair, and in the process, tugged down her pajama bottoms, kicking them to the side. Before he could get a good look, she leaned over his pelvis, arse in the air. Fuck. This arse. It was clad in a silky material that barely covered her cheeks. And they belonged to her.

“Ngh.”

Her tongue traced the slit of his cock as his eyes drank in her backside. One of his hands held her hair back as the other stroked down the line of her spine over the velvety material.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, the tease of her bare shoulder intensifying his want. It was just a shoulder. But it wasn’t. It was a glimpse of what awaited him. “This is it. Murder by blowjob.”

The rumble of her laughter vibrated down his length as she captured his tip. The sensation was like any other, and he gave a reflexive, forceful thrust.

“Can I ask—” A groan cut her off, the fullness of his cock stealing her breath as he sank deeper. She lifted off, her back arching with a sensual line, eyes seeking his. “Can I ask you to try something?”

“Anything.” And he meant it. Did she want access to the Malfoy vaults? She could take it all. A marriage contract? Done.

“Will you put a finger in my… my other…” Her hips wiggled on their own accord, as if to guide him in the right direction.

Merlin, was she asking what he thought she was asking?

He let his fingers drift further down the length of her back before tracing the edge of her red knickers. Red. When there was no protest, her mouth finding his cock once again, he slipped beneath the fabric. Guiding his middle finger between the soft swell of her cheeks, he reached the spot he believed she meant.

“Here?” His thumb brushed against her puckered hole, and she tightened.

An intoxicated gasp loosened around him as she breathed, “Yes.”

He cursed, and rubbed his thumb in gentle circles before pressing down, her tight hole giving way, but he didn't push in, just pulsed against the tension. His middle finger slid down the crease, discovering her drenched entrance. Fuck. There was no more staving off his release, but he wanted to know what her throat felt like stuffed full of him before it was too late.

Letting go of her hair, his hand curving down and around, cradling the delicate cords of her neck. And there he was, snug inside of her as she swallowed. That was his undoing.

Trying to remove himself, Draco said, “I’m gonna come. I can’t hold off.” But she latched on, an inescapable hold that offered him no other option but to come in her mouth. His guttural groan reverberated around the small space.

When she drank the last drop, she sat back, using the backs of her fingers to clean his sticky mess. His hand shot out to the floor beside him, a necessary brace to keep from toppling over. A ragged intake of air gave way to his smile of blissful satisfaction.

Breathing in uneven pants, he said, “You’re amazing. Fucking incredible. Highest marks.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes sparkled with a hopeful, mischievous glint. “So, I get an O?”

“If there was a mark above an O, I’d give it to you.”

She grinned, her cheeks flushed.

“Am I allowed a turn?” he asked while still catching his breath and tucked himself back inside his bottoms.

Sitting forward, their gazes locked. Her blue eyes were so unfamiliar, but the depth of them somehow weren’t.

Teeth raking along her swollen, lower lip, she said, “Okay.”

He shuffled closer. “Do you mind if I take my time?”

“Of course.” She blinked. “You need a bit of a refractory period.”

Draco gave a light chuckle. “No, I just meant…” He hooked his fingers at the waist of her knickers, waiting for permission when she lifted her hips. “I want to…” One by one, he helped pull her legs from the flimsy material. “It’s just…” He laughed again, but it was muted, self-deprecating. Why couldn’t he string a single sentence together? “This won’t be the first cunt I’ve touched. Just the first I’ve seen, and I really want to look at yours.”

Pupils dilating further, she nodded.

“Will you lay back?” he asked.

Leaning back on her elbows, Draco settled between her spread legs, one hand on each thigh, and groaned. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“It’s not actually mine.” She chuckled.

“I guarantee yours is prettier.”

She scoffed. “You can’t know that. I’m not as smooth, if that’s your thing. I have a small patch of hair on my mons.”

“Even better.” He was convinced whatever this woman looked like, he’d find it beautiful because the pussy was attached to her. Maya—Not Granger.

His hands glided up her smooth, toned thighs, the tips of his fingers brushing against her pink, puffy lips. “You’re so wet. When I felt you from behind I almost passed out.” His throat bobbed.

“I have been since you called me a clever girl.”

“Salazar.” He stroked his thumb along the slit with reverence, as if she were his first wand, something precious and irreplaceable. Her thighs trembled as he spread her wetness before slipping between her lower lips. “Will you tell me what you like?”

“You’re doing really well so far,” she said, voice quivering. “But I promise to tell you if you do something I don’t like.”

This foreplay was blissful torture he never wanted to end. The anticipation of more was a form of glorious torment on its own.

His index finger pressed inside her, pushing deeper, and she arched off the floor with a sensual whine. “More. Please. I need more.”

Dipping his head lower, his gaze was mere inches from her pussy. As if embarrassed, her legs tried closing, and that would not do. “Let me see you.”

After a beat of hesitation, she visibly softened. His thumbs spread her rosy flesh, and he took in a sharp inhale. The sight before him was exquisite, his cock half hard already. He traced the slick, velvety outline of her, gently grazing the tender, hardened peak.

“Gods.” She fell all the way to her back, her spine curving as the material of her black sweater glided up to bare her stomach.

“Can I taste you?” His teeth scraped along his bottom lip.

“Fuck,” she moaned. “Yes, yes. Please. I need it.”

His tongue swept up the entirety of her, a deliberate, languid exploration. It was a flavor unlike any other. Sweet and musky. Addictive. He dove back in, lapping up her juices as they trickled from her. Her soft moans were enough to fuel him all night.

Pansy and Daphne were vocal, but as a transactional performance, a means to an end. Their acts lacked genuine intimacy. They wanted to get off and so did he, nothing but a mutually beneficial arrangement. Somehow, despite the anonymity, this was different. It felt different. It felt like more.

He added another fingertip to her entrance, rubbing the tight ring as he licked and kissed and sucked. Without any knowledge, Draco was acting on pure instinct, but her body’s uninhibited writhing was all the validation he needed.

“Yes. There. Like that.” Her hips rolled under his ministrations, her breathy gasps ramping him higher. “I’m so close. Don’t stop.”

Not Granger’s fingers tangled in his hair, a firm, possessive pull at the roots. His mouth sealed around her clit with a mindful but unwavering suckle, and he sank two fingers into her, curling in beckoning. This he knew how to do, his fingers confident and unerring to bring her to completion.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh gods.” A raw, beautiful cry broke free, pure, perfect abandon.

He stroked her through it, his lips parted in silent wonder, captivated by her features twisted with pained pleasure.

As the waves of her ecstasy subsided, Draco sat up and had only a heartbeat to prepare before she launched herself into his arms, her mouth finding his in a feverish kiss. They were a hungry, fumbling collision of lips and teeth, a desperate, silent plea for more. Draco held her a little too tight, as if he were trying to anchor himself in the moment. He couldn’t get enough. With a desperate gesture, he pulled her as close as their bodies would allow without being melded, and she leaned into him, a silent act of surrender.

Their kiss was a seeking, frantic torrent of unspoken emotions, punctuated by small, breathless gasps from her lips. Her taste held a passionate sweetness that mingled with hints of saltiness from his cum and the smoky peat of firewhisky, a flavor that seemed to get deeper with every moment.

Her fingers clutched the cotton of his shirt in a tight, tense grip against his chest, hopefully a sign of her own nervous, giddy anticipation. Hand clutched in her hair, cradling the back of her head, he tugged at the hem of her sweater, breaking the kiss to pull it over head.

He was ready to dive back in, only to pause when he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. Fuck.

Dusky nipples begged for his touch. Hand dropping from her head, he palmed one breast, ducking down to take the other in his mouth. His tongue flicked and swirled, and Not Granger keened. Both hands sunk into his hair, holding him in place.

“Gods mother fucking Circe,” she whined. “Yes.”

Salazar, the mouth on her. He’d never heard Granger utter a single curse in his life. A sharp pang struck his chest at the thought of being wrong, at the thought of this being anyone else.

“Not enough,” she mumbled. “Are you ready? I need you.”

He prayed he could last. He was so fucking worked up, his cock weeping. But if he never got a chance to know what this witch felt like, he’d die with an unfulfilled life.

Standing, she spun, bending over, and resting her hands on the chair he’d vacated. With a peek at him over her shoulder, he lined his hips up with her backside, taking hold of her soft curves.

“I feel like I need to preemptively apologize.”

“You don’t. You really don’t. Please.” She reached between her legs, fingers wrapping around his length to help guide him to the right spot.

Blinding pleasure shot through him as his cock glided through her wetness. Gods, her mouth was paradise, but her cunt was transcendent, and he wasn’t even fully inside of her yet.

“I’m not going to last. Fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“It’s okay. Just fuck me. I need you inside of me now. Please,” she keened.

And then she sank back, and he pushed inside. Black spread across his vision, his mind on the verge of passing out.

He did it. He whimpered. And not with a raw, masculine quality. His whimper was desperate and pathetic and an octave higher than his speaking voice. But if it meant being able to sink into this witch every day, he’d be so pathetic for this woman.

“Please move. Fuck, please move.”

He’d lost all track of time, absorbed in the exquisite sensation of her cunt, but obeyed. Withdrawing and sinking back in, she moaned, and he did it again.

“Harder.”

Shit. He really wouldn’t make it then, but whatever she wanted, he’d give her. So, he set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against her arse with each buried thrust.

His thighs burned and trembled. And as her tight hole winked at him, he moved a hand from her hip to the curve of her arse, pressing his thumb where she’d wanted him before.

She released a high-pitched cry as he added pressure, her cunt clenching tighter around him. “Yes!”

His legs threatened to collapse, but he used her as a support. The combination of her arsehole gripping his thumb and her pussy clutching his cock, he was a ruined man. Draco wanted her closer, pressed against him to savor every inch of her. So, he bent, looping an arm around her waist and drawing her up, so they stood, bodies flush.

She let out a sharp moan, and he trailed his hand up her torso, squeezing one breast before curving his hand around her throat. The possessive grasp elevated his senses. Head thrown against his shoulder, her tits bounced with each thrust. Yes, this was a beautiful angle. Pert nipples on display, arse cradled against his pelvis, cock buried to the hilt. He craved to claim every aspect of her.

“I’m close. Oh, gods I’m so close.”

Draco had a glimpse of her when he was between her legs, but he wanted the full experience this time.

Slipping from Not Granger, she whined in disappointment before he turned her around. “I wanna see your face.”

Lowering her to the carpet, he followed her, hovering above as he reached between them and pumped his length before lining back up with her. Her hips rolled, sucking him inside, and Draco fell to his elbows.

She lifted her head and captured his mouth. This kiss was a breathless, wild, and utterly exquisite thing, a silent, chaotic symphony of feeling. It was so different kissing her while deep inside of her. She tasted of his own want, an intense silent, and perfect echo of his desire. Her tongue was a soft, searching pressure against his. She let out a small, breathless gasp, a sound that was both a confession and a plea.

And then a ripple tore through him. “Shit, not yet,” he pleaded. “Not yet.”

Draco swiftly flew back, withdrawing from her, as his body reformed in a chaotic stretch of muscle and bone. A throbbing ache gnawed through his limbs until he was fully transformed back into his own body.

He blinked, disoriented and breathless. When his vision cleared and the fog of his brain dissipated, a small gasp sprang from below him.

“Malfoy?” There was no aversion or even surprise in her brown eyes, only a quiet, beautiful relief. The polyjuice had worn off on her, too, and she lay exposed and exquisite. And thank Salazar, she made no move to escape him.

“Fuck, Granger. I wanted it to be you.”

***

Still recovering from the potion’s effects, his words took a moment to sink in. She was grappling with the revelation that all along she’d been with Malfoy. She’d really been fucking Draco Malfoy.

I wanted it to be you.

Her lips parted in a gasp of genuine disbelief. It was a mercy she was already prone because a dizzying sensation, as if the floor had vanished, left her head spinning. He wanted her? An almost imperceptible tremor ran through her body as a slow-burning ember bloomed in her chest and spread into a full-body flush, a blush that had nothing to do with the sex they’d been having.

The night replayed through her mind in a rapid montage. His earnest confessions and vulnerability. The missing sneers and scoffs.

Sodding Theodore Nott had accomplished exactly what both Blaise and Malfoy had said was the purpose for the evening. Freedom to be authentic without prejudice and a scheme to bed someone who wouldn’t normally be an option.

A small, involuntary smile formed on her lips as a surge of confidence came with a heady feeling of being seen and chosen. Godric, she’d wanted it to be Malfoy, too. She couldn’t explain it. The more they talked, the less she’d pictured anyone else.

His pale skin was tinged pink, from his cheeks down his chest. “Granger?” His voice held a vulnerable tenor.

“Sorry. I’m trying to process.”

Malfoy gave a faint nod, easing off of Hermione, but she grabbed his hand.

“Where are you going?”

“I just thought…”

She sat up, and his cock slapped against her stomach. He hissed.

“I was processing that you wanted it to be me. Not that you’re you.” Hermione skated her palm up his bicep, curving her fingers around the side of his neck. “I’m very much okay that Leo turned out to be you.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded, raising her chin, and he dipped down, brushing their noses.

Guiding her onto the carpet, his length slotted between her thighs, and he rocked his hips. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” Hermione rotated her hips so she could feel more of him, and the head slid through her slick, nudging her clit. “Gods yes.”

“Being able to see your face,” he murmured, “I will not last, Granger.” He traced the line of her jaw with a tender touch. “It’s a miracle I haven’t come yet, but seeing you, all of you?” His throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“And I don’t know why you don’t believe me. It’s okay.” With a deliberate undulation of her hips, she sought the friction that would drive her closer to bliss. “It’s incredibly flattering that you think being inside of me will cause you to instantly lose it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” A faint groan escaped Malfoy as she ground against him. “You’re brilliant and so pretty. You’re Hermione fucking Granger.”

Her breathing hitched.

“What. What did I say? Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard you call me Hermione before.”

He hadn’t. Not even in her own head when she ran through their various daily interactions. She was always Granger, and he was always Malfoy.

“Did you like it?”

She nodded, small but rapid.

His hips moved in a steady rhythm against her. “Can I fuck you, Hermione?”

She didn’t respond with words, yanking him in and latching her mouth to his. Chasing his tongue, they molded and twined, a seamless fit. The kiss was a beautiful contradiction, a mix of desperate, chaotic energy and a soft, gentle cadence.

Soft groans muffled against her mouth as Malfoy inched in. The sensation of being fucking by Draco Malfoy was an entirely different now that she way in her own skin. There was a raw intimacy forming between them. Meeting resistance, he pulled back before reentering her.

“You’re so fucking tight.” His neck muscles strained with another hard swallow. “Tighter than before.”

He eased out, and Hermione angled her hips to draw him in all the way. Their moans weaved and resonated around the room, low with high, a primal harmony.

“You’re so perfect. I can’t believe I’m inside you.” Malfoy’s jaw unlocked, his arms trembling, holding his weight above her.

“Oh.” She gasped out a hitched moan, being stretched so fully. So full. Of Malfoy. “You feel so good.”

Volcanic eyes seared into hers, and he groaned. “You can’t say shit like that.”

“Would you rather I lie?”

Huffing a breath, he said, “Absolutely not.”

Malfoy kissed her, hard. One hand on the floor, the other cradling the side of her neck. Her whole body shuddered with his slow pace.

“Talk to me, darling,” he whispered against her mouth. “I want you to come again. Tell me what you need.”

Hermione scratched up his back, raking a hand through his hair, and taking hold of the roots. “I need…Draco, I need more.”

“Fuck. Say—” He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes with another deep thrust. “Say my name again.”

“Draco, fuck me harder.” She clenched every inch of his cock, canting her hips, desperate for more.

“Merlin. Once I start I’ll come. I’m not ready,” he said as he kept his lips brushing hers. “I want you to feel good. I need this to last longer. I need more time with—”

She gripped his arse, driving him deeper. “Draco, I really feel so good. Please.”

“Gods, Hermione. I want to see you before I lose it. Let me see you.”

He propped up, leaning back and giving himself the space to fully admire her body. His hot gaze traveled from the top of her head to where their bodies were joined. A slow, admiring journey as he drank in the sight of her entire form.

“You’re not real.” Lips slightly parted, Draco watched himself, glistening with her wetness, slowly slide out and back into her. And again. "And I want right. This pussy is perfect. So Pretty."

Oh. That was… Her cunt pulsed, tightening. Hermione knew she’d like that. “You’re right. That’s unfair.”

“And you’re bloody flawless. These tits.” He cupped the fullness of her, pinching the tip of her breast, and she gasped. Bending down, he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking and lapping. And then he gave the other the same treatment before burying his face between them.

“I’ll never get enough of these tits.” He kissed the swell of one, and then the other. “I don’t want to live without them. Don’t make me live without them.”

She was on fire, clenched in a tight coil and writhing, trying to fuck herself on him. Spreading wider, Hermione hooked her ankles beneath his arse, and used the strength of her legs to envelope him deeper. She would wear Draco down until he gave in to her.

“Shit, fuck, gods.” A throaty sigh fanned across her chest. “Where should I come? I’ll need to pull out soon.”

“Inside.” She gasped. “Inside me. I’m on a muggle contraceptive.”

A low, indistinct curse broke free from his lips, his head bowing on a gravelly moan. “I’ll never want anyone else, Hermione. You’ve ruined me.”

And him her. How would she ever be able to be with another man? Draco dismantled every idea of what she believed she wanted and forged those fragments into an undeniable reality.

“Come on me, witch.” His hand slipped between them, seeking her clit and rubbing with the V of his fingers. “Please. I’m too close. I’m—” His brow pinched, desperation drowning out the gray of his eyes. “Wait. Fuck.”

The instant she tightened around him, he lost it. They clawed and gasped and let go together. His words and touch and stripped-bare expression on his face was her undoing.

When they came down, her fingers, once a tight clasp, now began to slowly run through his hair. A soft, delicate exploration.

“Salazar. How am I supposed to return to real life after that?” Draco rolled to his back, catching his breath, and tugged her with him to curl against his side, cradled in his arm. Nuzzling her wild hair, he caressed her arm.

Hermione giggled. “You know…I think I knew it was you the moment I saw you leaned against the wall, refusing to play Quidditch Pong. Who was trying to coax you into playing?”

Draco exhaled a sated laugh. “Blaise.”

“Do you know who my auburn curly-haired partner was?”

He hummed a no.

“At what point did you suspect it was me?”

Reaching over, he took hold of her waist, drawing her further onto him. “I had hope from the moment you scored and did that cute little happy dance, but it wasn’t until you told me that calling you a clever girl turned you on. I knew only the swottiest of our age would crumble under a praise kink.”

She swotted his bare chest as he chuckled.

“You have to tell me what tattoo you want.”

“Oh, my.” Hermione turned her face into his chest. “Okay. Don’t read too much into it, but I want a dragon. Nothing super elaborate or grand. Just a small, simple design.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Draco’s tone was laced in teasing.

“How did you know?” She poked him in the ribs, and he shied away. “No. When we broke out of Gringotts on the Ukrainian Ironbelly it was sort of a powerful act of rebellion. And I always want to be reminded to fight for injustice and freedom, to defy authority when it’s necessary.”

“Granger, you don’t need a tattoo to be reminded of who you are, but I still think you should get it.”

“Why? Because people will think I got it as a symbol for you?” She smirked.

He laughed. “My ego may be massive, but even I know the Golden Girl isn’t going to immortalize her secret crush on me.”

“Who said anything about a secret crush?” Hermione playfully pinched his waist, and Draco snatched her hand, intertwining their fingers over his taut torso.

“Enough of that,” he said through laughter. “We both know I’m the one with the secret crush.”

“Maybe you’re not the only one.”

Draco cinched her tighter against him, brushing his lips across her forehead.

“I don’t know,” she said. “The tattoo is a rather bold choice. Some might view it as an aggressive statement or as a symbol for the darker side of magic.”

“Merlin, Hermione. No, they aren’t.” He scoffed in amusement. “Or you can not care about what the rest of the wizarding world thinks, and do whatever the hell you you want.”

Who knew Draco Malfoy would be the voice of reason? “Yeah, I’m beginning to realize that.”

“So, why Maya?”

“Oh.” Hermione let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Before Hogwarts, I wanted to fit in more, be normal, and Hermione wasn’t exactly a common name. Kids never said it right or purposefully said it wrong to tease me. So, I tried getting people to call me Maya as a nickname.”

Draco’s finger hooked beneath her chin, tilting her head to meet his eyes. “And then you got your letter to Hogwarts and knew you were never meant to be normal.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes brightened, smiling at him. “And Leo. I’m assuming for the lion constellation.”

The corner of his mouth twitched with humor. “Yeah, I’d already had the name picked out to throw people off.”

“So, not because of Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Who?” Forehead furrowed, he asked, “Don’t you mean Davinci?”

Hermione’s head fell back with a full-bodied laugh. “Nevermind.” She kissed him.

Emerging from the hidden nook, they found the party a complete jumble, with everyone mixed in a chaotic and unexpected way. Pansy was perched on Harry’s lap in one of the large wingback chairs, combing her fingers through his messy hair. Daphne was snuggled under Ron’s arm on the loveseat, drawing circles on his chest. Theo was snogging Neville behind the alcohol counter, and they most definitely were going to need a private room soon. And Blaise had Ginny pinned against the wall by the fireplace, her legs hooked around his waist.

Draco draped his arm over Hermione’s shoulder, and she loved how perfectly they matched. “Told you Pansy wanted to shag Potter.”

“I thought that was a hypothetical pairing.” She couldn’t pick her mouth up off the floor. “I didn’t even know Neville was gay.”

“I don’t think he did either,” Draco murmured against the shell of her ear and chuckled.

A sense of awe settled over Hermione, realizing that this joyful, mingled chaos was the victory they had fought for.

Turning in his arm, Hermione peered up at him. “My room or yours?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere, Granger, if you let me.”