Chapter 4
“What time was your dinner party supposed to start?” Hermione asked.
It was dim in the lift but she cast a Lumos, then leaned her wand against the wall. The effect was vaguely candle-like, and Hermione thought about how—at just this moment—she was supposed to be sitting at a candlelit table and making conversation with Charlie.
“Eight thirty,” Draco said, checking his watch. “I can probably still make it, if the lift repair guy gets here in the next fifteen minutes or so.”
There was a maintenance contact button on the wall that they'd used to send a notice to the elevator repair company. Hermione secretly thought it wouldn’t be the worst if she and Draco were stuck here longer than fifteen minutes. She liked spending time with him, and it felt like they were suspended in some sort of outside-reality little box at the moment. Untouchable by the rest of the world, just making conversation.
Hermione crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back against the lift wall.
“This was supposed to be my first date in over a year, you know," she said. "I'm not surprised that the lift broke. I’m sort of cursed when it comes to romance.”
"Oh?" Draco asked.
Hermione wished she could see his face. But the light from her wand was dim.
“My last relationship didn’t end well," she said, clearing her throat. “And Charlie is, um. He’s actually my ex’s brother.”
Draco was silent. Hermione was worried he was judging her, and regretted saying anything.
But then Draco moved slightly and the paper bag between his legs rustled; he pulled out the bottle of wine. He muttered a spell and Hermione saw his silhouette cup its hand over the bottle as the cork popped neatly out.
Hermione laughed.
“Opening the wine?" she asked. "Don't you need that for the party?"
“Your predicament feels more dire,” he said. His voice was low and warm, softened with fondness. “Unless you don’t drink? We can have cake instead.”
“I won't say no to wine," Hermione said, smiling. “Let me see what I can Transfigure into glasses.”
“Here,” Draco said, fiddling with his wrist.
He reached for her hand and positioned it palm-up, then dropped a cufflink into it. He took his other cufflink off and handed it to her as well.
“These look nice,” she said, holding the silver circles up to the wandlight. “Are you sure you want them turned into glassware?”
“It’s fine. Go on.”
Hermione picked up her wand and Transfigured the cufflinks into two sparkling wine glasses. She held one out to Draco and he filled it, then took the empty one from her and filled it for himself. Their fingers brushed and she quelled a little flutter of butterflies.
“Cheers,” Draco said, clinking his glass to hers. "I'm sorry you're missing your date. It's a shame you got dressed up for nothing."
Hermione took a fortifying sip of wine.
"Not for nothing, maybe," she said, fiddling with her glass. "You're here, after all."
She heard his soft, low laugh. Hermione flushed a little. Draco was a few years older, and she worried that the self-consciously flirtatious lilt in her voice was pathetically transparent to him.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “Must be my lucky day.”
–
Draco hadn’t been sure which wine to bring. He wanted to bring one Hermione would like, but there had been no bottles of wine in her flat so he was uncertain of her preference.
He’d taken a chance and brought one of his favorite Merlots. Maybe she would like it too.
He didn’t feel guilty about getting them stuck in the elevator, although he did feel bad about bringing the lift to a halt so aggressively. The mention of Charlie had aggravated him; he didn’t mean to be so rough. Hermione's poor little ankle.
Draco hadn’t been totally dishonest with Hermione. There was, in fact, a dinner party this evening. It was thrown by a woman named Pansy Parkinson who had invited him at the request of her parents, who were old friends of the Malfoys. And while Draco was sure that Pansy was a perfectly nice person—and he did look forward to making some friends in London once this whole business with Hermione was good and settled—he didn’t have time for that tonight.
Given Draco's deficiency of empathy, much of his ability to blend in and succeed in interpersonal matters came down to planning. To know what sorts of things he would have to do to make what sorts of impressions on people. What would he say, and when? What would his facial expression need to look like? He did not have the luxury of acting on instinct, of deciding what to do in the moment.
Because when Draco acted on instinct, he scared people.
His plan to win Hermione, therefore, had been carefully crafted and years in the making. It was an all-consuming effort. Draco had hoarded information, had put together and discarded dozens of possible forays into her life. He’d kept an eye on her from afar—his beautiful, sparkling girl. Sharp and complicated; a cut glass charm hanging from a wind chime, fluttering just out of his reach. And although Draco was impatient to have her, he'd taken his time. He waited until he had the sense she was longing for a man in her life, and ready to settle down.
Moving to Flora Place had been the first step. Being as Hermione was a pragmatic sort of girl, Draco was sure she wouldn’t want to get involved with a neighbor. So this period of time was all about fostering their friendship, fostering trust and warmth. Then, in five weeks, Draco would tell her he was moving out of Flora Place.
I’m moving to my family home in the country. There’s business there I need to be around for.
He would tell her that, standing in her doorway with some daisies in hand. He would make sure his face was the perfect blend of nervous and resolute. And then:
I’ve been working up the courage to ask. And I worry it’s now or never. Can I take you to dinner sometime?
And Hermione would say: Yes! I’d love that.
Draco watched her in the dusky dark of the lift, playing that rosy future scenario in his head over and over, like a favorite part of a novel. Hermione didn't even know yet, how good of a man he would be to her. Even now, she looked embarrassed at having told Draco about her date with her ex boyfriend's brother. As though such a small thing could color Draco's feelings towards her.
You don’t need to worry, sugar, he wanted to say. Everything is going to work out perfectly anyway.
One glass of wine later and things were moving along quite well. Hermione was telling him about her childhood.
“I always sort of wished I had a sibling,” she said, pouring herself a little more from the bottle. “It was just—a bit lonely. My parents both worked.”
"I understand," Draco said. "I'm also an only child."
“Were you lonely? Growing up?”
For a moment, Draco was silent. He was trying to figure out which answer Hermione would most like to hear, which answer would endear him to her more. But being in this small space with her—smelling her shampoo, seeing the delicate curve of her nose and cheeks illuminated by wandlight—was more distracting than he'd expected.
“Yes,” he finally said, opting to tell the truth. “I was.”
Hermione sighed quietly.
They were sitting next to each other, very close. Draco was extremely aware of the single place their bodies were in contact: her shoulder against his bicep. She was so much smaller than him.
He was just about to shift slightly away from her (he needed to maintain strict focus, and the constant brush of her shoulder against her arm was starting to feel too good) when—to Draco’s extreme surprise—Hermione moved closer.
She shifted her body a little, then leaned her head tentatively against his shoulder.
Draco froze.
This was not in the plan. Physical intimacy of any kind was not meant to happen tonight, and Draco was unprepared even at this small contact.
“Are you—feeling alright?” he asked.
Hermione's cheek was soft against his shoulder. He looked down and saw the dark sweep of her eyelashes, curving sweetly against her cheek.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m having a nice time.”
“Oh. That’s great. I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’m a bit of a lightweight,” Hermione admitted. “Make sure I don’t have another glass, okay?”
“Of course,” Draco said.
He picked up the bottle and set it further away from her.
Hermione hummed contentedly, then nuzzled her cheek a little against Draco’s shoulder. When she tipped her face into his collar, her breath a hot tickle against the sensitive skin of his neck, his breathing stuttered to a stop.
“Hermione,” he said. "I don't know if this is—"
Hermione inhaled against his skin. Then she pressed a kiss to his neck, just over his pulse point.
Draco's self control snapped like a twig.
He seized her jaw with one hand and dragged her to him. Her lips were soft. Draco made an involuntary noise of need and gripped her by the waist with his other hand, pulling her closer.
Her body was warm. He wanted her closer. Draco wrapped his fingers around the curve of her thigh, trying to pull her to him…
Hermione lurched suddenly away from him, her breathing heavy.
"Um..." she breathed, sounding dazed.
She touched her hand to her mouth. She seemed overwhelmed.
Draco collected himself, quelling the vibrating, urgent desire in his chest.
He'd gone too fast.
He’d scared her.
"Sorry," he said, trying to control his breathing. “Sorry. I—“
Hermione didn’t speak and he needed her to say something. In the darkness of the elevator, her expression was too shrouded for him to be able to read her.
He inched backwards, trying to indicate that he was giving her space. That he wasn't frightening.
"Hermione?" he asked. He cleared his throat. "Are you alright..."
The lift gave a sturdy jolt. The lights flickered back on. A moment later, it had started its descent down to the ground floor.
Draco had been too distracted to maintain the Holding Charm he'd been using to keep the lift suspended between floors.
Everything was falling apart. The plan was falling apart.
Draco’s heart hammered like an overheated machine in his chest.
Fuck.
Fuck.
His eyes adjusted to the sudden return of fluorescent light and found Hermione’s expression. She looked shocked. Her eyes were wide and she was still touching her mouth, her cheeks bright and flushed.
They stared at each other.
Hermione's eyes dropped to Draco's mouth, and he realized he probably had her lipstick all over his face. He quickly rubbed his lips with his thumb, trying to remove the stains. He didn’t want her to look at him and see him debauched, he didn’t want her to think he was sloppy—
"I didn't want that," he tried to explain, his voice shaking, wiping his mouth.
Hermione flinched.
”What?” she asked. "What do you mean?"
”I—you leaned on me,” he said. “And I—“
“Right,” Hermione said, and her cheeks were red. “Sorry, no—that was, um—”
Draco was shaking. He was saying the wrong things, this was why he'd needed a plan to start with. Before he had time to salvage the situation, the lift doors opened.
“Okay, well,” Hermione said quickly, avoiding his eyes. "Goodnight! And sorry, you can just pretend I never…”
She gave him a quick, awkward smile and scurried out of the elevator, her purse gripped in white-knuckled hands. Draco watched her leave, his heart pounding.
Fuck. Fuck.
Draco had not felt panic like this in years, if ever. Why had he fucked up the plan like this? What if he'd ruined everything?
He rushed back to his flat and fumbled for the notebook in his desk drawer. In an uncharacteristically untidy scrawl, Draco wrote down the events of the evening. Methodical record-keeping was important. Only with an accurate understanding of where things had gone off the rails would he be able to come up with a new plan that could fix things.
What had happened? He had urged her forward too quickly. He'd accidentally hurt her feelings too, after. What had he done?
Draco stood suddenly from his desk and rubbed his face. He paced back and forth in his bedroom, too adrenalized to sit still. There was a box of photographs of Hermione under his desk and after a tortured moment he dragged it out. Looking at photos of her was always calming. It would ground him right now.
Most of the photographs were clippings from the Daily Prophet. But some—a small number, not too self-indulgent—were candids that Draco had taken from the street outside Flora Place. Hermione sometimes read on the couch near her balcony window. The most recent photo showed her in an oversized t-shirt, hair still wet from the shower and a toothbrush in her mouth as she organized her bookshelf.
Draco held up the photo to his face, his jaw clenched.
She was so beautiful.
He hadn't meant to scare her.
Draco stood and brought the photograph with him into his closet. The corkboard there was covered in all his favorite mementos: moving black and white photographs of Hermione smiling out of Hogwarts class photos, Daily Prophet articles featuring her beaming face, proud and happy as she received awards. The napkin with the kiss of her lipstick on it, that—since that afternoon date—Draco had sometimes gazed at and touched, pining for the day he could kiss her for real.
He'd refrained from pinning up this candid photograph in particular, because he loved holding it, loved looking at it. But right now, the thought of fixing it carefully to his wall gave him some comfort. He could exercise control here, if not in the larger events of this evening.
Draco fastened the photograph securely to the center of the board, then swallowed. He returned to his bedroom and started looking through the rest of the cardboard box of photographs, pulling others out that he wanted to put on his wall. He laid them out carefully on his bedsheets, in neat rows.
Just then, there was an abrupt knock on the door.
Draco straightened up and flicked his gaze out his bedroom, through the kitchen and to the front door. In his time with the Bulgarian Aurors, Draco had made a small number of enemies who, on occasion, showed up at his doorstep. He produced his wand from his coat pocket and went to the door. He opened it without checking the peephole, a lesson he'd learned after a face-first run in with a Stinging Hex.
But it was not a grizzled petty criminal standing out in the hall.
It was Hermione. Draco dropped his wand out of shock. It clattered to the floor and he swore and picked it up.
“Hey,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Hi. Are you alright? I wasn’t expecting—”
Hermione's eyes were bright, her cheeks very pink.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
He stared at her.
”Yes,” he said. “Probably too much.”
Hermione rushed forward to kiss him.
Her lips were soft. She was much shorter than him and had to stand on her toes to reach him.
Draco fielded an animal rush of consuming desire. He yanked her closer by the waist and bit down on her lip. Hermione made a choked noise of pleasure and arched against him.
”You came here instead of your date?” Draco hissed against her mouth. She shivered and nodded, such a good girl.
He mouthed at her neck and Hermione gasped, then pressed her palms flat to his chest and urged them backwards into his flat.
He stumbled back and let her in without a second thought.
Hermione seemed beside herself with nerves and desire. Her face radiant and flushed, and her fingers trembled as she fumbled with his shirt buttons.
“You're so handsome,” she whispered. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
“Of course—“ he slurred against her mouth, but then he froze.
Draco reached up and grabbed her wrist, stopping from her undoing more of his shirt buttons. Hermione couldn’t be here in his flat.
The notebook. The files… the photos—
She seemed to like the way he seized her wrists and kept her still, she whined and pressed her face against his collarbone, kissing the skin there.
“Hermione,” Draco said, and his voice was rough and hoarse. “Let’s go to your place. Not here.”
"Why?" she asked.
“Let’s go,” he said again, not answering her. She started to look over his shoulder and he kissed her, angling her body away from his room. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's go to your place...”
“I want to stay here,” she whispered, clutching his hand, even as her back arched against him. “Please? To your bed…”
She tried to turn and Draco—fast running out of options—picked her up. This elicited a gasp of excitement from Hermione.
He set her on the kitchen counter, facing safely away from his bedroom. He moved close to the counter and Hermione’s knees parted automatically to let him near. Her dress rode up. Her underwear was pink.
“My room is a mess,” he whispered in a strangled voice, unable to stop himself from gazing at the soft pink fabric. "Okay? So let's go to your flat, and you'll be more comfortable."
Hermione's expression flitted somewhere between hurt and suspicion.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Why don’t you want me in your room?"
Draco didn't answer. His mouth had gone dry. And in that moment, a dark shadow of uncertainty came over Hermione's pretty features. He had seen that look before. In people who were just starting to realize that there was something other about Draco.
He reached for her cheek, stroked his thumb against her soft skin, trying to salvage the situation.
“Nothing is wrong," he breathed. "Of course nothing is wrong."
“Then take me to your bedroom,” she said, her eyes wide and nervous.
He did. It was the right decision—or so he tried to convince himself. He scooped her up from the counter and she wrapped his legs around him at once, her suspicion melting into happy desire. The spot between her thighs was so warm, pressed against him, hot against his navel. She kissed his cheek, his nose, his ear. Draco felt drunk with the pleasure of it all.
The lights in his room were off, he reasoned to himself. The closet door was mostly closed, he just had to make sure she didn't see any photos he'd left lying out.
He glanced at the bed, at the desk, at the floor. Hermione took advantage of the angle of his head to nibble at his neck and Draco groaned, willing himself to focus.
The cardboard box full of photos was closed and under his desk—that was good.
There were at least half a dozen photographs of Hermione laying neatly side by side on Draco’s bed—that was bad.
“Close your eyes,” he said, not knowing what else to do.
Hermione’s breath stuttered.
“Are you bossy in bed?” she breathed. “Oh, I like that.”
“Be a good girl,” Draco whispered against her ear. "And close your eyes."
She shivered and covered her eyes with her slender fingers.
Draco dropped her on his bed. Her brown curls spread out like a halo behind her head, soft and lovely against his dark sheets. As soon as he Vanished these photos he was going to make her scream his name.
He reached in his pocket and realized he'd left his wand in the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder. He'd left it on the counter, distracted by Hermione's parted legs in front of him.
Draco picked up the photos instead, as quickly and quietly as he could, and tried to shove them in the nightstand drawer. But Hermione writhed impatiently and searched for his arm, then held his wrist and dragged it to her lower stomach.
“Touch me,” she begged, lifting the hem of her dress.
Draco had to let go of the photographs. A few landed face-down on the nightstand, and a few fell to the floor.
One landed face up on the bed, right next to Hermione's face. A candid. She was in a bra, holding a mug of tea to her lips.
Fuck.
Hermione kept her fingers on Draco's wrist, as though making sure he would touch her now, where she needed him to.
Draco slid his hand under the dress and ran his thumb over the gusset of her underwear, making Hermione's hips jump.
His eyes remained fixed on the photo of Hermione. The moving black and white image looked back at Draco, looking scandalized at what he was doing with her flesh and blood counterpart.
“I want to make you feel good,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Just give me one second..."
But as his touch left her, Hermione whined and her eyes opened. If she only turned her head by ten degrees she would see the photo—
Draco hushed her soothingly and returned his hand to her center. Automatically, Hermione's eyes rolled back and drifted shut.
The situation was too fragile. Draco was intensely aware of how dangerous it was, how everything seemed like a huge pane of glass that would shatter irreparably if given single firm tap in the right place.
The adrenaline and panic and arousal mingled confusingly in his stomach, and he was harder than he'd ever been. The photograph of Hermione looked accusingly at him and he tried to ignore it. He pulled Hermione's underwear to the side, groaned at the sight of how wet she was.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. So beautiful. Wet and slick and pink, the sight alone made his mouth water.
“Touch me,” Hermione begged again, and Draco looked up at her to see that her eyes had opened again.
"Close your eyes," he ordered again, an edge of urgency in his voice.
Hermione giggled and did, but Draco realized he couldn't rely on her self-control. His sweet needy girl. His eyes fixed on her face, making sure she didn’t peek, Draco tugged at the tie around his neck, unknotting it with one hand and pulling it free from his collar.
He put it over Hermione's eyes, then eased her head slightly up to wrap the silk tie around her head.
It was clear Hermione liked this. An eager shiver ran down her and she parted her thighs wider.
“Eyes covered,” he cooed, kissing her inner thigh. “Okay? Like a good girl.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I want to be good.”
Draco made an involuntary noise. His cock was achingly hard and he pushed his hips into the bed a little, trying to relieve the ache.
He pressed two fingers to Hermione’s clit and dragged them in a firm circle around the sensitive peak.
Hermione gasped and thrust against his hand.
“Yeah?” he breathed, staring into her face, the lips and nose and bright cheeks twisted into an expression of pleasure under the thick band of his tie, wrapped tight over her eyes. “That’s how you like it, sweetheart?”
He dragged his fingers a little harder, the circle tighter and faster, and Hermione sobbed.
“More,” she begged.
"I can do more," he promised, letting his thumb drift up and down over her entrance while his fingers still toyed with her clit. "I can do that for you. Can I put my finger in you?"
"Yes, yes..."
Draco pulled aside her underwear and slid his thumb into her. She was soaking wet, slippery and vice-tight, clenched responsively at the entrance of his thick thumb into her.
“You’re so tight," he said, seeing spots as her walls pulsed around him. "Oh, fuck."
He removed his thumb from her and slid in his index finger instead, the better to reach along her inner wall for the soft spot that he knew would make her—
Hermione screamed.
Draco exhaled sharply, then pushed again and again at the spot, groaning when little spurts of fluid started trickling out around his finger.
“Yes,” Hermione sobbed, thrusting uselessly against his hand. “Yes, more, more.”
Draco was starting to worry he was going to come in his pants. Hermione seemed to be thinking along a similar vein.
"I want you to fuck me," she said, touching her breasts.
Before Draco could react—his strategic mind slow and sluggish, all the blood in his body decidedly lower than his brain—she’d rolled onto her stomach and then risen to her knees, her hands spread before her and her spine arched with her arse up.
The sight of her was impossibly perfect. The arch of her spine, the dimples over her arse, the lewd way her bottom was partially covered by the crooked hem of her dress, the streaks of shining fluid visible on her thigh in the light coming in from the kitchen.
Draco got to his knees on the bed, staring greedily at the sight of her with his hand pressed to his cock through his trousers.
The photograph was centimeters from her face, but it was almost hard to care at this moment. His good girl had her eyes covered anyways, and she clearly needed him to make her come, and he wasn't about to deny her anything, let alone an earth-shattering orgasm.
“I want to come with you inside me,” Hermione said. “Please, please.”
Draco fumbled at his belt, using one hand to steady himself against Hermione's hips. God, her skin was so soft. He squeezed her lightly, then ran his fingers up and down her wet slit. He unzipped his trousers with his other hand and dragged his head against her.
He was hard, aching, frantic to feel her around him.
“Draco,” she gasped, feeling him at her opening. “Please, Draco—”
He guided the tip of his cock in.
She was so tight that he nearly passed out.
“Jesus,” Draco gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as he rocked against her.
Hermione ground against him, and Draco knew she was trying to get his cock to push where his finger had. He angled himself a bit to help her, then reached around her hip to press his palm to her lower stomach, applying more pressure.
Hermione sobbed.
"Yes," she gasped, her cunt clenching. "God. Feels so good—thank you, thank you—"
Draco was dangerously close to coming. He felt the curling frustration peak in his lower stomach, had to stop moving to stop himself from emptying into her this exact moment.
He looked blearily up and saw that the tie around Hermione’s eyes had come loose.
The silk fabric was slippery, and the knot was nearly undone. As he watched, the band of his tie slid lower.
He cast another panicked look at the photograph by Hermione’s face, but then she clenched around him and he realized he was going to orgasm.
“Wait,” he said through clenched teeth, jerking his hips back. “You’re going to make me—”
“In me,” Hermione begged.
“Fuck,” he spat.
Every molecule in his body protested, but he pulled out of her.
The tie was going to fall. There were probably better strategies Draco could have employed, but he was all testosterone now, all agonized arousal, and he had noticed already that each time he touched her Hermione's head dropped low, her eyes squeezing shut as she was overcome with pleasure. He would make her do that now, she would come with her face pressed into the bed and she wouldn't see anything...
Draco slid three fingers into Hermione and sought her sensitive spot again, fucking her with his hand with relentless precision. No teasing, he needed to get her over the edge immediately. With his other he reached around her hip and pressed two fingers to her clit, rubbing quick and hard.
Hermione started to come just as the tie slipped down to her nose, fully dropping from her eyes.
She screamed, pushing back against Draco’s hand. He pressed her clit again and again, until her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with violent spasms of pleasure.
Her scream were muffled by the blanket that she was now face-down against. Draco curled his fingers inside her once more for good measure and she shuddered and let out another sob. Another small gush of fluid came from her cunt and soaked Draco's fingers. His neglected cock bobbed against his stomach.
Hermione was limp and quivering now, a puddle of a girl face-down in his bed. Knowing he had only seconds, Draco lunged over her and grabbed the photograph. He crumpled it in one fist and managed to drop it behind the nightstand just as Hermione rolled onto her back underneath him. Her face was glowing, her eyes still hazy and drunk with pleasure.
She groped blindly for his cock, and when she squeezed the head Draco saw spots.
"Can you put it in me now—?" she started to say.
But it was too much.
He tried not to. But as Hermione slid her fingers down his shaft, Draco came with an embarrassingly agonized groan. He felt it spurt all over her fingers and onto her stomach, and he thought about how very unfunny it would be if after all of this, Hermione lost interest in him for coming pathetically fast.