Undisclosed Desires
In the days that followed, Draco managed to regain the composure that had abandoned him the day he practically fled from the library. He and Hermione resumed their research with discipline, but no new, useful information surfaced. They considered focusing on whether these kinds of pacts had an expiration date, but their search yielded nothing. Draco even toyed with the idea of asking his mother for help—under the strict promise that she would never mention it to his father. But he decided to wait a little longer.
After all, he didn’t mind being close to Hermione.
In fact, he liked it.
The initial surprise of their classmates had given way to quiet acceptance. By now, their relationship no longer raised eyebrows—just an understanding, almost resigned acknowledgment. Perhaps no one had seen it coming, but in the end, it made sense.
Draco had come to accept the private room assigned to him as Head Boy, conveniently located near the Gryffindor Tower. Though most nights he left it untouched, at some point, he and Hermione agreed it would be wise to make use of it. At first, they arranged their meetings through fleeting glances and whispered words in each other’s minds via Legilimency. But soon, they realized they no longer needed that. A single look was enough now. As if their routine had forged an unspoken language between them.
Without ever discussing it, they fell into a habit of meeting before or after dinner.
Both remained the exemplary students they had always been, which seemed to ease the concern they had noticed in their Heads of House. Hermione’s relentless obsession with her studies hadn’t wavered, despite Draco’s persistent attempts to get her to relax—even a little. She saw his suggestion as nothing more than a ploy to distract her, to steal her top spot. So, she never let up.
But there was one place where those barriers didn’t exist.
In that room, when the door clicked shut behind them, Hermione wasn’t the flawless, untouchable student. Draco wasn’t the arrogant, untouchable Malfoy.
Out there, they had expectations to meet, along with the nostalgia that once overcame them for not being able to have the ones they really loved.
But here, they were just them.
That night, like so many before, Draco was already waiting for her—leaning against the desk, his arms crossed, wearing that calculated look of indifference. Hermione entered, brow slightly furrowed, still trapped in whatever notes she had been reviewing before coming here.
“If you’re going to come in looking like that, you might as well go back to the library,” he drawled, not bothering to move.
Hermione let out a heavy sigh but didn’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, she set her things aside and walked straight toward him.
Draco raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by her lack of argument. But before he could say another word, she stood on her toes and kissed him.
It was impatient, laced with frustration and need. He felt the warmth of her mouth against his, the familiar spark that always ignited between them. He didn’t hesitate to kiss her back, pulling her in by the waist, pressing her flush against him. Hermione melted into his touch, gripping his shirt tightly as if their closeness could erase the lingering thoughts of her academic worries.
“Well, Granger,” Draco murmured against her lips, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Are you using me as a stress relief strategy?”
“Shut up,” she shot back before kissing him again, harder this time.
Draco let out a low chuckle before spinning her effortlessly, pressing her back against the desk. Hermione didn’t protest. If anything, she tugged at the collar of his shirt, fingers threading into his hair, pulling just the way she knew drove him mad.
His hands traced her curves with more intent, fingers skimming over the soft skin of her thighs where her uniform skirt had ridden up. He ran his knuckles along the sensitive flesh, smirking when he felt her shiver against him.
“Tell me you locked the door with a spell,” she whispered against his jaw.
Draco smiled against her skin, his lips grazing the delicate curve of her neck—a fleeting touch that had her holding her breath.
“Of course I did.”
No interruptions. No expectations. No tomorrow.
Right now, there was only them.
That night, the rain pounded against the windows with fury, in sync with the crackling flames in the fireplace.
Draco didn’t want to admit it, but the moment he met up with Hermione had become his favorite part of the day. Along with their library sessions and the classes where they sat together, these moments had settled into his routine, no longer surprising him as much as they once did. Hermione was slowly pushing away the memory of what had never happened with Aurélie—and he couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something about her. The way she absentmindedly bit her lower lip while reading, the way her curls tumbled over her shoulder when she wore her hair loose—it drove him insane.
He shifted between her legs, pressing in closer. Hermione glanced up, one eyebrow arched.
—“Are you going to keep staring at me like that all night, or…?”
She didn’t get to finish the sentence. Draco leaned over her, hands braced on the desk, trapping her between his body and the wood. Hermione’s heartbeat quickened as he brushed the tip of his nose along her cheek.
—“Or…?” Draco murmured, his voice low and husky, before closing the space between them and capturing her lips.
Hermione exhaled a soft sigh against his mouth, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Draco didn’t need any encouragement. His lips moved urgently, devouring her as if he could never get enough. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, teasing rhythm.
Deciding the desk wasn’t enough, Draco lifted her in one fluid motion, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Hermione let out a breathless gasp against his lips, clutching at his shoulders as he carried her toward one of the bedrooms. Their bodies tumbled onto the plush mattress, and in an instant, Draco was hovering over her, trailing lazy kisses down the exposed skin of her neck.
—“I missed you today,” Hermione murmured, barely realizing she had said it out loud.
Draco stilled, his lips hovering over her collarbone, before lifting his gaze to hers.
—“It’s Thursday. You have Muggle Studies alone,” he whispered against her skin. “But I’m here now.”
And with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he showed her just how present he was.
His hands traced a slow, deliberate path down her waist, sliding up along her ribs, fingers ghosting over her back until they found the clasp of her bra.
Hermione swallowed hard.
Draco heard it.
The sound cut through the stillness of the room, making him lift his gaze. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, her unspoken thought brushed against his own—a silent permission.
—You can.
He expected to smirk, reveling in the satisfaction of what he was achieving with Hermione, but instead, a strange knot twisted in his stomach.
Nerves. Anticipation.
The idea of continuing stole his breath for a second.
With practiced ease, he unhooked the clasp, and the fabric slid away, gravity pulling it downward as she remained propped up on her elbows.
He looked up again, and that’s when he saw it—she was just as nervous as he was. Maybe even more.
This shouldn’t feel like this.
It shouldn’t feel so... momentous.
A few months ago, the mere thought of being with Hermione Granger like this was beyond absurd.
A flash of memory struck him—how easy it had always been with Pansy. He never thought twice. He just took what he wanted, when he wanted it, without hesitation. But Hermione was different.
With her, he wanted to take his time. To savor.
To worship.
His gaze drifted down to her newly exposed skin. Her breasts were small, firm, perfectly shaped. Her nipples had hardened—whether from the cold or anticipation, he wasn’t sure.
He leaned in, his breath teasing over the soft curve beneath one of them.
Hermione let out a quiet, shaky gasp.
Draco looked up.
Her eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
Her expression was unreadable, but he could feel it.
He didn’t stop.
Moving higher, he took her nipple into his mouth, closing his lips around the sensitive peak.
Hermione’s breath hitched violently, her heart pounding so loudly he swore he could hear it.
If it had been any other witch, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have stripped away the last barriers between them and claimed her without restraint.
But this was Hermione.
And with her, he wanted more than just the act.
He wanted the moment.
A sudden thought slithered into his mind, unbidden.
Would it feel this way with Aurélie?
The idea unsettled him.
Just as the possibility unsettled him that, for even the briefest second, Hermione might be thinking of Charlie.
No.
Not now.
Not in this moment.
Shaking off the thought, he pulled away from her bare skin.
—Look at me.
Hermione’s eyes flew open instantly, locking onto his.
And that was all he needed.
Because there was nothing else in them but him.
Draco smirked, a dark sort of satisfaction settling in his chest, and gently pushed her back against the bed. His lips trailed downward again, this time claiming the other breast. But before taking her into his mouth, he lifted his gaze once more.
—Don’t look away from me, Granger.
The command was low, firm—somewhere between an order and a plea.
Hermione only nodded, her eyes never leaving his.
Draco flicked out his tongue, dragging it over her nipple in an agonizingly slow motion, watching as it hardened under his touch.
A trembling sigh left her lips.
His tongue moved in lazy circles, teasing, taunting—driving her to the edge of impatience.
He could feel her body tense, her breath coming faster.
He pulled away just enough to press soft kisses over both breasts, murmuring against her skin:
—I don’t want you to look away from me when we do this.
A shiver ran through Hermione’s body as his tongue flicked between her breasts.
And then he said it.
—I know you’re in love with someone else.
Hermione swallowed hard.
Lately, even she wasn’t sure about that anymore.
Draco saw it.
He saw the doubt flicker across her face.
—But I want you to be mine. His voice was lower now, rougher. Only mine. Now, and in every moment we have, Granger.
She held his gaze.
And then, a thought of hers slipped into his mind, unguarded.
—And you? Will you be only mine in this moment?
Draco smiled.
Slow. Sinister.
One hand slid down to her thigh, teasing along the sensitive skin before moving between her legs.
—Only yours, Granger.
A sharp breath left him when he felt the damp heat seeping through her panties.
He never broke eye contact.
And she nodded, as if her mind was just as much of a storm as his own.
Draco pressed his hand against her soaked underwear, feeling the damp heat seeping through the thin fabric. Hermione shuddered beneath his touch, her thighs trembling ever so slightly.
Without breaking eye contact, Draco slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, tracing a slow, torturous path over her folds before parting them. A shiver ran down his spine as he felt her slick warmth against his skin.
And then, he did it.
Something he had always wanted to do with someone else.
Someone who was now nothing more than a distant echo in his mind.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, and brought them to his lips. He wrapped them in his mouth, tasting her with a deliberate, brazen sensuality that didn’t make Hermione recoil—if anything, it made the fire in her eyes burn even hotter.
"Just like I imagined, Granger," he murmured with a wicked smirk. "You taste divine."
Hermione flushed, her skin ablaze with heat, but something in her gaze flickered—defiance, bold and unyielding.
"You imagined this?"
Draco didn’t hesitate.
"I'm not ashamed to admit it."
His tongue darted out, sliding over his fingers, coating them in saliva before pressing them to her lips.
She exhaled shakily, parting her mouth to take them in, her tongue swirling around them, tasting herself on him.
Draco felt a sharp jolt of pleasure pulse through him.
"That tongue of yours, Granger… it knows how to move."
"It's pure instinct," she murmured, her voice husky, laced with quiet challenge.
Draco smirked. Dark. Possessive.
"I hope so, Granger. Because I don’t want anyone else enjoying that pretty mouth of yours."
Hermione didn’t reply. She only held his gaze, her lips curling into a half-smile filled with intent.
Then her smile broke into a strangled gasp as he slid a finger between her folds. Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling in erratic waves as Draco watched her, devouring every reaction.
"No one else gets to touch you like this, Granger."
He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss as his finger circled her entrance before slipping inside.
Hermione arched, a moan caught in her throat.
Draco felt her heat clench around him, molding to his touch with a desperate, pulsing need.
And then, without breaking the kiss, he slid in another finger.
He moved with lethal precision, studying her, memorizing every tremor, every ragged breath, every way her mouth sought his as if air alone wasn’t enough.
"Fuck, Granger," he growled against her lips. "You feel too damn good."
Hermione couldn’t answer.
Not when pleasure was swallowing her whole.
When her mind began to blur and a faint dizziness momentarily distracted her from the searing heat pooling in her abdomen, Hermione felt something inside her tighten, threatening to drag her into an unknown abyss. There was a hidden promise within every thrust of Draco’s fingers—something forbidden and exquisite unfurling deep within her, making her walls clench around him, desperately holding onto the sensation.
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, but Draco’s voice anchored her back.
“Don’t close them, Granger. I want to see you. I want to see what you look like when you let go.”
The command, murmured with a dark and dangerous sensuality, sent a shiver through her.
Hermione forced her eyes open, her gaze meeting Draco’s through the haze of pleasure. He was devouring her with his dilated pupils, utterly absorbed in the sight of her body unraveling beneath his touch.
She tried to hold onto the steady rhythm of his fingers, to make it last, to stretch the sensation to its breaking point—but the heat was too much. The pressure, the perfect friction, the way his thumb circled precisely where she needed it most… everything was spiraling into a dizzying crescendo, pushing her toward the edge.
“Draco…” Her voice broke into a moan, her nails digging into his arms, his clothes—anything to keep herself grounded as the wave built higher.
Draco never looked away. He knew she was on the brink, that the moment was inevitable.
“Let go, Granger,” he whispered, his tone both a command and a prayer.
And then it happened.
The abyss swallowed her whole.
Her back arched violently as the wave crashed over her, pleasure exploding from her core and rippling through every fiber of her being. Her legs trembled, her breath stuttered, and a helpless sound spilled from her throat, lost between her ragged gasps.
Draco felt her body shudder beneath him, her walls pulsing around his fingers with almost overwhelming intensity. The expression on her face knocked the breath from his lungs.
Hermione Granger—the sharp-tongued, defiant-eyed witch—was falling apart in his hands.
He watched her come undone, consumed by the pleasure he had given her, and a dark, intoxicating pride flared hot in his chest.
As the last tremor of her orgasm washed through her, Hermione gasped his name, trembling against him.
Draco held her, his fingers still buried inside her until he felt her body begin to relax. Only then, with torturous slowness, did he withdraw them.
He brought them to his lips once more, locking eyes with her as he licked them clean with deliberate, sinful pleasure.
“I’ll never get tired of this, Granger. Never.”
Hermione, still shaking, stared at him with parted lips—caught between embarrassment, awe, and the rekindled hunger that Draco Malfoy seemed to ignite in her with almost infuriating ease.
And she knew.
It wasn’t enough.
It could never be enough.
Not with him.
Draco made a move to get up, but Hermione caught him by the nape of his neck and pulled him back down into a kiss that burned with hunger—one that told him, without words, that what had just happened hadn't been enough. Not for her.
He let himself collapse over her, responding with the same desperation. He could still taste himself on her lips, and rather than embarrassing her, it filled her with an intoxicating sense of boldness. As Draco deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with the same mastery he applied to everything he did, Hermione slid her hands down his chest, fumbling hastily with the buttons of his shirt. Draco didn’t stop her, not even when she pushed the fabric off his shoulders with palpable urgency. Instead, he leaned down to her neck, tracing a path of kisses and bites down to her collarbone while his hands captured her breasts, torturing her nipples with just the right amount of pressure to make her gasp and arch beneath his touch.
The stormy gray of his eyes met hers when Hermione let her hand drift down to the waistband of his trousers. He stilled for a moment, his uneven breath ghosting over her skin.
“You shouldn’t, Granger. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
It sounded like a warning, but Hermione only heard it as a challenge.
And she had no intention of stopping him.
Nothing existed outside of Draco. Nothing mattered in that moment except the way he made her feel—how he tore down her barriers with a single glance, how he reduced her to a creature ruled by desire. Her mind burned with a single, undeniable truth: she wanted this.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured, and she knew there was no turning back when Draco’s eyes darkened with what must have been a reflection of her own.
A low, guttural sound escaped his throat before his mouth crashed against hers with renewed ferocity. Hermione didn’t shy away from the force of his desire; instead, she moved with practiced ease, undoing the button of his trousers and sliding down the zipper in one swift motion. Using her feet, she helped push them down his legs, freeing him from the fabric. Draco did the same with her skirt, tugging it down her body and pulling it over her head in one smooth motion, never once relenting in his assault on her mouth.
Hermione wanted to order him, as he had done before, not to look away from her eyes—but she couldn’t. The waves of pleasure were already coiling in her stomach, making her arch her hips toward the growing hardness between Draco’s legs. Only their underwear separated them now.
Draco began rocking against her, and though they were both desperate for more, the friction was enough. He moved in the smallest increments, barely pulling away from her center, while the fabric against her core sent sharp, electric pleasure up her spine. Hermione gasped and swallowed his moans as Draco kissed her with an insatiable hunger. She tried to lower her arms to touch him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them above her head as he ground against her with increasing intensity.
The contact became unbearable. Each movement sent jolts of pleasure rippling through her, winding her tighter and tighter. Hermione felt the pressure build, her body pulsing as she reached the edge.
“Fuck, Hermione…” Draco groaned against her neck, his breath hot and ragged.
Hermione writhed beneath him, breaking free of his grip and digging her nails into his shoulders as she tumbled over the edge again, waves of pleasure wracking her body. Draco clenched his jaw, his movements growing erratic, and with a few more thrusts, he shuddered above her, a low, strangled moan escaping his lips as he came.
The tension slowly faded, leaving nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing. Draco didn’t move right away; his forehead rested against hers as they tried to catch their breath.
“That…” His voice was hoarse. “That wasn’t in my plans.”
Hermione let out a breathless laugh, still lost in the aftershocks.
“Since when do we follow plans?”
Draco closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled before shaking his head with something like resignation.
“Damn you, Granger.”