I
Reservations had been made, a note pinned to a birthday bouquet (Don’t forget, 7pm).
Like a sign, church bells tolled.
Pinching in earrings (he had bought them, the velvet-plum coloured box proudly sitting on her bedside table), she made herself beautiful.
Last time she had lost one the gold hoops in the sheets, it had been such an unbridled, brawl-like reunion when he arrived. Remembering his mouth on hers, his large broom-calloused hands. Fantasising about him inside of her helped her ignore the dread, that shallowness.
Palms sweating, she wished she had time to brew Calming Draught, she had taken the last of his vials this morning.
Lingerie, perfume, potions, it seemed as though he’d forget what he’d given her until it was strewn about the plush carpet or discarded on her sink. Not until it was used, spent, did it gain his attention - the realisation did not sit well with her.
Ginny Weasley would have thought her pathetic, even more so, if she knew she was reading horoscopes. Giving in to the pages of a glossy, Muggle magazine when he seemed so unknown, so impenetrable.
The ancient apartment bell whirred, a polite gesture sounding his arrival.
“I thought you’d forgotten me,” she stood with impeccable posture, though her ankles trembled in the pointed heels.
Looming closer to her, she was ashamed how she ached for his presence. Ever since he had left, she was preoccupied with the thought of him, his cologne and spearmint toothpaste, white starched shirts (he cared about his appearance more than most).
“Never,” his expression was radiant, amused with her waiting for him.
Like she had taken a potion, panic unraveled into intoxicating excitement. Giddy headiness when he kissed her, a reminder that at least he still desired her.
II
Hermione Granger was well prepared for his visits. Laundering her sheets, arranging pollen-dusted lilies or peonies in a vase he had gifted her, piling her research into a drawer.
Ever since she had left London in May, her self-imposed solitude stifled her before his arrival. Leaving her without ardour until he visited or when she received a Portkey, sending her to a discreet, biscuit-coloured hotel or a residence in Jaipur where she passed supernaturally through the wards.
Returning to her apartment in Rome (she tried to leave as little as possible, rushing to the news stand, the grocer, unable to bear the thought of missing him) earlier that day her heart skipped at the envelope pressed beneath her door.
Looping scrawl, a Muggle stamp for “luck”, she tried to be grateful for the polite, pleasant birthday card from Luna Lovegood though she wished it were from him.
Not that he wrote much, unless to let her know he was late or sending instructions with a Portkey. Come Monday, Thought of you, Wear black stockings. Nor did he call, though she didn’t expect him to since he was rarely in London.
III
“Give me your address,” he had unceremoniously insisted at the last gala she attended in London, celebrating her contribution to research at St Mungos. Draco Malfoy had sidled next to her to admire a painting, a welcome reprieve from the whirlwind of silk dresses, Muggle cigarettes and scrutinising stares.
Hermione Granger had been thoroughly rinsed by wizarding society. Ginny had rightfully refused to speak to her. Even Luna had been diplomatically distant.
Draco had unashamedly delighted in reading about it (An Affair to Remember, the Prophet had reported on the sordid, scandalous details). Despite her fall from grace, she stood so dignified.
Possessed with an entitled eagerness to best her, he approached her.
“Enjoying this?” she asked with a wry smile, a soft exhalation.
Draco’s sneer pirouetted, softened.
“More so without Weasley in attendance,” to which she made a sound, not quite a sob though not quite a laugh.
Draco asked for her address in Rome, she surprised herself by uncharacteristically writing it on a cream serviette instead of spurning him. Draco tucked it dutifully into his suit jacket pocket.
IV
Hermione Granger’s invitation was innocent enough.
Like predators, circling the marble sculpture. Apollo depicted desperately, relentlessly pursuing Daphne, a beautiful nymph spurned by so many lovers she wished to remain unmarried.
Gesturing towards the sculpture, muttering in hushed voices in the Galleria Borghese.
“...there is desire…” she acknowledged, brushing her shoulder against his arm as she turned. “Apollo “loved” her, yet she loathed him.”
“Are you sure?” he appeared thoughtful, interested in Muggle art.
Hermione nodded. “Daphne desperately asked her father for help, instead he transformed her into a laurel tree.”
“That’s quite cruel,” he agreed, prickling against the crowd.
“Even in this state, Apollo could not help but love her.”
“Is that not romantic, at least?”
“Hardly,” she whispered, her expression schooled. “I didn’t expect you to come.”
Draco Malfoy had made his indifference clear. Politely nodding at parties and Ministry events when he was in London, if he even noticed her.
“I don't believe that,” he replied in that learned, classic dialect.
“Well…” still uncertain, a knife’s edge between them.
Like she expected to be deceived, an uneasiness or curiosity.
“Granger, we have more in common than you’d like to admit.”
It hadn’t reassured her.
***
Grateful that when he visited, he hardly mentioned Ron Weasley, though he spoke with candour of the parties and Quidditch matches.
Draco was surprised to learn that she didn’t read The Prophet though she still had an insightful understanding of current affairs (“I’m not the least bit interested in reading tawdry gossip columns,” she tutted, a teaspoon against her saucer punctuating that sentiment). Nor was she interested in returning to London, rather content in Rome.
Between espressos, he listened with dedicated attention about her research at St Francis’, she liked hearing about his studies under an esteemed potioneer Hector Dagworth-Granger (no relation) in Jakarta.
No matter how odd, she was grateful for the companionship. Merlin she missed home, it hurt to watch young women laughing and gossiping in the piazza, she missed Ron, even Harry -
Draco’s visits throughout the summer were all she had.
Long nights at wine bars, sharing starters and speaking of their problems in the past, her testimony at his trial, their research. Elbows and arms knocking in tight, trattoria tables, one time she had nearly tripped on the cobblestones and his grasp was electric.
Draco knew he should tread carefully, there were so many reasons he shouldn't blur those lines, but what did it really matter?
Hermione Granger had an innocence that was seductive. Pillowy lips, cream-coloured skin like the inside of an apple. Dark hair like piano wood. Barely there dresses that excited him as much as her Muggle denim jeans or a buttoned up raincoat.
Blaise Zabini wasn’t surprised, muttering over a Firewhiskey that he had a pattern of involving himself with beautiful, well-known witches like Magnolia Wildwood. Draco realised then, he hadn’t never returned her owls.
Practicing restraint, he greeted her with polite kisses to the cheek. Ignored the twitch of his cock when she knocked her bare knee against hers under a tablecloth. Plucking a cherry from a whiskey sour between her lips or leaning close to light her cigarette, whether intimate or not, gave him a sick thrill.
“I’m sure I can take it,” she quipped coquettishly when he mentioned his passionate past with Astoria Greengrass. Bewildered, he cleared his throat and draped a beach towel over her, squeezing her suntanned shoulders.
“So you’d marry me for my galleons?” he asked once, though he knew his mother had her expectations. Pity, she would have liked her under different circumstances.
“I’d marry you for your galleons in a minute,” she replied. “Luckily we both have plenty.”
Draco never lingered longer than appropriate in her lofty, mezzanine apartment with its blood red carpet and ancient taps.
Even once when he had slept in her bed, he was careful not to touch her like that. Late night dancing to synths and drums had led to Powdered Dragon’s Claw, which led to Muggle cigarettes and wrapping around each other on the dance floor.
Freshly showered and warm, he stroked her hair, reasoning it wouldn’t be right like this, it’s not how he wanted it to start.
“Granger…” his voice gentle, like applying salve to a bruise. “...he’s not…with her anymore, you know…”
Hermione didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse.
Late one night in June, he closed his villa door behind them decidedly with a click.
“Is there something you want?” she had asked.
Placing aside her Firewhiskey (it was sweet how impressionable she was, mirroring his drinking habits), the tension was palpable as he leant close. Pulled her into his grasp, her gaze dark and hypnotic.
Gripping her neck, she moaned in his mouth when he kissed her, his cock hardened against her dress. No longer restrained, he asked her to strip.
“That night I saw you,” he murmured, still buried to the hilt inside her. “I pictured you in a white dress…”
V
Leaving her apartment as it were had become a ritual afterwards. Lucky cigarettes which had felt his caress in the ashtray, discarded lingerie, plates, glasses, ruined sheets like a still life portrait. Lit like a stage and stark in the daylight, the intimate decor providing semblance that he was here.
Begrudgingly, she would bathe the next day, wanting to leave his scent on her, his come inside of her. Rituals which she thought would connect her to him, it was absurd.
Between visits, she could hear his voice whisper obscenities (“Leave it on, I want to fuck you in this, kitten”) and then completely miss an Apparition point or not notice a potion boiling over.
Even when she tried to write to him (or Ron, for that matter) she couldn’t, it felt desperate.
VI
Rome had been marked, even in his absence. Fondly remembering their initial, shy espressos when she passed the piazza, the dry cleaners where she picked up that expensive dress (purchased to impress him, like the scented moisturisers and vinyl records he’d like).
Between them, moments on a grimy cobbled street corner or the late-hour gelateria where he ordered blood orange sorbet. Licking it after she tried it herself, his mouth where hers had been.
***
“Is it because I’m not Pureblood?” she grimaced, now that hurt.
Hermione had said it with so much emotion, brimming with tears.
Draco hadn’t expected to become so fond of her, to think of her when he shouldn’t. Even Theodore Nott asked whether it was still going on, said it was time to think about what really mattered, the commitments he had made.
Merlin, he adored her laugh, the cadence of her voice. Late nights speaking until the early morning, how she was pleased with Sugared Butterfly Wings as much as silk scarves. Bewitched by her supple thighs, girlish underwear with the bows, how she would drool on his cock -
Theodore had asked whether he loved her.
“No,” he lied, handing her a drink. Draco knew it was a violation, popping a vial into her drink when he was sure her view was obscured. “Now, tell me about work.”
VII
“Is it because of what happened…” it was a terrified whisper, in a moment of loneliness she had read the British newspaper in the waiting room at St Francis’.
Puddlemere United had lost another Quidditch match, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour had opened another store, she skimmed past the French Minister for Magic’s latest scandal to the gossip columns.
Between an ad for Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes and photographs of Ginny celebrating her birthday she saw his photograph. Like a Quaffle to the stomach. Parading on his arm to a charity auction was Pansy Parkinson, pixie-like whispering towards him.
“I don’t care about what happened with him.”
Draco took care to react well, ignoring his instinct to tense his jaw or his shoulders stiffen.
Pressed against the kitchen bench, she didn’t tell him how it had started in the Forest of Dean. Ron’s jealousy had been irrational, though perhaps there was a closeness between them she hadn’t recognised herself. Dancing together, crying in his arms. Hermione had kissed him, unsure and shaking until he moved her against the thin mattress, the rough canvas. Ron returned after that.
Harry and Ginny had been decidedly off, given her training with the Holyhead Harpies last August, his long nights in the Ministry, when it happened. Leaving after another argument with Ron, she had gone to Grimmauld Place, gone to -
“I didn’t know you were in London.”
“Pansy invited me at the last minute to attend one of her fundraisers,” he replied, disarming her with his touch.
Draco had a rather matter of fact manner of speaking, an aristocratic blitheness, whether it was about taking a bludger to his shoulder, the abuse he suffered at the hands of his Aunt or a particularly nice peach.
Like actors rehearsing their lines, it was a well-versed conversation. Both their reputations were delicate, that making their relationship public would cause too much of a stir at the moment. Draco would remind her that their research was their priority (“Besides, you’re much too busy at the moment,” he would assure her with such casualness like he was commenting on the weather).
Before Hermione could recognise there was never a real reason, the conversation would be whisked back to their candlelight dinner reservations or unstudied reliance on prescribed potions.
“I didn’t know you were returning to London,” she retorted, quoting the caption under the photograph.
“Don’t believe everything you read,” he stated, muttering that the Prophet wasn’t known for its journalistic integrity, adding a tailored Forgetfulness Potion to her Firewhiskey.
“Is there someone else?” she asked, though he had told her there wasn't, that he loved her -
For a second, she looked utterly confused as she drank. Drowsy and less exacting, at least she wouldn’t be so upset.
Draco knew it was sadistic and manipulative, especially considering her parents, but he couldn’t have her realising, he couldn’t have her returning to London with him.
“Go on, head upstairs,” he kissed her cheek.
VIII
Hermione Granger was eager to please, she hadn’t hesitated when he asked her to take a lust potion unlike the others. Excited whether he gently caressed her or when he was rough, demanding pulling her underwear aside in a restaurant bathroom.
When he had seen Polaroids with Ron still in her bedside table drawer (underneath a novel and several of his notes), he had wondered who else she had fucked like that.
Removing her underwear, she straddled his thigh at his instruction. Perfect still, even when she was upset or confused, his desire continued despite his intentions to punish her.
Pressing herself onto his trousers, he smirked at her neediness. Placed her hand on his hard cock, demanded she be still, pinching the straps of her dress and kissing her neck. Draco knew she was wet, rubbing herself, she sucked the fingers placed in her mouth.
Not past humiliating her, it seemed, he masturbated violently as soon as he returned to London.
Blaise had seen her at the Italian Minister’s house in August, in the crowd, smiling into her champagne with a Quidditch player. Glad he had attended on a whim, Blaise thought this relationship had to end. Delighted, he told Draco about the Australian Quidditch player. Beautiful, with broad shoulders, suntanned skin and a nose that had never set well even with an Episkey incantation.
Draco hadn’t mentioned the rumours, except when he rutted into her.
“Don’t do that again,” he warned, thinking he couldn’t leave it so long between visits. “Or do you think he can stretch you out like this?” he demanded as she came.
IX
Putting a vinyl record on the turntable, it crackled as he handed her a dosed glass of Firewhiskey.
Not noticing how he read Luna’s card with a serious expression while she opened her gifts (a green floral perfume from Cairo, a silk scarf, he was reminded that Pansy had once called his luxuries cut and dried). Grateful, she kissed him.
Draco surprised her when he opened up about his father, his mother's illness. Distractedly, he changed the subject to news of London (she flinched at Ron’s name) and how his research into Memory Potions could help her parents. Promising to return to London together for Daphne Greengrass’ engagement party, he knew she wouldn’t remember.
“You deserve a new last name,” he murmured, she blushed in the low light.
“Are you fooling me...” she whispered, lulled into a lost thought as she sipped her Firewhiskey. Pink lipstick printed on the crystal glass.
“I can't fool you."
Lying against his chest, he stroked her hair.
Gently, with warm words whispered against her neck, her cunt clenching in anticipation as he touched her.
***
Gathering his wand the next morning, she felt unsettled as he dressed (no matter if it had been hours or a week, it was the same, like a graveyard in her chest). Freshly showered, he’d button up his shirt, pull on his socks and trousers, his heirloom watch.
Draco watched as she downed a contraception potion of his making before he left Rome.
X
Draco knew that when he saw her at that party in May, he wanted to see her in a white dress. Like a nymph, she had danced, marble-like ivory skin. Lighting her cigarette with his, he pictured a Malfoy heirloom diamond ring on her hand.
No, he couldn’t talk to her all night, but she had an unexpected openness. Rather she was a riot, the life of the party even in the face of speculation. Not aloof like Astoria, without a mysterious past like Magnolia.
Draco had wondered about her lithe body, like a ballerina, an athlete. Pink wind-burnt nose, wide, welcoming mouth. Insisting that she borrow his lighter that night, giving him an excuse to speak to her.
Pansy had been a little shocked, he wondered what Theodore had told her (“I suppose, it makes sense,” she remarked, characteristically pithy).
Narcissa Malfoy was delighted, their Pureblood families would be united in celebration, their wedding would make up for all the years and the pain.
Draco liked to think about her ex-boyfriend left behind, her ex-best friend, a perverse pleasure when he fucked her. Rough, practical rather than passionate.
Now with the velvet, plum-coloured box in his pocket, an engagement ring with his mother’s blessing, he knew he could make her happy.
Ginny Weasley would be thrilled.