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Chapter Text

“I mean really, it’s the biggest ‘fuck you’ I can think of.” Pansy said, leaning into the cafe table conspiratorially, her black bob swishing around her chin. 

Hermione really hated it when her friend got this air of mischief about her. Generally it meant that she was about to be dragged into a situation that could only end poorly. Like when Pansy insisted on playing truth or dare at Hermione’s hen do but had surreptitiously dosed all the drinks with veritaserum and got her to admit that she wasn’t really sure she wanted to marry Ron. She’d had an absolute field day with that revelation, she tried to call the wedding off on Hermione’s behalf. And now, given her current circumstances she probably should’ve let her.  

“Let me get this straight, Pans—you’re suggesting I do a cover spread for Witch Weekly to ‘get my groove back’? What the hell does that even mean?” Hermione asked exasperatedly. 

Pansy rolled her dark eyes. “Granger, are you being purposefully obtuse?” She pointed an accusatory red stiletto nail in her direction. “You know exactly what I mean.” 

Hermione grumbled petulantly, “I didn’t realize I had a groove to begin with never mind to lose.” 

“I’ve been telling you how stunning you are for nearly a decade you would think it would’ve stuck by now. And your body is incredible, hidden under all of those frumpy knits.” 

This was a conversation they had had many times over the years. Pansy had been dying to work her sartorial magic on Hermione. 

She scowled, “I like my knits, thank you. And besides Ron was always uncomfortable when I wore something even the least bit risqué.”

“And that’s exactly my point! Screw Weasley, he kept you locked up in a little box of his own making, dressed you like an octogenarian just in case any other man looked your way—“

Hermione made to interrupt but Pansy was on a roll now.

“—meanwhile he was out sticking his wick in anything that moved. You are a star, Hermione and he dimmed your light for long enough.”

Hermione let her friend's words sink in as Pansy caught her breath. 

“You’re right, Pansy.” She admitted quietly.

Pansy’s sharp eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Oh don’t look so surprised, I let you be right sometimes.” Hermione sniped.

Pansy pantomimed counting on her fingers. “I can count on one hand how many times you’ve told me I was right in the last decade.”

She tapped on the table dramatically and called out, “Garçon, a bottle of your finest champagne, we must mark this historic occasion!”

Hermione grabbed Pansy’s hand trying to subdue her melodramatic friend. 

“Will you stop it, you absolute menace!” She hissed. 

Pansy swatted at her and it resulted in the two grown women slapping at each other across the table until an unenthused waiter set a champagne bucket on the table with a resounding clunk. 

Hermione smiled sheepishly as the man uncorked the champagne and poured each of them a glass. 

Pansy smiled coquettishly, “Merci. We’re celebrating my dear friend’s emancipation from her shit head husband.” She gestured at Hermione whose cheeks had begun to flame. 

The waiter gave an acknowledging grunt and stalked away. 

“Well he won’t be getting a tip.” Pansy said, flicking her hair away from her face.  

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know where to start with this stuff, Pansy. I was never one for clothes and makeup in school and then with Ron, it was always about what he wanted.” 

She stared at her champagne glass, twisting the stem in her fingers. She hated feeling out of her depth about anything. But this was an area in which she had little experience. Hermione’s approach to her appearance had always been utilitarian, whatever got the job done and got her taken seriously. 

Of course there was the odd occasion she made a public appearance. A Ministry function consulting for the Department of International Magical Cooperation or to Quidditch banquets with Ron—as he was captain of the Chudley Cannons. 

But even then she had always chosen something tasteful and admittedly…safe? Had she admired the way the women around her were so comfortable in their own skin? The plunging necklines and backless creations they chose? Absolutely. But Hermione had scars, ones she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be brave enough to share with the world.

And of course she knew it would’ve just led to an argument with Ron anyway.

Are you sure you want to wear that? You know what the other men will be thinking if you show up in that? Is there someone else you’re dressing for? And on and on until Hermione slept on the couch just to get a reprieve.

In the end, it had all just been a projection of his own misdeeds. 

“Well let this be a stepping stone then, darling. We’ll do this photoshoot, I’ll style you—with your input of course.” Pansy added at the panicked expression on her face. “And we can show the world that some ginger fuck isn’t going to the keep the great Hermione Granger down.” 

Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Let me think about it alright?” 

“Of course, darling. Take all the time you need. In the meantime—“ Pansy raised her glass to toast. “—I sincerely want to celebrate you, Grangey. It’s only up from here.” 

Hermione offered her friend a small smile and clinked their glasses together. 

***

It only took Hermione until the next day—exactly 3 months after her divorce was finalized—upon the receipt of the morning edition of the Daily Prophet announcing Ron’s engagement to an obviously pregnant Romilda Vane for her to accept Pansy’s offer.

She sent her tawny owl, Hecuba with a hastily scribbled note:

Let’s get my fucking groove back.

-H 

***

Hermione woke to a cheerless drizzle on the day of the photo shoot. It did nothing to sway the stone sitting in her stomach. She had been all spit and vinegar when she had written to Pansy, incensed by the article portraying Ron and Romilda’s affair as a love for the ages.

“I’m finally getting the family I’ve always wanted.” Mr. Weasley’s eyes glitter with unshed tears as he softly cradles his fiancées fecund abdomen. 

His words had stung more than she wanted to admit and Rita Skeeter’s added prose had turned her stomach. Did she want a family? Absolutely, but something about having children with Ron had always given her pause. Another bit of intuition she had stubbornly ignored. 

She shuffled to the shower, assessing the basket of skin and body products that Pansy had thrust at her the day before. Insisting she follow her strict instructions so that she was prepped before whatever Pansy had planned for her at the shoot location.

She eyed the scroll’s worth of instructions in the basket and tried to look at it from an academic standpoint. She was excellent at following instructions, even ones as absurdly convoluted as these—why on earth would she need to perform a hair removal charm on her nether regions for this photo shoot?

Hermione grimaced and cracked on with it. 

An hour later and what felt like a stone lighter in body hair, she grabbed a piece of toast and headed for the floo. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung in her sitting room, and had to admit that whatever sorcery Pansy peddled in, it worked. Her skin was glowing, her hair sat in glossy ringlets and she had a certain confidence in her posture that she hadn’t seen in quite some time. She wondered vaguely if Pansy had slipped some calming draught in the creams. 

She smiled wistfully at her reflection and stepped into the flames. 

*** 

Hermione’s first thought when she landed was confusion. She was in some sort of grand receiving hall, lined with half a dozen floos. She stepped out hesitantly onto the marble floor, casting glances up and down the empty space. 

“Hello?” She called out, only receiving her echo in reply. 

Distantly she heard the clack of heels moving closer. By the sure gait of the footfalls, she knew it was Pansy.

“Pans?” She called out, trying to see around the columns that lined the hall. 

“Grangey, darling you’re here!” She heard Pansy squeal before she came into view, dressed in a pair of crisp black trousers and a cream silk button down blouse. 

She gripped Hermione’s shoulders and pulled her in for an embrace, placing a kiss on her cheek. She pulled back to evaluate how well Hermione had followed her instructions that morning. Her eyes narrowed on the old Chudley Cannons jersey she had thrown on—a relic of her failed relationship. 

“Really, darling?” Her face pinched in disgust. With a flick of her wand the jersey billowed then resettled into one featuring the crest of the Falmouth Falcons against a grey fabric. 

“There that’s better, much more fitting for today.” She said running her hands down Hermione’s arms.

“Why would this be better?” Hermione asked, narrowing her eyes. What did Pansy care about which Quidditch team her jersey was, she was just going to change her out of it anyway. This reeked of Pansy’s usual mischief. 

“All in good time my dear.” She said, swiftly turning—nearly smacking her with her bob—them strutting back up the hall as if it were a runway. 

Hermione remained rooted to the spot.

“Come on, Grangey do keep up!” Pansy called and Hermione’s body stuttered to life, stumbling over her feet to catch up.

When she finally caught up to Pansy, they were in what seemed to be a statuary hall. Dozens of busts and sculptures curated the space, illuminated by streams of natural morning light pouring in through the diamond paned windows that lined either side of the room. In the center, Pansy had set up her makeshift dressing room. There were racks of clothes, a mirror, makeup station and a buffet table full of various foods under a stasis charm. Several of Pansy’s assistants scurried about, testing lighting equipment and organizing the clothes and accessories.

Hermione immediately felt overwhelmed. A cuppa was being shoved into her clammy hands. She was vaguely aware that it was Pansy doing the shoving. 

“Chamomile, darling. For your nerves.” She said, giving a sympathetic tilt of her head.

Hermione brought the mug to her lips and took a sip, letting the sweet floral scent wash through her. 

Pansy floated the tea to the dressing table then herded her to a partitioned area where a fluffy white robe was waiting for her and commanded her to strip. The robe was charmed to stay warm which Hermione was grateful for, the seemingly ancient estate they were currently in was beautiful but drafty. 

“Pans, whose house did you say this was again?” Hermione asked, coming out of the partition and settling in the chair in front of the dressing table. She realized Pansy had just given her the name of the estate—Haynes Park— in order to floo over. 

She studied Pansy in the reflection of the lighted vanity mirror as she fiddled with Hermione’s hair. 

“Oh well you know—just a friend.” Pansy prevaricated.

She avoided making eye contact with Hermione in the mirror, focusing on mindlessly running her fingers through her curls. 

“Pans?” Her robe was suddenly becoming stifling. “Whose house is this Pans?” She demanded. 

Hermione turned around in her seat, forcing Pansy to look down at her.  Pansy shrugged, her mouth opening and closing again like a beached fish. 

“It’s my home, Granger.” Hermione watched Pansy wince at the sound of the baritone voice coming from behind her. Hermione craned her neck around her friend and couldn’t contain her gasp at the sight of the man entering the hall, resembling the statues around him as if he had also been carved painstakingly from rare stone.

“Malfoy?!” 

“I’m afraid so, Granger.” Malfoy drawled as he sauntered into the hall. He wore a pair of grey sweatpants, slung low on his hips and a black Falmouth Falcons sweatshirt. His hair was mussed, as if he had just woken up and he carried a steaming mug of what Hermione could smell was coffee. There was something so delightfully forbidden about seeing Malfoy in this state of dishabille. In recent memory, she had only ever seen him dressed to the nines at various Quidditch gatherings, the last of which had been a Christmas celebration thrown by the International Quidditch Federation several months prior. 

Oh how she and Ron had rowed after that. Hermione had had one innocent conversation with Malfoy at the bar when Ron had been god knows where—probably schtupping Romilda in the loo—the last thing she had seen was Malfoy’s dark expression as he watched her husband drag her through the floo. 

Hermione and Malfoy had become cordial since the war—Something that her husband could not abide. He had apologized to her several years prior, when Ron had become Captain of the Cannons. She found him to be entirely sincere and every interaction they had from that point had been pleasant. She found him to be friendly, bordering on flirtatious at times—but surely that was just his personality, curated by his pureblood upbringing. She eventually found herself looking forward to matches between his and Ron’s teams, on the off chance she would run into him. 

But that was entirely different from being sat in his home, in nothing but a bathrobe, sipping tea from his fine china. 

Hermione struggled to form words as Pansy greeted Draco, kissing him on both cheeks. 

“Hello Draco, darling. I was hoping to warm her up to the idea a bit more before you made an appearance.” She heard her friend quietly chastise. 

Hermione suddenly found her voice. “Pansy Amaryllis Parkinson if you don’t tell me what’s going on right this second, I’m going to walk back through that floo and disconnect it.” 

Hermione didn’t miss the little amused smirk that crossed Malfoy’s face. But she pointedly ignored the resulting flutter in her stomach .

Pansy came to stand in front of her, taking her hands and rubbing soothing circles across her knuckles. 

“Well, Granger—I had one of my little devious ideas. But I knew I would never get you here if I told you about it too far in advance.” She squeezed her hands. 

“For the love of Merlin just tell her, Pans. She’s a big girl, she can handle it.” Malfoy said, coming around Hermione’s other side to stand before her. She could now recognize the sleep that still colored his voice. It added a roughness to his usual smooth timber that made her imagine wicked things.  

Hermione looked up into his grey eyes, but found that they were currently occupied—running over her form, from her curls to her slippered feet. Lingering briefly on her exposed collar bone. She felt herself flush under his assessing gaze. 

“I thought it would be the most delicious idea if you had some co-stars for the shoot. And I could think of no one better than the star players of the Falmouth Falcons. I barely even had to ask, they were practically falling over themselves to be your accessories for the shoot.” Pansy said smugly. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but Hermione’s lingered on the way his cheeks slightly pinkened. 

The Cannons and Falcons’ rivalry was legendary in the Quidditch world. Fighting often broke out between the players as well as the fans. Once Ron was even suspended for a match for stealing one of his beater’s bats and lobbing the bludger directly at Malfoy’s head. She knew Ron would be apoplectic if she posed on the cover of the wizarding world’s most popular magazine with his self-proclaimed arch nemesis. 

Hermione looked back to Malfoy. “I don’t want to cause any trouble for you, Malfoy. Ron already has it out for you as it is.” 

Malfoy’s gaze hardened. “I can assure you, Granger, I can handle anything the Weasel throws at me. Besides, I can’t think of a more noble pursuit than helping you get revenge on your twat of an ex.” 

Ah, so Malfoy was just doing this to get at Ron. That made perfect sense, so why did she feel a twinge of disappointment? 

Malfoy seemed to sense her change in disposition. 

“And I would be doing it for the entirely selfish reason of getting to spend time with the most beautiful woman in the wizarding world.” 

Hermione snorted in disbelief, and Malfoy raised his eyebrows at the sound.

”What—did I say something amusing, Granger?” He asked, nonplussed. 

“No, sorry—it’s just I’ve seen the menagerie of models that makes up your dating pool, Malfoy. You can’t be serious.” 

Every leggy blonde this side of the Atlantic seemed to have at least made an appearance on Malfoy’s arm over the years. The tabloids never missed a chance to speculate over which would become the next Lady Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s jaw tightened and he sat his coffee next to her tea behind him. He leaned in to where Hermione could smell the clean scent of his aftershave. Her heart thrummed in her chest, she suddenly realized that Pansy no longer had her by the hands and was instead whispering instructions to one of her assistants a few feet away. When did that happen? In such close proximity to Malfoy she seemed to have lost all spatial awareness. 

His hand came to rest on the arm of her chair, his thumb ghosting her robe. 

“None of those witches could hold a candle to you” His voice resonated in her chest, low and insistent. His eyes skewered her beneath his dark brows, daring her to try and argue with him. 

Hermione could barely meet the intensity of his gaze and looked down to her hands clasped in her lap. 

“Look at me, Granger.” Malfoy nearly whispered. Hermione found herself obeying his command with embarrassing ease. 

When she looked back at him, his eyes had softened. 

“You’re Hermione bloody Granger. Brightest witch of her age, war heroine, the top diplomatic mind of this generation. That asshat, Weasley never deserved you. I watched him try to hide you in the shadows for years—but I always saw you, Granger. I want you to see what I see when I look at you, will you let me help you do that?” 

She nodded mutely, overwhelmed by his words. She felt like her mind wasn’t her own, fuzzy around the edges. 

“Good girl.” He said before leaning away, granting her a satisfied smile. 

Suddenly Pansy was back. “So, everything settled?” 

Hermione tossed her a stormy glare, “I’m still upset with you Parkinson.” 

“And that will be my cross to bear.” Pansy said cheerily. “I’m sure all will be forgiven when you see the finished product.” 

There was a commotion outside of the door that led back out of the hall. 

“Ah, that will be Blaise and Theo.” Pansy said, clapping her hands together.

”My other co-stars?” Hermione surmised. Star keeper and chaser for the Falcons, respectively. 

“I'll head them off.” Malfoy offered gallantly, he turned to Pansy. “We’ll stay out of your hair until you need us.” He picked up his coffee, as well as Hermione’s tea and offered it to her. She took it from his hands, her fingers brushing his. 

“Remember what I said, Granger, hmm?” And with that he departed the hall, as if he hadn’t just rearranged her, arse over tits.

Pansy opened her makeup case and began pulling out various palettes and potions, as her hair-artist, Georgio—who Hermione knew from various nights out— began charming her hair into soft waves. 

“Pansy, what the fuck just happened?” Hermione demanded, still dazed from the interaction. 

“Oh you mean Draco?” Pansy asked innocently.

”Now who’s being obtuse? Yes, Draco.” She spat. “Since when has even ever spared me a thought?” 

Pansy worked a clear potion onto Hermione’s face and she watched in the mirror as her complexion completely evened out, leaving just a hint of her natural freckles. 

“Well I suppose since we were kids probably. He was always blathering on about you—obviously then it was less than complimentary, but you really seemed to take up a lot of space in that giant head of his.” 

Hermione’s mind was reeling back to their Hogwarts years, when dealing with Malfoy had been like being on the unfavorable end of a blast ended skrewt. 

“And then, you know you testified at his trial and then accepted his apology—I’d never seen him so relieved. And he was always asking me if you were going to be accompanying Weasley to whatever Quidditch event was happening, the matches and banquets. So it seems he’s been thinking quite a bit about you.” Pansy shrugged as if it was the most reasonable statement in the world.

Hermione was flabbergasted. “Are you saying he has—some sort of crush on me?”

”Oh no, Draco doesn’t do crushes.” Pansy said dismissively, holding a lethal contraption to Hermione’s lashes and clamping down on them as her eyes watered. 

“What does he do?” Hermione asked cautiously. 

“Single minded devotion is more his thing.” Pansy answered casually as her heart stuttered. 

“And is that something—something he wants with me?” Hermione struggled to form the thought. 

Pansy took pity on her, pulling back and looking squarely down at her. 

“I’ll speak it plainly, Granger since I know you’re absolutely brilliant but an idiot when it comes to men.” Hermione made an offended noise. “Sorry, darling but it’s true—Draco has had his eye on you for a very long time. He kept himself at a distance because of your history and because you were a married woman. But now that you are uncoupled, as it were, if you give him even the slightest green light, he will not hesitate to court the ever loving shit out of you. Got it?” 

Hermione let out a small whimper. 

”I’m not trying to warn you off, darling, just know that being with Draco is an intimacy one does not recover from. He doesn’t do anything by halves, I think he would very easily fall in love with you—and who could blame him, you’re exquisite.” She said cupping her cheek. “You are both very dear to me, so I will caution you to be very sure before you indulge him.” 

Indulge him? Hermione had barely caught her breath since he had walked into the room. If she was honest with herself, she had always found that Malfoy seemed to have his own gravitational pull. Even in school, she found herself watching him even when she knew she shouldn’t. And then he would say something vile and the spell would be broken. But sometimes, when they were in the same room, it seemed like he was the only person who truly noticed her. Maybe Ron had been right to be wary of letting Hermione be around him, maybe he saw what she hadn’t—Malfoy waiting in the wings. 

She swallowed thickly. How was she ever going to get through this photo shoot? 

“Pansy, do you have any calming draught?” She asked pathetically.

”Already in the tea, darling, drink up.” 

Chapter Text

What felt like a lifetime later, Hermione was being cinched into a black velvet, corseted gown that gathered at the bodice, accentuating her curves in what she thought was a rather attractive way. The sweetheart neckline covered just enough that only the tip of the aubergine scar she still carried from her encounter with Antonio Dolohov in the department of mysteries peeked out above the bodice. 

The word carved into her forearm was another beast entirely, there was no hiding it and she refused to glamour it.  It was no longer as red and angry as it had once been. Now just a collection of raised white letters. She didn’t let her eyes linger on it. 

She would give Pansy credit for sticking to her word and allowing her to approve all of the looks for the shoot. She looked at herself in the floor length mirror of the partitioned space, her jaw dropping at her reflection. Her counterpart stood before her, chestnut waves coiffed in a way that resembled the old Hollywood starlets her mother had shown her growing up. A bonafied Hedy Lamar—who Hermione had always admired as the co-inventor of the radio guidance system for Allied torpedo systems in World War II. Pansy had not gone overboard with her makeup either, but rather accentuated everything that she already loved about her face. A subtle burgundy liner made the amber facets of her brown eyes pop. Whatever contouring she had done accentuated her bone structure but didn’t alter it. She found she couldn’t help the wide grin that broke across her face. 

Pansy squealed in delight, “See what happens when you trust me, darling?” she came up behind her, settling her chin in the crook of her shoulder, wrapping her arms around her, “You look like magic.”

She gave a great squeeze as Hermione gasped, her breathing already constricted enough by the dress. Pansy released her, clapping her hands with finality. 

“Alright, let’s see how the boys are getting on and we can get this show on the road.” 

Upon leaving the partitioned area, she saw Malfoy, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott near a rack of suits that she hadn’t noticed before. They were all in various states of undress, with Hermione’s eyes zeroing in on Malfoy like a heat seeking missile. He was deftly maneuvering the cufflinks on his dress shirt which hung completely open, exposing his rippling abdomen to the room. Her eyes roved to where his skin disappeared in a V shape beneath the waistband of his trousers. Seekers must be built differently, because Ron didn’t look like that under his clothes. 

She was drawn back to reality by a wolf whistle coming from Nott, whose face then broke into a dimpled grin. 

“Damn, Granger, leave some sex appeal for the rest of us won’t you?” he hooted amiably. 

The sound had drawn Malfoy’s attention, whose fingers stilled completely at his wrist. His eyes raked over her and she could feel them like a caress across her skin, catching slightly on her forearm. Her breath hitched briefly in her throat.  

She was blessedly distracted as Zabini came into her line of sight, gently taking her hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles

“Don’t mind these buffoons, Granger, you look breathtaking as always,” which was rich coming from Zabini given the fact that he looked like he had been carved from obsidian by Michelangelo himself. 

But the way all three of these men were looking at her made her believe it might be true. 

“Alright, gentleman, pick your jaws up off the floor and finish dressing— we have work to do!” Pansy nearly shouted, although she did look quite pleased with herself. 

Malfoy quietly finished dressing as Pansy saw to the final touches on Hermione. She felt his gaze on her the entire time, lingering as they made their way to the first location of the shoot.

It looked to be a sitting room that had been transformed into an intimate dining space. The lights in the chandelier had been dimmed, and candles littered the white clothed table. It was set as if a meal had been shared, half drunk empty wine bottles, crystal tumblers of amber liquid, and a bloody steak sat on a white plate. 

Pansy began maneuvering her, “Alright, darling we’ll start you in the chair for this one, until you’re more comfortable. How does that sound?”

Hermione swallowed and nodded, “That sounds good,” she couldn’t keep the nervous wobble out of her voice. 

She sat in the chair in front of the steak, Pansy adjusted it so that she was facing slightly outward, toward the camera. The slit of Hermione’s dress revealed the length of her thigh. 

“Now boys, I want you surrounding Hermione looking like at any moment you could devour her like that steak on the table,” Pansy instructed.

Malfoy came behind her right shoulder, with Zabini at her left. Theo stayed somewhat in the foreground, then to Hermione’s shock dropped to his knees just to the side of her exposed leg. 

“Oh Theo, pet, you’ve read my mind!” Pansy gushed, “That is the exact energy I want, Blaise, Draco—take notes.” 

Zabini huffed through his nose, “Theo has the most experience on his knees, Pans. It’s his natural state.” 

“You would know, Blaise,” winked Nott.

Hermione couldn’t even begin to unpack their repartee as she felt the heat of Malfoy at her back. Her shoulders tensed, drawing in on herself. She jumped as she felt a warm hand settle on her bare shoulder. 

She turned slightly to find Malfoy’s face within inches of hers. When he spoke, his breath tickled her cheek. 

“Relax, Granger. Remember what we talked about,” he whispered just for her. She was sure he could feel the goose pimples that erupted across her skin. 

Pansy adjusted Hermione once more, settling her stilettoed foot in Theo’s lap and backed away toward the camera and lighting set up. 

“Hermione, I want you looking directly into the camera, like you couldn’t even be bothered by these men worshipping you.”

She took a deep breath, willing her body to relax into something non chalant. She closed her eyes briefly, then stared directly into the camera lens. 

The first flash of the lights took her by surprise. By the third her pupils had adjusted. She was vaguely aware of three sets of hands pawing her in various places. Theo’s hand running from her ankle to calf. Blaise’s softly gripping her upper arm. She anticipated Malfoy’s touch but simply felt him twirl one of her curls around his finger. She tried not to let her disappointment show on her face. 

From there it became a kind of dance. Hermione allowed the men to pull her to and fro, the point of her heel in Theo’s chest as he leaned back in feigned ecstasy. Blaise’s lips at her wrist as she extended her arm up to grip the back of his head. Pansy’s encouraging words formed the accompaniment. 

And then finally she felt Malfoy. His steady hand came up beneath her chin, inviting her to look away from the camera for the first time. To look at him. 

Hermione was wholly unprepared for what she saw. His pupils were blown, swallowing up the grey of his irises. Her breathing stuttered as he leaned in closely. 

“Look at you—you’re doing so well,” his eyes flitted to her lips for a brief moment, “Just like I knew you would.”

Hermione was a soft breeze away from doing something entirely foolish like closing the gap between them and letting this man kiss her stupid. 

She settled for grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket and bringing him just a hair closer, so that their breath mingled between them. Spearmint and chamomile. Sharp and floral.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips brushing his on the exhale of the final word. She felt his body stiffen slightly at the spark that caught where their skin touched. His next breath was shaky, and his hand twitched at her jaw as if he was also a moment from doing something foolish.

A throat cleared and Hermione’s head snapped toward Pansy who had fixed her with a knowing stare.

“I said, I think we got the shot.” 

Hermione was still clutching at Malfoy’s lapel as she looked to Blaise and Theo who both wore equally knowing looks as they glanced between her and their friend. 

She quickly let go of him and busied herself smoothing the skirt of her dress, too embarrassed to even look in his general direction. She was however sad when he stood back to his full height, taking his warmth with him. 

“Hermione let’s get you dressed for the next shot, I think we’ll get some solos of just you in the garden and then you boys can meet us at the pitch in an hour,” Pansy instructed.

“The pitch?” Hermione questioned, rising from her seat. 

“Yes, darling. What’s a shoot with Quidditch players without a little flying?” Pansy explained as she began levitating her gear out of the room. 

“Pansy, you know I don’t fly,” she said anxiously. 

“Don’t worry, Granger, we’re professionals,” Blaise reassured her.

“Yeah leagues ahead of your ex,” Theo added, “That guy puts the chud in Chudley.” 

That did nothing to soothe her worries. 

Malfoy’s hand gently encircled her wrist, his thumb brushing back and forth across her pulse point, just below the ‘m’ of her scar. 

“Hey,” he lowered his head, “You’ll be safe with me, I won’t let you fall.” 

Her throat constricted at the sincerity of his words, and the promise in them that she didn’t think had anything to do with flying 

“Alright,” she nodded, “I trust you, Draco.” 

His answering smile rode a razor's edge between pleased and predatory.

“I like hearing you say that, Granger.” 

Hermione was now realizing Pansy’s plan of solo shots had been a ruse. She was sitting on the edge of a fountain in probably the most beautiful rose garden she had ever seen. In a white chiffon dress that fell off her shoulders. Pansy ran her wand through Hermione’s hair, tucking fat rose blossoms between the strands. . 

“I see we decided not to heed any of my advice,” her tone was close to that of a mother scolding her child. 

“I don't know what you mean, Pansy,” she answered dismissively.

“Oh so we’re playing coy? Like I didn’t just witness you five seconds away from letting Draco bend you over that table and fuck you with an audience?” 

Hermione squawked indignantly. 

“Don’t act so scandalized, any woman with half a brain cell and a pulse would’ve done the same.” 

Hermione groaned, “God I don’t know what to do Pansy, it’s like the second I’m near him there’s nothing but static between my ears.” 

“Listen to me, Granger. You deserve a man who will treat you like Draco would. Like the sun shines out of your bum hole. That’s all I could ever wish for you. But you have the power to ruin him, to break his heart in an irreparable way. You are entitled to control of your own love life, I won’t stand in your way, but if you are looking for a rebound hook up I will gladly point you to a slew of men that would volunteer, hell Theo and Blaise would be at the front of the line.” 

She considered that offer for a moment. Did she want a mindless hookup? Even with men as attractive as Blaise and Theo, she wasn’t sure if that was her style. Hermione didn’t know what she wanted. She had loved the same man since she was just a kid really. Or at least she thought she had, it turns out he wasn’t actually the man she thought he was. 

“I don’t want to hurt Draco,” of that she was sure. 

“I know, darling,” Pansy said sympathetically, “Do you want me to talk to him, maybe get him to cool his jets a little at least until you’re in a better head space?” 

“No, no. I’m a grown woman, I can handle Draco Malfoy,” he hoped she sounded convincing, but Pansy’s face told her she was anything but. 

Out on the pitch they were greeted by Draco, Theo and Blaise wearing their full Quidditch kits. Hermione had always admired a man in uniform. It was half the reason she attended Ron’s games in the first place. But these three were something else. Especially Draco. His white hair was pushed back from his face like it normally was during a match— Hermione had always assumed it was so it didn’t obstruct his view of the snitch— but she was beginning to think he did it because he knew how handsome it made him look, revealed the sharp point of his cheek, the marble line of his jaw. She let her eyes rove over him in a way she never had before in his uniform. It always felt like an acute betrayal with Ron also somewhere in the stadium. 

His grey jersey nearly matched his slate eyes, the fabric pulling taut around his biceps then disappearing beneath black leather gauntlets. His lithe fingers gripped his broom from his fingerless gloves, she watched them dance along the handle.  

His white trousers seemed to have been painted on. She could see the muscles of his thighs tense and relax as he shifted his weight between his feet. She didn’t dare look between his legs, actually scared she may catch even a glimpse of whatever was beneath and never fully recover. 

When she looked up he was smiling wolfishly at her, having apparently caught her gawking. 

Pansy nudged her as they neared the men, “Wipe your drool, darling.” 

Hermione reflexively wiped at her mouth and Pansy cackled. Damn her. 

“Give us a twirl, Granger,” Theo called, offering his hand. 

She rolled her eyes and took his proffered hand, spinning around in the outfit that Pansy had had to work extra hard to convince her to wear. It flirted dangerously close to her school uniform. A pleated tweed skirt that hit mid thigh, a matching blazer, white button down blouse with the top two buttons open, knee high socks and heeled brogues. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail atop her head. 

“Oh I like this,” Blaise said enthusiastically rubbing his hands together. 

Draco threw him an icy glare, “Watch it.” 

“Oh shove off, Draco. She deserves to hear how good she looks and I don’t hear you speaking up,” Blaise retorted, “Unless you were planning on whispering into her ear again.” 

Draco shoved at Blaise as the latter man laughed. Hermione felt her cheeks redden thinking about that moment in the sitting room.

Draco pointed to her with a gloved finger,“Granger, you’re riding on my broom.” 

“I bet that’s not all you wished she was riding, Malfoy,” Theo sniggered and Hermione hit him with a wandless stinging hex sending him yelping toward his broom.

“Well now, that was unfairly attractive, Granger,” Draco said as he mounted his broom and held his hand out for her.

She hesitated. She hadn’t truly flown on a broom since they used one to escape the Room of Requirement during the Battle of Hogwarts. She belatedly remembered that Draco had been there.   

“I’ve got you, Granger. I promise.” 

She took his hand as she swung her leg over to straddle his broom. She let him situate her hands around the handle in front of her. He kept his hands atop hers and shifted forward until she felt his hips cradling hers. 

“I’ll kick off and we’ll just hover until you’re comfortable. Try to lean forward a little once we’re off the ground,” his voice was right at her ear. With her hair up, her neck was fully exposed to him and she felt the fine hairs there raise in awareness. 

He kicked off so gently that she barely even noticed. She did as he said and leant forward minutely, he was still there at her back, his arms and legs embracing her like a cocoon. 

They were only about a meter off of the ground but she could feel her hands growing clammy.

“Breathe, Granger. You can do this,” his voice was calm and measured beside her.

She breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth and began to relax into his hold. 

“That’s it, baby just like that.” 

She wasn’t even sure if he knew he had said it. Baby. But the sound of the endearment falling from his lips sent a shockwave straight to where her center met the unforgiving wood of the handle. Get it together, Hermione she chastised herself. The last thing she needed was to swoon off of the broom mid flight and fall to her death.

Pansy came to stand beside them, holding a small camera in her hands. 

“Granger, you remember that prototype I told you about?” 

Months ago Pansy had come to her with the idea for an unmanned aerial camera, something that didn’t require another witch or wizard trying to ride a broom and capture a photo at the same time.

“Well I’ve finally got the bloody thing to work—watch.” 

Hermione and Draco watched as she tapped the camera with her wand. Little wings unfurled from the sides of the camera, giving it the appearance of a rather ungainly snitch. It fluttered out of Pansy’s hand and began to fly toward Blaise and Theo who were already flying acrobatically several meters off the ground. It maneuvered valiantly between the flyers, as graceful as any Quidditch player. 

“Oh Pansy, that’s brilliant!” Hermione effused. Although she had ceased being surprised by her friend's ingenuity a long time ago.

“Pans, please tell me you’ve submitted patent paperwork for that,” Draco said from behind Hermione, “That’ll be worth a fortune,”

“Oh, Draco, you sound just like my father,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes, “Of course I submitted paperwork, I’m not a nonce.” 

Pansy wandered toward Blaise and Theo, shouting down the latter as he kicked at the camera. 

Draco leaned in until his chin rested on her shoulder. 

“How are you feeling, Granger? Ready to go a little higher?” he asked patiently. 

Hermione looked down to where her feet dangled off of the broom.

“Don’t look down, sweetheart,” he corrected gently. 

She brought her eyes up to focus on the glade of trees on the horizon and took another steadying breath. 

“We can go higher. I—I trust you, Draco,” her voice was as steady as she could manage, but the truth of it was she did trust him. Perhaps inexplicably but that didn’t erase the truth of it. 

Draco pulled back on the broom slightly, rotating his hips into hers as the broom lifted. Something about having Draco guiding the broom’s movements as well as hers felt completely natural, like they were both an extension of him. To be conducted by his hands and soothed by his words. 

It made her think of Ron’s attempts to get her on a broom over the years. Since the Room of Requirement, Ron had made at least a dozen attempts to get her to fly with him, but Hermione found him to be an impatient instructor. He didn’t take the time to let her acclimate to the broom or whisper encouraging words. He was so used to Hermione being good at everything that he couldn’t possibly fathom there was something she would fail at. 

But with Draco she didn’t feel like a failure—she felt like she was flying, in every sense of the word. They were now at least four meters off the ground and he had begun circling the pitch at a steady pace. It took no time at all before she was anticipating his body’s cues behind her, leaning where he leaned, pulling back at the turn, until they were perfectly in sync.

“You’re a natural, Granger,” her heart swelled at the pride in his voice and she couldn’t help the bright laugh that burst from her throat. 

“I can’t believe I’m flying with Draco Malfoy,” she said over her shoulder. 

She felt the rumble of his chuckle more than she heard it. 

“Do you think our younger selves would be absolutely gobsmacked?” she asked. 

He made a thoughtful sound, “I think my younger self would be wondering if I swallowed a batch of felix felicis.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, Pansy was shouting from the ground below. 

“Okay, darlings. The camera will do all the work, so just act natural. Granger, try to look like you’re having a good time and Theodore Nott if you kick my camera again I’ll be wearing your balls as earrings!” 

“Aye, aye Captain!” Theo saluted from his broom. 

Draco leaned in again, “Are you ready to have some fun, Granger? Hang on tight.” 

He leaned them both forward and the broom accelerated. She was vaguely aware of the camera flashing somewhere near her, and Blaise and Theo flying in various formations around them. But her focus was pulled to every square centimeter where she and Draco met. The tensing and relaxing of his thighs around hers as he navigated the broom, his large hands atop hers, the hard expanse of his torso at her back. 

She relished all of the sensations, losing herself to them—to him—as they climbed higher and higher. She didn’t know how long they had been flying, but they were now some ways off from Draco’s estate, she could make out the rose garden from where they were. Draco came to halt and Blaise and Theo came to a stop on either side of them. Before she knew what was happening, Draco was taking his hands off of hers and resting them atop her bare thighs, where her stockings ended. 

“Draco what—“ she said, panic rising in her throat like bile. 

“You’re going to land us, Granger,” he said as if it was the most simple thing in the world.

”I’m what?!” she hissed, absolutely throttling the broom so as not to plummet through the air. 

He gave her thighs a reassuring squeeze, speaking his next words carefully, “You are going to use this perfectly capable body of yours to take us down to the ground.”

“Draco, I can’t—“

“You can. And you will.”

She was breathing raggedly, trying desperately to calm herself. 

“You got this, Granger!” Theo called from beside them, she didn’t take her eyes off of the broom in front of her to acknowledge him.

One of Draco’s fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her stocking, skimming back and forth across her skin. A small wounded sound escaped her lips and he chuckled darkly. His lips ghosted her ear.

“Now be a good girl and land the broom, Hermione.” 

Her name sounded like a sin on his tongue. How dare he! How dare he use his masculine wiles and broom thighs to push her out of her comfort zone, the absolute bastard! That little vindictive part of her that had locked Rita Skeeter in a jar flared to life. He wanted her to land? Oh she was going to land alright. Without warning she leaned forward on the broom, sending them rocketing to the ground in what she believed was called the Wronski Feint. She’d watched Draco do it enough times in matches to know that the trick was to overcorrect at the last possible moment. Draco didn’t make a peep but one of his arms came up to band around her waist. 

Hermione was surprised to find that rather than being terrified, she had never felt so exhilarated. A wide grin had broken out across her face and her hair had come loose from her ponytail. On a reckless impulse she glanced up and back to find Draco looking at her with an unreadable expression. Well it was actually entirely readable, Hermione just couldn’t believe it. It was pure, unadulterated adoration. The look her father gave her mother when she danced barefoot in the kitchen while making dinner. Her stomach dropped impossibly further and she hurriedly focused on the ground hurtling toward them. 

She pulled back firmly on the broom and gave a final delighted whoop as they hit the ground, Draco’s legs absorbing most of the impact. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunted behind her as Blaise and Theo landed beside them, hollering and congratulating Hermione on her landing. 

“That was bloody brilliant, Granger,” Blaise said, pulling her off of the broom and into a bear hug. 

Theo squeezed her shoulder, “Haven’t seen Draco that terrified on a broom since Lucius caught us using his palantir as a quaffle.” 

Pansy, who had just recalled her camera, stood with her fist on her hip, “Granger, darling I told you to have a good time, not give me a bloody heart attack.” 

Hermione escaped Blaise’s crushing embrace and ran to her friend, wrapping her arms around her.

“Did you see me, Pans? That was incredible!” she said excitedly, still riding the high of having landed on her own. 

Pansy laughed indulgently at her friend.

“You were perfect, Granger,” said Draco as she turned to him. His cheeks were wind blown and his hair disheveled, blonde fringe falling across his forehead.  

She closed the space between them, until her chest nearly met his upper abdomen. She wanted to embrace him, but something about Pansy’s words earlier held her back. She settled for fiddling with the gauntlet at his wrist. She craned her neck to look up at him. 

“Thank you, Draco. I couldn’t have done that without you,” she said sincerely. 

He smiled down at her affectionately, “That was all you, Granger. I was just along for the ride.” 

Chapter Text

Hermione had thought the flying had been the last shot of the day, but she found herself back in the partitioned space, staring at a green silk gown that she hadn’t remembered approving. 

“Pansy what is this?” she asked as her friend pinned her hair into a chignon at the base of her skull. 

“Well there's a space in the house that just screams Hermione Granger but last I heard it was being renovated. Draco let me know last night that it was finished.” 

“And the dress?” Hermione asked. It was stunning, the fabric shimmered as if it was made of water. 

“Just one of the extras I brought, in case you changed your mind about something.” God she was a terrible liar.

“Will it just be me?” she asked, feeling like she was pulling teeth at this point.

Pansy mumbled something unintelligible as she held a hair pin in her mouth. 

“What was that?” 

“Draco will be there as well,” Pansy answered exasperatedly. 

“And do we think that’s a good idea?” After all of Pansy’s lecturing, she wanted to put her and Draco in yet another intimate situation. 

Hermione hissed as Pansy shoved one last pin painfully into her scalp. “Look, darling. I saw the way you two were looking at each other on that broom. Like bloody mooncalfs in heat. I’m fairly certain I would be standing in the way of fate at this point.” 

“Do I think it’s a good idea?" She yanked the dress off the hanger and thrust it at Hermione. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The dress fit Hermione like a second skin. The neckline was a simple ‘V’ shape and the bodice was molded to her curves. It was entirely backless, held in place by what she could only assume was magic and the curve of her breasts were visible from the sides. It was the kind of dress that Hermione had admired on other women. She wasn’t sold on it for her, old insecurities seeping in. 

But the insidious voices were hushed as she followed Pansy through the double doors into the room where they would be shooting. Before her stood the most exquisite personal library she had ever seen. It could’ve been plucked out of her wildest dreams. Arched windows made up the entire back wall, leading up toward vaulted ceilings adorned in paintings depicting scenes of courtly love. Knights bowing before noble ladies or astride mighty steeds riding into battle. Rows of mahogany shelves were absolutely bursting with tomes, first editions calling out to her from their leather bindings. 

In the middle of it all stood Draco Malfoy. The afternoon sun bathed him in gold, illuminating him like a god. She was sure she had never seen a man that beautiful. He stood in a hybrid of formal robes and a tuxedo, complete with a cloak draped over one shoulder, she could just make out the silver snake that clasped it together over his heart. 

And the way he was looking at her would rival the devotion of the knights painted above them. This was a bad idea. This was a very bad idea. Just one morning with this man, a handful of touches and she was a puddle. They hadn’t even been alone in the same room yet. 

He sauntered over to her as Pansy set up her equipment. 

“So what do you think?” he asked, his voice low.  

She was startled by the question. “Oh—you look—good, very handsome,” she stammered.

He chuckled, biting his lower lip. “I meant about the library.” 

“Oh!” she gasped, feeling her face redden. She looked at the shelves surrounding her. “It’s a dream, honestly Draco. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“I’m glad you like it.” There he went biting that damned lip again, Hermione wanted to pull it from between his teeth with her thumb. 

“—And speaking of dreams, Granger—this dress is incredible,” he said leaning back to look at her appreciatively, his eyes flared with searing heat. 

Without thinking, she turned to show him her favorite part—the back. 

She heard a stifled curse and couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that tilted the corner of her mouth. Her satisfaction was quickly replaced by the sharp thrill of desire as she felt what she thought was his knuckle ghost the small of her back. She looked at him coyly over her shoulder to find him focused where their skin met. All the hairs on her body stood on end in anticipation. 

The bright flash of the camera caused Hermione to nearly jump out of her skin. 

“Oh don’t mind me,” Pansy snarked. 

She heard Draco take a deep breath. Maybe he was as overwhelmed as she was. 

She turned back to face him and watched as he rolled his jaw, “Where do you want us, Pans?” He asked tightly. 

Pansy rubbed at her chin, closing one eye as she surveyed the room. “Let’s have a little moment with Granger on one of the sliding ladders.” 

She herded Hermione toward the ladder and held the train of her gown as she ascended.

“Now darling I want you to act as if you are simply perusing the shelves—I’m sure you’ll have no trouble there. Draco you’ll be here at the bottom supporting her.”  

She felt Draco beneath her and she turned back to see him gazing up at her as if staring into the sun, his hand white knuckled on either side of the ladder near where the slit of her dress revealed her thigh. She let their eyes stay connected for a moment, caught in the grey whirlpool of his, before facing the shelf in front of her. She was surprised to find she recognized the titles in front of her. Brontë, Eliot, Gaskell. All writers she was very familiar with. 

“These are Muggle books,” she said almost to herself. 

Draco hummed affirmatively beneath her. While she knew Draco no longer held any of the beliefs of his upbringing—if he had ever really held them at all—it still filled her with a sense of—she wasn’t sure. Gratification? 

Hermione pulled Jane Eyre from the shelf.

“I used to see you carrying that one around the castle,” he said quietly. 

“It’s one of my favorites.” She gingerly leafed through it, of course it was first edition. The camera snapped all the while.

“Once, I saw you reading it in an alcove by the astronomy tower. I almost asked you what you were reading, but you looked so content. I know I would’ve just spoiled the moment for you.” The regret in his voice carved at her insides.

She placed the book back on the shelf and twisted her body until she was sideways on the ladder, facing out toward Pansy. She reached out to cup Draco’s face. She heard the shutter of the camera accelerate but she paid it no mind. 

“You could’ve asked, Draco. I would’ve told you it was about a young woman struggling to find her place in a cruel world and how she fell in love with an impossible man—despite his past and the many challenges between them.” Her thumb brushed across his cheek bone. 

His hand left the ladder and skated up the length of her shin, squeezing just above her knee. She could feel the hard earned callouses on his palm. He bit down on his lip again and this time she tugged it free with her thumb. Suddenly his hands were at her waist pulling her down the ladder so that her bum met one of the lower rungs. He touched his forehead to hers.

“I would kill to have you all to myself right now, I’ve been going absolutely mad all day.” 

“Draco—“ She panted. And then they heard a snick of the door and looked up to find themselves completely alone. 

The tension between them was like a living breathing entity sucking up all of the oxygen in the room. She looked back to find his eyes already on hers, searching her face for any sign of hesitance. 

She knew that if she asked him to back off he would. But did she want him to? She had spent nearly two decades fighting for the scraps of Ron’s attention. Desperate to be desired by the man she loved, her husband. When he had directed his attention in her direction, it had been out of misplaced jealousy, anger and fear.

And now—here was Draco Malfoy, crouched on the starting block ready for the sound of her gun. 

His breathing was ragged. “Just give me the word, Granger. One word and I’m yours.”

Pansy’s words knocked around inside her mind like shrapnel. Draco was…intense. To say the least. And the attraction she felt for him was unlike anything she had ever experienced. But her divorce had just been finalized, her heart was still bruised.

Her mouth was dry when she finally spoke.“I don’t want to hurt you, Draco.” 

She thought he would pull away, but instead he brought his hand to the back of her head, holding her tight against him. 

“You can hurt me, Granger. Ruin me if you like. And I’ll thank you for it,” he rasped. 

“You can’t possibly mean that,” she whispered. Her heart was beating in her throat. 

His hand came to rest on her neck, cradling it with his thumb on her pulse. “You have no idea, do you?” 

She pulled back slightly to take in his wrecked expression. When she didn’t speak—her tongue held in place as if by a sticking charm—he continued. 

“There hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I didn’t want you, Granger. Even as a child I couldn’t help myself around you. Only then I had to suffocate it under cruel words and feigned hatred. I was despicable to you, by all rights you could’ve hexed me into the next century and I would’ve deserved it.

“But you still testified on my behalf and forgave me like a bloody angel. And then I had to sit idly by and watch as your light, your fierceness was diminished bit by bit. It was like suffocating all over again. I swore to myself that if I ever had the chance, I would never let you forget who you are—and everything you deserve—again.”

Tears prickled the backs of her eyes and without further consideration she surged forward until their lips met. He clearly had not been expecting this turn of events as she felt his body tense for a moment. He then took control of the kiss, his hands coming up on either side of her face. He moaned against her mouth as their lips began to move and her stomach tightened at the sound. He invaded her space as he deepened the kiss, settling between her legs until her center was flush with his belt buckle. 

She fisted the front of his shirt and then let her hands explore beneath his robes. She could feel the ridges of his abdomen beneath his shirt, the heat radiating off of him. He was pale like a moon but held all of the warmth of a sun. Her hands came around his sides to run down his back and settled just above his buttocks. She boldly urged his hips forward, until the metal of his buckle bit at her sensitive flesh. She whimpered into his mouth and that seemed to snap the already taut wire of his self control. 

He lifted her abruptly by the backs of her thighs and she gasped against his mouth.  She scrambled to wrap her arms around his neck as he moved them fluidly from the ladder to a low chesterfield sofa. He sat so that she was straddling his lap. The lack of stretch in her dress caused it to ride up in this position so that slit now sat high on her hip. She was suddenly aware that she wasn’t wearing any knickers—the dress didn’t allow for any—and her center, which was by now absolutely sodden, was dangerously close to his crotch. There would almost certainly be a growing wet patch if she were to peek between their bodies. 

“Draco—” she tapered off on a gasp as he brought his mouth to her neck, suckling at the thin skin. “I’m going to make a mess of your trousers,” she admitted, her face coloring in embarrassment. 

“Fuck,” he groaned into her neck before rolling his hips up until she felt his rigid length against her. “Make a mess, baby,” he murmured into her skin, “I want to wear you for the rest of the day.” 

She rocked her hips against him, feeling the beginnings of what was sure to be one of the most satisfying orgasms she’d ever had. That is until the creak of the library door sounded like an alarm. And there was her supposed best friend—cockblock of the century—Pansy Parkinson standing in the doorway with her hand over her eyes. 

“Are you two done diddling each other? I have a job to finish, you know?” she said sharply, although Hermione could hear a note of amusement in her voice.

”Christ, Pansy,” Draco spat through clenched teeth. 

Hermione could almost cry as she felt her orgasm fade away like smoke. She brought her head down to rest on his shoulder as a shudder ran through her. He skimmed his palm down the expanse of her back. 

“Is it safe to look?” Pansy called from the doorway, although she was already peeking between her fingers. 

Hermione huffed and lifted herself off of Draco’s lap. She watched from beside him as he deftly brought his cloak to cover his very obvious erection as well as the near puddle she had left in his lap. He then pulled her arm to him and placed a chaste kiss on the inside of her wrist and she couldn’t help the small smile it elicited. 

“My, my—don’t you two look snogged to within an inch of your life,” Pansy purred, crossing the threshold into the room. “Do we need a refresher course on the birds and the bees?” 

“Fuck off, Pansy,” Draco grated, but there was no heat behind it. 

She stood in front of them with her arms crossed like a mother who had just caught her child sneaking out. 

“I’ve already lectured Hermione to no avail, so let me try you Draco. If you hurt her—”

“Pans, I would never—”

“If you hurt her—” she cut him off sternly, “I will make you wish they had locked you up in Azkaban.” 

“Pansy!” Hermione bleated. 

“No, Granger. She has a right to say it. I don’t have the best track record where you’re concerned,” he said earnestly, holding the shrewd gaze of their friend. 

She squeezed at his hand, drawing his sobered gaze. 

“You won’t hurt me, Draco. I trust you, remember?” 

And she meant it.  

Two weeks later, her cover issue of Witch Weekly was due for release. She hadn’t seen Draco since the day of the shoot. A string of away games had him on the continent. But they had written and she currently stood in front of a breathtaking arrangement of flowers he had sent to mark the occasion. Wild roses, pansies, hawthorn and narcissus. The note read:

To the girl in the alcove, searching for her place in this cruel world. Mine is wherever you are. 

-D

Minutes later, Pansy’s eagle owl, Livia, was tapping at Hermione’s window. She cradled the magazine in her talons, dropping it gingerly on her window sill and fluttered to the perch next to Hecuba where Hermione fed them both a treat. 

Hermione took a moment before unraveling the ribbon around the magazine. It was done now, consequences be damned. She pulled at the ribbon and a note from Pansy fell out. 

I know you hate to hear it, but you truly are golden. Here’s the proof.

Just look at you shining. 

xx

P 

Her breath caught as she took in the cover. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Pansy had chosen to use the moment Draco had made her land the broom as the cover. It was a loop of them mid-Wronski Feint, flying from the top left corner of the page to the bottom right until they were out of frame. Her hair billowed out behind her, loose and free, the late morning sun gilding her curls. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were wind bitten and rosy. Every one of her teeth was on display, her smile nearly splitting her in two. It was a woman she didn’t recognize and a girl she hadn’t seen in far too long. 

And then there was Draco. 

Right behind her, his smile breaking just as hers did. He looked down at her—watching—wearing her exhilaration as if it were his own. She thought that finally, maybe she did see what he saw when he looked at her. She didn’t even flinch at the headline using the nickname that she reviled. 

The Golden Girl: Flying to New Heights with the Falmouth Falcons

Because the way Draco was looking at her, she did feel golden. 

She could see where his fingers dimpled her thigh, disappearing beneath her socks and she became acutely aware of the absence of his touch. Just two weeks apart and she was reduced to a ball of yearning. 

She quickly flipped through the pages to get to the rest of the photos. 

She blushed through the ones at the dining table. Almost as turned on by the heat in her own gaze as she was by the men supplicating around her. She had never seen herself as powerful as she was just sitting in that chair, letting her body be mapped and manipulated by Theo, Blaise and Draco. 

The rest of the photos from the Quidditch pitch captured a playful nature that she had forgotten she even possessed—she had locked it away long ago in pursuit of being taken seriously. Pansy brought it out in her, but here it was memorialized on the page. They reminded her of the feeling she got during those many summers she spent at the Burrow, like the burdens of her world were quiet, lost in the trill of the cicadas. A feeling that she thought was lost forever in the divorce. While she was still close with Ginny—who had on several occasions offered up her privileges as the head auror’s wife to make her brother disappear—she knew she would never be welcomed by the rest of the Weasley clan the same way. 

The library photos followed and her heart began to beat arrhythmically. Side by side was a photo of Hermione on the ladder, cupping Draco’s face as well as the candid moment Pansy had interrupted where she had first shown Draco her dress. She was in profile, looking back at Draco as his finger reverently brushed against her skin. The heat in his gaze could’ve scalded her from the page. 

She closed the magazine and held it to her chest, letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. For a decade she’d been shoved into a corner, into a marriage built on nothing but childhood fancies and deception. These photos reminded her that she deserved to live in the light—to soak up every last ray until it shone out her pores. 

That feeling held for all of half an hour, when the first howler arrived. 

She recognized Ron’s barn owl, Titus, immediately. He greeted her somberly as if he knew the pain he carried inside of the red envelope he clutched in his talons. He handed it over reluctantly and joined the other owls. Hermione gave him an extra treat because he was just doing his job after all. 

She watched as the howler began to smoke and singe around the edges, bracing herself for the impact of whatever was inside. She knew it would be nothing he hadn’t spewed at her before and she tried to ground herself in the knowledge that he could no longer hurt her. The envelope hissed and turned itself inside out, Ron’s voice exploding through her house. 

What are you playing at, Hermione? Malfoy, for fucks sake? I always knew there was something going on between you two. Never could keep your eyes off of him, could you? Even when we were in school, I saw you watching him. And all those times at MY quidditch events, Merlin I’m a fool. Of course you were fucking him! Whoring yourself out to that DEATH EATER. You’re disgusting. Fred is rolling in his grave. I’m just glad I never had a child with you, so they won’t have to know the shame of having a SLAG for a mother. Does he pass you around to his mates? Nott and Zabini? Do they take turns splitting you open on their Death Eater cocks? I bet you love that don’t you? Being used like you’re nothing. Because you are nothing, Hermione. Why do you think I cheated on you? I could barely get hard for you in the end, I could probably smell the death on you. Tell Malfoy to watch his fucking back on the pitch, my bludger won’t miss next time. 

Hermione was trembling by the time the envelope began to rip itself apart. Ron’s voice rang in her ears like the aftermath of a bomb. Nothing he said had been true, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t cut to the deepest parts of her. What hurt the most was that there had been a point when she would’ve died for Ron—and thought he would’ve done the same. How had they gotten here? And he had threatened Draco. This is exactly what she feared would happen by dragging him into this mess. 

She heard more tapping at her window and turned to see unfamiliar owls carrying envelopes, two white, another red. It could be another one from Ron, from his mother, from some stranger she passed on the street. She had a feeling Ron’s howler had been the first of many. Suddenly she was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. So she did just that, climbing the stairs, closing the curtains of her bedroom with a wave of her hand, burrowing so deeply under her covers that she could barely hear the incessant tapping against her windows.