The Luncheon Affair
Hermione couldn't believe she had just shared lunch with both Malfoys and survived without a single riot breaking out. She was oddly proud of herself. Now, in the quiet of her apartment with Draco Malfoy, she couldn’t help but wonder if their luncheon had somehow softened the animosity between them. Surely, being in the presence of the senior Malfoy had contributed to this unexpected truce. The tension, while still palpable, felt a little lighter than it had before.
"Your father is…” Hermione tried to start the conversation.
"Intense?" Draco supplied, his tone light but knowing.
"Yes, that is one way of putting it. Yes," Hermione thought mindfully, her words catching in the air like unfinished thoughts.
"You were nervous," Draco observed, watching her closely.
"I was," she confessed without hesitation, surprising herself a little with the admission.
Draco raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her honesty. He hadn't expected that kind of openness, not from Hermione.
"Afraid you can't milk him for your future plans?" Draco joked, his voice holding a wisp of mockery.
"Yes, and this could cost Ron's life," Hermione admitted, but the thought lingered. Draco might be right. She couldn’t shake the unsettling realization that manipulating her father had just become a much more difficult task. The vulnerability he had shown her now complicated everything.
Draco, no matter how much of a prat he is, was and will always be his father’s weakness. But that was a truth Hermione hadn’t fully recognized until now. Unfortunately, Draco is not a mind reader. He took her answer literally. What he noticed, and what was gnawing at him, was that Hermione’s mind seemed far more occupied with Ron. Poor Draco was unaware of the internal battle inside Hermione’s head. It irked him. It stung more than he cared to admit. He didn’t like how she cared for that bloody git. Seeing Hermione having her thoughts drift to that redhead was unfair. It was annoying. It was like pouring ice into the fire blazing in his veins. A fire caused by none other than this witch and here she is, thinking of that redhead.
It was past seven in the evening, and they were still together. And without a doubt, it wasn’t because they wanted to be in each other’s company any longer. They simply wanted to rest after the eventful day and did not realize that they are still in each other’s company… indubitably.
"Did you enjoy the food?" Draco asked, his tone light but curious.
Hermione snorted. "Malfoy, I may be inclined to tolerate small talk with Malfoy Sr., but not with you."
At this, Draco felt his stomach churn. He really had been curious if she had enjoyed herself. He must have frowned more than he realized, because Hermione, of all people, noticed. It was rare to see Draco show this much emotion, and yet here she was, witnessing it. Somehow, it made her feel guilty.
"The food was as expected. Clean and suave," she said, almost dismissively.
"And?" Draco pressed, clearly wanting more.
"Malfoy, I’m no food connoisseur. There’s no need to describe food the way chefs do on TV shows."
"Yes, I know. It's just... well, it’s food. What do chefs even do on a TV show, anyway?"
"Wait, you know what a TV show is?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"I know, Granger. I’m not a nomad," Draco huffed, a little amused despite himself.
"Well, forgive me, Master, for it is a Muggle thing," Hermione teased, a light giggle escaping her lips.
Draco couldn’t help but join in, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile.
"So, the food was good?" he asked, still seeking her opinion.
"Okay, I’ll give you my critique if you crave it this much. Jesus, were you even the one who cooked it?" Hermione said, exasperated.
Draco didn’t answer. He really did want to know her thoughts.
"Well, the steak was okay. Too raw for my liking. The oysters too. I mean, yes, oysters are usually eaten fresh, but I’d prefer mine baked with béchamel sauce on top. Weird, I know, but it’s my preference. The marinated raw fish, though—that one I’ve never tasted before. It seemed to be splashed with a citrusy juice, but not lemon. Something else. With vinegar and black pepper. Probably a bit of salt as well. That one, I like," Hermione explained, her voice softening as she shared her thoughts.
"So overall, the food was to your liking, except the steak?" Draco asked, his tone sincere.
"The doneness of the steak wasn’t really the problem. I think I just don’t like it paired with their mashed potatoes. I think they poured a dash of truffle oil in there?" she said thoughtfully.
"Hmm, we’ll have to tell the chef," Draco said, clearly willing to make the suggestion.
"Malfoy, no need. It’s not like we’ll be dining together again anyway," Hermione rolled her eyes, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.
Draco didn’t answer right away, though he found himself reflecting on the idea of future meals with her. Besides, he felt relieved knowing that Hermione likes her steak raw.
After a while, Hermione spoke again, her voice carrying a hint of sleepiness.
“I was really nervous a while ago,” she admitted. it was probably the tiresome and very long day wearing down her walls.
“Yes, you’ve mentioned,” Draco jokes, a teasing lilt in his tone.
“Your father can be intimidating,” Hermione described, her voice softer now.
“Yes, that’s his job. For being observant, I must praise you. Good girl,” Draco teased. Little did he know, his praise made Hermione’s heart flutter.
Looking back on the day they’d spent together, she realized just how nervous she had been. It was actually quite adorable, in its own way.
—-----
Hermione Jean Granger’s palms were clammy, beads of sweat clinging to her skin, each breath coming out in a hasty rush. Her chest tightened, and she could feel her heartbeat hammering beneath the fabric of her blouse. She clenched her fists, willing the tremor in her hands to subside. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, but she was determined to keep it together. After all, it was one thing to discuss Lucius Malfoy in theory, dissecting him as if he were some distant concept—another to be in the same room with him, facing the man himself.
She had heard the stories; known the history. But somehow, now that the moment had arrived, it was as if everything she’d read, every lecture she’d given herself, had evaporated into thin air.
There was something about him—something undeniably magnetic. His approval, if she were to be honest with herself, was more enticing than she cared to admit. It wasn’t just the obvious advantages it could bring—wealth that could fill vaults deep beneath the earth’s surface, connections that spanned the length and breadth of the wizarding world. No, it went deeper than that. His approval, she realized, was a currency of power. A key to doors she didn’t even know existed. Sure, she could tell herself she was doing it for Ron—for the cause—but even she knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
The thought of using him as a stepping stone in her own ambitions, to one day stand behind the Minister’s desk herself, was a temptation she couldn't fully shake. It was no secret that Lucius Malfoy played a game far beyond anything the average wizard could fathom, and if there was one thing Hermione Granger understood, it was the value of playing a game at its highest level.
She snapped back to reality when they halted in front of the restaurant. Exclusive. Naturally. The kind of place where the rich and powerful congregated. It’s simple and elusive. It screams wealth and their status. She hadn't noticed how long they'd been walking, lost in her thoughts. Hadn't even realized that Draco Malfoy—her reluctant companion—was still at her side.
She did not realize at first but as she tried to gauge him, his presence felt different now. She could feel him next to her, his subtle shifts in stance, the way his gaze flickered every now and then, studying her.
"Granger, I can hear your heartbeat. Relax. It's just Malfoy Sr." Draco's voice was smooth, almost kind, as he tried to ease the tension that had wound itself so tightly around her. But the words, despite their calm delivery, landed wrong. Something about it gnawed at her. It wasn’t the concern she’d been expecting, nor the disdain she’d half-anticipated. It was simply... off. She wasn’t used to Malfoy's kindness.
She forced a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure, I’m used to having Malfoy Jr. around. What’s one more to the table, right?” Her voice was light, but there was an edge—sharp, carefully concealed. She couldn’t quite tell whether it was the irony of the situation or the absurdity of Draco’s attempt at comfort that rubbed her the wrong way.
He hated being called Malfoy Jr., and she knew it, but she wasn't about to waste time being polite. She’s picking a fight due to nervousness; this Draco understood. He could deal with it. She, on the other hand, was too focused on the swirl of thoughts clouding her mind to notice how he leaned to her side for support, as if closing the distance within them to calm both their nerves.
To most, it would be a discomfort, an awkwardness in the space. To Draco, however, it was something else—something a bit darker, more intriguing. Hermione’s scent of vulnerability was intoxicating, like the faintest hint of something forbidden. It wasn’t pity, nor was it malice—just the raw, unfiltered rush of Hermione on the edge, trying her best to hold herself together. And he, with all his finely-tuned senses, was more than able to detect it. It’s addicting.
Thank the stars for his keen senses. Not that he’d ever tell her that. It was arousing to watch her squirm, unaware of how deeply he could read her, how easily her nerves betrayed her. He cannot help but think of other ways he could make her squirm.
—
Lucius Malfoy was a man of finesse, every movement calculated, every gesture deliberate. Where Draco’s build was lean, lithe, and deceptively strong, Lucius was solid—muscular, with the kind of strength that came not just from physicality, but from the weight of his influence. Hermione couldn’t help but draw the comparison as she studied them both. One thing they have in common must be how they command, like even the space they occupy bend under the forces of their will.
They had barely settled into their seats when the quiet hum of conversation was shattered by an interruption. A witch—tall, with a haughty air about her that only wealth could afford. She practically reeked of old money, the kind of wealth that clung to her like an expensive perfume, both refined and untouchable.
Draco, for his part, didn’t flinch. He recognized her, or at least, he was sure he did. But the name danced just out of reach, as if she were part of some obscure network of people he had no particular desire to remember. She held a certain undeniable presence, the type that only years of being on the inside of the wizarding elite could cultivate.
"How charming," Hermione murmured under her breath, her tone far too sweet for the contempt she felt bubbling just beneath the surface.
Draco's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Charming, indeed." His voice was a perfect mask of indifference, though a glimmer of amusement flickered in his eyes as he waited for the inevitable conversation to unfold.
"Good morning, Lucius," the witch said smoothly, her voice carrying the weight of familiarity. "My daughter has just come home from Egypt. I’m sure Draco would be enthralled with her stories."
Hermione watched as Lucius’s face, ever composed, betrayed no hint of surprise or interest, yet his voice, smooth and deliberate as always, responded with a quiet agreement. "Egypt is an interesting place."
"Indeed," Lucius said, his eyes scanning the room, as if already bored with the conversation. "What say you?" Added the witch.
Lucius smiled, a glint of something almost bored incandescent in his gaze. "Hmm?"
"About my daughter, I mean," she clarified, her tone light but carrying an underlying intent. "She could be very entertaining when she wants to be."
Hermione’s mind immediately began racing. A daughter from Egypt? A connection that could be of interest, perhaps? Or maybe an old flame? No, more likely a fling? She cannot help but feel irritated for reasons unbeknownst to her. The idea of Malfoy with another witch bothered her. She wanted to form a response but knew she lacked the authority nor the right to do so. Instead, she listened as the witch continued, her words falling like an offer.
"Maybe they can meet at the gala? Your wife has been planning one, yes?"
“Indeed” was the only answer Lucius gave.
And with that, the witch simply turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking against the floor with the finality of a door closing behind her.
Draco’s voice, laced with frustration, broke the brief silence that followed. "Father, must you really?"
Lucius didn’t flinch, his gaze turning to his son with a cool indifference that was a trademark of his. "I’m merely providing opportunities, Draco," he replied, a faint edge to his voice. "You never know what might be... useful."
At this, Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound surprising even herself. She’d never seen Draco so aggravated. He always seemed so controlled, always had that air of icy composure that made him almost impossible to read. But now? Now he looked like a storm was brewing just under his perfectly polished surface.
“Well, Ms. Granger, I’m glad I could be of entertainment,” Lucius said, his tone clipped, a trace of amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione replied, her lips curling into a sly smile, “I’m glad you could be a menace for your son.”
The tension that had been hanging between them seemed to shift, and for a moment, it felt like the conversation had reached some unspoken agreement. Lucius shifted gears, abruptly starting a new topic.
"The weather isn’t nice," he remarked, his tone as neutral as if he were commenting on the state of the parchment on the table.
Hermione blinked, taken off guard by the sudden change of topic. But, always one to go along with the flow, she followed suit.
She glanced out the window, taking in the dreary scene beyond. The sky was overcast, a pale grey that stretched endlessly above. "But it’s a good day," she mused, her voice thoughtful. "A bit cloudy. Less sun, more coldness. It’s a good day."
"I am merely having a small conversation here," Lucius said, his voice smooth but with a faint edge of something else, something she couldn’t quite place.
"And this is me going along with your so-called small conversation," Hermione replied with a flick of her wrist, her tone light but undeniably sharp.
Lucius’s lips twitched, clearly amused. "If you must know, going along means agreeing."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Oh please, has no one ever disagreed with you?"
"Many have, my dear," Lucius said, his voice rich with a mixture of pride and resignation. "Many have."
There was a quiet pause, as if the air itself was waiting for her response.
She’d never been one for small talk, never been the type to indulge in casual banter. Their conversation danced from ideologies to worldviews to doctrines. Having a sound dialogue with Lucius Malfoy was something she did not see coming, but she immediately realized that this man, for all the hushes and whispers following him, could carry a conversation.
Draco for his part, watched, eyes narrowing slightly in disbelief. His father—Lucius Malfoy, a man known for his strict demeanor, his disdain for frivolous conversation—was engaging in small talk, something that was, to Draco’s knowledge, a complete waste of time for him. Lucius never bantered, never played games with words unless there was a clear, calculated purpose. But now, with the witch beside him, he was… enjoying it? It was unsettling to watch, this side of his father he hadn’t often seen,
"Draco’s annoyance brought you glee," Lucius remarked, his tone matter of fact, as if he were commenting on the weather. There was no mistaking the seriousness iin his voice.
Hermione didn’t flinch, merely meeting his gaze with an arched eyebrow, as if he were stating the obvious.
"And I am to believe that this is due to your complicated past, yes?" Lucius asked.
There it was—the blow. The kind of subtle jab Lucius would drop when he was feeling particularly bothered by the presence of others, as if the conversation were simply a chess game and everyone else was just a piece to be moved.
Hermione didn’t react immediately, but Draco could feel the shift in her. It was as though Lucius was testing her, trying to read her reactions the way he’d read the papers or the lines of a carefully constructed contract. Was it a power play? Or was he simply accustoming her to his presence, to the idea of her?
"And I am to expect," Lucius continued, his voice soft yet heavy with authority, "that this... whatever or however complicated it must be for you, will bring back Draco in one piece. Yes?"
“I understand the dire situation your friend brought himself with and I acknowledge how winning this negotiation with Nott would be of immense advantage to house Malfoy… however, such advantage would be futile without its heir to carry it all forward” Lucius lamented almost dramatically. He can be dramatic if he wants to be.
Hermione’s gaze locked with Lucius’s, the weight of his words sinking in. The tension in the room thickened. Lucius didn’t tolerate distractions—personal, emotional, or otherwise—especially when it came to matters of importance. That was a warning. A subtle reminder.
As much as Draco disliked this side of his father’s personality, he knew exactly what this was: a warning shot. And it was aimed directly at Hermione, who, for all her sharp wit, was now walking a fine line.
With that, Hermione was rendered speechless. The weight of Lucius’s words hung in the air, and for a long moment, she could only nod, as if to acknowledge the gravity of what he had said. She hadn't expected that—didn't expect him to care in such a way, or to show any kind of vulnerability. But there it was, unmistakable in the way he spoke, the subtle concern buried beneath the layers of calculated coolness.
For all his arrogance, for all his cold, imposing presence, Lucius Malfoy was, after all, a father. And his words now, however veiled in formality, were meant to ensure his son went home safely.
In that instant, something inside Hermione shifted. She felt an overwhelming sense of guilt—an emotion she rarely allowed herself to indulge in, especially not when it came to people like the Malfoys.
She had been so consumed with using them, with calculating how she could twist situations for her own benefit, for Ron’s sake, but now, seeing this side of Lucius, seeing that he could care for Draco in such a human way, it hit her with the force of a tidal wave. She had been so wrapped up in thinking of how she could use both of them for her own advantage—beyond just saving Ron from captivity, beyond whatever political moves she could make for herself—that she had completely overlooked the possibility of genuine connections.
She hadn't realized it before, but Lucius Malfoy, despite everything he represented, could be capable of this. He was a man who felt, who was willing to ensure his son’s safety above all else. And for a fleeting moment, she saw him not as a mere obstacle or tool, but as something else entirely.
The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth—guilt, yes, but also something else. A stirring in her conscience she hadn’t anticipated.
And for all intents and purposes, Draco felt chastised. His father had orchestrated this luncheon with one goal in mind—to ensure that Draco returned home in one piece. Yet here he was, distracted by the long-legged beauty sitting beside him, far more focused on her than the very reason they were all gathered here.
She wore a sage green strap dress that hugged her body just enough to be alluring without being overt. The hem stopped only a few inches above her ankle, but the slit running up her leg—cut so high, at least above her knee—left him trying (and failing) to focus.
As if the slit wasn’t distracting enough, she topped the ensemble with a coat, which, in Draco’s opinion, served absolutely no purpose at all. It didn’t keep her warm, and it certainly didn’t hide the exposed skin that seemed to taunt him every time she moved. He found himself struggling to look away, to rein in his wandering thoughts. It was maddening. The sight of her was driving him insane.
Great. As if the unique scent of strawberries that clung to her skin wasn’t enough to send his senses spiraling, now he had to fight the urge to let his eyes linger just a little too long on the amount of skin she was showing.
His thoughts were interrupted, thankfully, when the waiter arrived with the dessert—a welcomed distraction, yet to his dismay, it only seemed to deepen his predicament. He could feel his heart rate quicken, the tension in the air thickening, and all he wanted to do was finish this meal and get out of there before his concentration completely shattered.
But it seemed the universe had other plans for him today.
It was just a flan—nothing special, nothing new. But it seemed to him that the air around her was alive with it. He could hear the soft scrape of her spoon against the dish, the subtle thud of it as it is lifted towards her mouth, a faint, rhythmic sound that echoed in his heightened hearing. Her breath, soft but steady, filled the space, mingling with the scent of the flan. It wasn't just sugar and vanilla; it was something sweeter, something more tantalizing, wrapped in the warmth of her presence. His nostrils flared as he breathed it in, a hunger stirring deep within him, far more than simple thirst.
Her movements were slow. He could hear the faintest wetness of her tongue as it licked the spoon, savoring the texture of it. It wasn’t just the taste she was enjoying; it was the act itself—each flick of her tongue, each slow, measured swallow, a rhythm echoing deep within his chest. The soft sounds she made, almost like a whimper, sliced through the air, reaching his ears like the call of prey. His pulse quickened. The ache in his belly, the gnawing hunger only for her.
The heat of her body and the soft pulse of her breath wove together in the air, intoxicating his senses. Unfortunately for him, all his senses were sharpened beyond human comprehension, which made it impossible to ignore the way she smelled, intensifying his hunger for her. He could almost taste it—her, the slow, deliberate pleasure she took in each bite. It called to him, an urge so deep it made his throat tighten, his limbs stiff with longing. The tension in the air was thick, more than he could bear, each sound and scent layering over him like the brush of fur against his skin.
How could something so simple—so sweet—drive him to the brink of madness? If he was being honest, she was simply enjoying her dessert, or probably eating slowly to process his father’s words. But he was never an honest man. He sees her eating that damn flan and all his common sense went south.
Great Salazar! It was just a flan—nothing special, nothing new. He ordered it often, almost absentmindedly. Yet, watching her eat like that made him hard. His rational brain told him that she was simply eating. Nothing sensual yet his stupid senses cannot help but kick in. The soft moans she made with each bite felt like a pull spiking his pulse, a slow, torturous tease. The flan forgotten in the wake of the desire she was igniting with every tantalizing motion.
In the end, he excused himself and went to the comfort room; locked the door and pictured in his mind how her tongue darted out to meet the spoon, tracing it with languid, deliberate strokes, savoring each bite as if it was the only thing that mattered. He has not even had the time to undo his pants. He was, to his hunger, just immediately grabbed his cock and moved his hands in motion. His breathing became more ragged, a burning ache stirring low in his belly, primal and insistent until he was a pool of mess, his boxers felt sticky and his pants wet. Whatever was he doing in whatever Salazar’s name? He will never bore this truth to anyone. It was her fault and her creamy legs and pinkish lips and pointy tongue laving the flan and the sounds. Sweet Salazar those moans will be the death of him.
Afterwards, he did a nonverbal charm to clean himself and make sure no spot or wet marks were left on his pants. But to his utter and outright libido, he left his semen pooling in his boxers. He wanted to feel something, a reminder of her in him if one must ask. He fixed himself, feeling the wetness caused by none other than the brown haired witch before going back to their table. No one would be the wiser that his luncheon affair went animalistic.
—