It's Just Sex
Hermione was going to kill him!
Okay, so maybe that was a tad dramatic… but she was going to seriously injure or maim him. She wouldn’t even feel guilty for it. Honestly, she wouldn’t.
It had been five weeks—five miserable, futile weeks—of parading around various muggle pubs and wizarding haunts alike, every Friday and Saturday night (at the behest of Draco Malfoy of course) dutifully performing her duties as Draco’s wing-woman. The problem was, however, that she was Draco Malfoys bloody fucking wing-woman! As such, she found it exceedingly very difficult trying to find someone that could stroke his ego, wasn’t turned off by ‘Mr Wonderful Personality’ and didn’t mind a little domineering.
She had found several women who were (in her humble opinion) perfect for him. They all fit the description he had given her, a nearly impossible task on its own considering how often he changed it, and they all had the desirable characteristic attributes that would be needed in order to put up with his insufferable self. After all, his ridiculously handsome looks would only get him so far. Though, if he would just shut up and focus on fucking these almost perfect women then she wouldn’t have to personally vet every single girl to make sure they could handle his pompous arse.
Despite her very thorough vetting process, how all of them had met all the qualifications on the extensive checklist he had given her, every single time he managed to find something wrong with the person she’d carefully selected. It was baffling, frustrating, and if she was honest a bit insulting. She had never once failed in her duties as a wing-woman, and she didn’t intend to start now. But Malfoy, it seemed, was doing his best to make her fail spectacularly.
She took a long steadying breath as she watched Malfoy from across the pub. He was lounging in a booth, looking aloof as ever, gazing down at the woman next to him with his usual detached, yet still somehow superior, demeanor. The woman to his right, whom he was clearly bored with, had checked all of his boxes. ALL OF THEM!
Watching their interaction over the past several minutes, however, she could tell he was going to be adding to his ever growing list of things he didn’t like in a woman. She wondered what it would be this time. Perhaps her eyes were too blue, or maybe she smiled too much? Was too flirty or too eager. It would be a bullshit reason, she was sure of it, and they would end up here again tomorrow evening on the prowl once again.
Rachel was the name of tonight's candidate. She had said it with a purr when Hermione first introduced herself. She was promptly told not to say her name that way again if she wanted the incredibly rich, devastatingly handsome, but extremely picky, man to go home with her. Upon seeing Malfoy, she instantly agreed and even sobered up a bit.
Rachel had straight, blonde hair that was not too long, or too short per the request of the incredibly picky man. She had a perfectly straight nose—because of course the pretentious bastard had added that little gem to his check list last week after someone named Susan apparently didn’t have a completely symmetrical one! She did not indulge in too much make-up, had no beauty marks or freckles (which was an absolutely unrealistic and absurd thing to request by the way) and she was not taller than him while in heels, which she was wearing. Yet she wouldn’t be short enough that he would have to bend at the knees to kiss her. Should he want to while they were both standing that is.
Hermione didn’t really understand that requirement, after all, she herself was rather short and had never had anyone complain about it. She was easier to lift, adapt at ‘climbing trees’ when the need called for it, and extremely easy to fuck up against a wall. But hey, to each their own she supposed.
The most important thing about Rachel however (and Hermione could not express how important this particular attribute was) was the fact she laughed when asked if she would be okay with a dominant lover. It was not a high pitched laugh either, or a gravely smoker one (both of which had been added to his ‘never, not ever’ list) And then she, Rachel that is, said ‘Darling, I’d gladly suck him off in the bathroom if he wants to boss me around a bit first.’
It was a match made in heaven!
It would have been love at first suck, had Malfoy not opened up his incredibly annoying, fucking mouth, first!
Honestly, all he had to say was get on your knees and she would have done it. How hard is that? Why, why, did he have to talk with her first?
Ugh! He was so annoying!
Hermione closed her eyes briefly, letting a sigh leave her lips as she rudely dismissed the guy who had been trying to get her attention for the past several minutes. She couldn’t even recall his name, her focus had been so set on Malfoy that she had missed it, or didn’t care enough to recall it. It was no matter, she wouldn’t be going home with him tonight. She wouldn’t be going home with anyone tonight. Again.
Not now that Malfoy was storming over to her looking rather grumpy, and extremely soaked.
“What was it this time?” Hermione asked, handing him a napkin to mop up the electric blue, syrupy liquid dripping down his face. She might’ve transfigured it into a proper washcloth if she wasn’t so thoroughly annoyed with him. But at this point, he didn’t deserve such a courtesy. He was lucky she even offered him the serviettes.
Malfoy shot her a look, vexing in its nature, as he dabbed at his face. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Granger,” he growled. She didn’t believe it, not for a second.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or sneer as she watched him clean himself up, she opted for a few calming breaths instead. She wanted to say something but she was too angry just yet. If she did, it would surely be rude. Though it was not uncalled for, she would still feel bad afterwards. So she stayed quiet, and because he wasn’t a complete troll, he noticed this.
With a dramatic sigh that was very reminiscent of his youth, he threw the napkin down in irritation as he slid into the booth opposite her, his wet shirt clinging uncomfortably to his body. “She was brills, that one. Real perfect, you know, up until she went and tossed her bloody drink on me.” He said it with a smirk, like he hoped his words would temper her.
They did not.
“And what on earth did you say to her, to make her do that, Malfoy?” Her voice was deceptively patient. She wasn’t one to blame the victim, which is why she felt a surge of sympathy for Rachel, whom she suspected was, in fact, the true victim of tonight’s events. “Surely she didn’t do it without a reason.”
He ignored her, his attention focused on his soaking shirt as he flapped the material away from his chest in an attempt to dry it. Little blue droplets spraying the table before them. The dye from the drink had left blue stains all down his collar, and she wondered how long he’d sulk over the ruination of that particular shirt before getting a new one.
“Do you think anyone will notice if I spell this dry?” he asked, his eyes flicking up, looking almost innocent and hopeful.
She shot him a glare. “Malfoy.”
“Alright, alright. Calm down witch, I won’t do it.” He grumbled, slouching back against the booth with his usual indolent grace, a slightly stained eyebrow raised as he finally turned his gaze to meet her icy stare.
She was glaring, hard. So intensely in fact that he winced a bit upon seeing it.
“I am waiting for an explanation, Malfoy.” She bit out the name sharply, making him wince again. She had started calling him Draco when this whole thing had first started, but when he pissed her off (which was often mind you) he was Malfoy again. She had spent the last two weeks completely regressing, having called him ‘Malfoy’ almost exclusively since he hadn’t managed to do anything to earn the more civil option.
After a pause, Malfoy straightened, doing his best to look dignified despite the streak of blue stain down his cheek, his all but destroyed shirt, and overall general air of disheveledness. “Well, if you could add ‘not batshit crazy’ to that list of yours, Granger, that would be quite helpful.” He said, as though it was her fault an icy blue drink had been tossed in his face.
She narrowed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. “ You’re the one who drove her to throw a drink in your face, and you think it’s my fault?”
“Hardly.” He scoffed, looking rather affronted. “And I’d like you to not put words in my mouth, if you please, Granger.”
It was her turn to scoff now, which he ignored. “I was only implying that it would be helpful to know that the next one won’t be prone to dramatics.”
“You’re impossible, you do realize that don’t you?” she said, crossing her arms and giving him a withering look.
“I most certainly am not,” he replied, raising an eyebrow in perfect condescension. “I’m just discerning.”
“Oh, discerning is it?” she retorted, feeling her patience unraveling by the second. “I’m sorry, but there’s a point where ‘discerning’ turns into ‘insufferably picky,’ and you crossed that line weeks ago.”
“Is that so?” he replied coolly, with a smirk that made her fingers itch for her wand. “It’s hardly my fault you’re getting a kick out of setting me up with unhinged women.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a sharp whisper. “She was exactly what you asked for,” she ground out between clenched teeth, feeling her cheeks flush with frustration.
Malfoy raised a brow, his eyes gleaming in that maddeningly smug way that made her want to hex him on the spot. “Was she, though?”
“Yes!” she snapped, unable to keep her voice in check. “She met all of your requirements.” She started to tick them off on her fingers. “Stunning, intelligent, sharp, no overtly noticeable quirks or flaws, even willing to let you take the lead. And yet, here we are. Again. You’re far too picky, Malfoy, and it’s driving me mad.”
He gave a languid shrug, as though her mounting frustration was little more than an amusing footnote to his evening. Then, after a tick or two, he said “Well, now we know I don’t want crazy. Process of elimination Granger, surely you understand that concept.”
She took a deep, fortifying breath and closed her eyes. If she was honest, she was starting to wonder if Malfoy ’s newfound pickiness had less to do with the women in the pub, and more to do with avoiding something he wasn’t ready to confront just yet. She just wished she could figure out what it was, that he would bloody tell her already, or at the very least give her a clue.
Finally, she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with a resigned sigh. “Malfoy,” she said carefully, her voice softer but no less frustrated, “do you even want this?”
He tilted his head slightly, looking genuinely confused. “If I didn’t, do you think I’d be here every weekend with you?”
“Answer the question please.”
Malfoy leaned back, crossing his arms over his still-damp shirt, and met her gaze with mild irritation. “Of course I do. What on Merlin’s name do you think we’ve been doing? Scouring the city for deranged women to hurl freezing drinks at me? You think this is fun for me?”
“I don’t know, Malfoy,” she said, arching a brow in challenge, “You tell me. Because every time I find someone who matches what you said you wanted, you change your mind. Or suddenly find them ‘imperfect’ in some petty ways, mind you.” It had, she would like to note, not escaped her notice that sometimes his sudden mind change happened just as someone at the pub had slid up to her and started flirting.
In fact, the one time he had actually taken someone home, it had been on a night where no one had shown even the slightest interest in her. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, because it would be silly to think that had anything to do with it, but she couldn’t help but wonder…
Of course, Ava (the one he actually took home) hadn’t made it more than three steps inside the door before Atlas started growling at her and scared her away. Which added more things to his checklist. Women who liked dogs, were not in the least bit afraid of them, and didn’t scream ‘oh my god what is that thing’ when first encountering Atlas. Which led to some very interesting questions during her vetting process.
Hermione narrowed her eyes again. Her gaze bore into him, sharp and unyielding, and to her mild surprise it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat under the scrutiny of it. But then his face morphed back into that infuriatingly calm look, a dismissive shrug accompanying it.
“A coincidence, I assure you.” he said, though the words came out strained. “Purely conjecture.” he said a bit more sturdier.
“Oh, really?” She raised an eyebrow, studying him intently. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot more like sabotage.”
“Sabotage?” he echoed, shocked, though she could see a flicker of something else in his eyes. She just wasn’t sure what that something was.
“Yes. This whole thing feels deliberate. So I’m asking you out-right now. Malfoy, do you actually want to meet someone or is this all some stupid game to you?”
For a split second, he seemed to falter, his gaze dipping down to the table, and then, almost imperceptibly, flicking back up to her. Was he… embarrassed?
“I just have high standards,” he finally muttered with an air of nonchalance and superiority that irked her so. “It’s not my fault if they’re difficult to meet. You wouldn’t understand, and I won’t be apologizing for them no matter what you say.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, a laugh escaping her. She wasn’t sure whether she sounded more amused or exasperated, and she didn’t care, she was too busy trying to ignore the uncomfortable flutter and disappointment she felt at his words while also trying to gain the upper hand.
“You’ve rejected perfectly lovely people over ridiculous things. Do you remember that girl at the club two weeks ago? You said her laugh was ‘offensive to your sensibilities.’ She was practically perfect and very pretty!”
“She sounded like a grindylow choking on pudding,” he replied, as if that settled the matter. “It was unbearable.”
Hermione shot him a pointed look. “Oh, and you know exactly what that sounds like, do you?”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly unamused. “You’re just annoyed because you liked her and I didn’t.”
She clenched her jaw, tamping down the urge to throw her own drink in his face. “What about the girl at the lounge last week?” she demanded. “You turned her down because you thought her perfume was ‘sickeningly floral.’ What on earth does that even mean?”
Malfoy gave a slight shiver, as though the memory of it alone was enough to repel him. “It means she was like a walking flower shop in the worst way possible. I’ve been in greenhouses just after being fertilized that had more tolerable smells.”
She put her head in her hands, rubbing at her temples, a head beginning to form. “You know, if you don’t actually want this, you could have just said so instead of dragging me around, pointlessly might I add, for weeks. Not to mention—” She cut herself off, catching herself before saying something she’d regret, because Draco Malfoy did not need to know how sexually frustrated she had been during all of this.
She still wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. And partially because she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how long it had been since she had any dalliances between the sheets with anything other than her own personal toys.
Malfoy regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think I don’t want this?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual.
“Because,” she replied, frustration bleeding through her voice, “you’re impossible to please. I can’t figure out if you’re doing it on purpose just to drive me mad, or if you genuinely have no idea what you’re looking for.” or if he was torturing her for some sick, perverse reason. He wasn’t getting any, so she couldn’t get any? Tit-for-tat sort of thing? She didn’t know, but she had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what he was doing to her love life— or her current lack thereof.
His expression shifted a little, the faintest flicker of remorse crossing his face before he looked away. “Maybe I don’t,” he muttered finally, his voice so low she almost didn’t catch it.
The admission took her aback, and for a moment, she was struck speechless. “Okay,” she said slowly, softening. “Then… tell me what you do know.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if weighing his words, but his gaze held hers with a strange intensity. Something seemed to flicker in his eyes, something she couldn’t quite place, a mixture of irritation, vulnerability, and maybe even… fear?
She wished to Merlin that she knew how to read him, or that he would say something. Anything. Or even that she could look away from him instead of being captivated by the stormy sea raging being his pewter gray eyes. Then the moment snapped like a rubber band, and Malfoy’s gaze drifted away.
His answer, whatever it might have been, never came. Not in the form of words at least, and not in a form she understood. In lieu of a proper response, he stood up, suddenly, gave her a very sharp nod, and then he just… left. Without a word or an explanation. Without anything other than a stupid nod. He was just gone, and she was left sitting there, gaping, and trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, Hermione woke up bright and early and made her way to Number 12 Grimmauld Place with one goal in mind. To get answers. She had questions, plenty of them, and she had no intention of leaving until they were all answered and she had a better understanding of what Malfoy actually wanted, because she really did want to help him.
Sure, Malfoy’s personality was the equivalent of a rusted nail, and he could be the single most frustrating person she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting, but she was not wholly incapable of seeing the pain and hurt behind his eyes. He had been wronged, his heart broken, his life turned around in a blink of an eye. She knew that sort of pain, knew that it was difficult to get over alone. Malfoy didn’t seem to have a whole lot of people in his corner to help him either, though she wasn’t sure if that was in part because of his riveting personality or for other reasons altogether.
It did not matter. She was in his corner now and she couldn’t let him rot in his misery, at least not alone. Even if that meant she had to spend a few miserable evenings every week with him, she was prepared to do so. She would have done for Harry as well, but Harry was doing better. Much better, actually, thanks to a certain pub owner.
He’d moved past the pain, or was actively trying to anyway. But Malfoy still seemed… stuck. Hermione had thought this entire rebound project would lift him out of his rut, but the only thing that seemed to make him spark to life was arguing with her. And while she usually relished a good verbal sparring partner, it was exhausting—infuriating, even. She’d give him a proper ‘how to feel better about being dumped’ strategy if he’d just let her.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself as she waited for Malfoy to join her. Willing, and able, to wait all day if need be. Atlas at least didn’t mind her presence as he lay his head on her lap, it was almost comical how his thick head covered her lap entirely. He would be a great lap dog, he was just too lovable not to want to cuddle and snuggle. It was his size that prevented such a thing.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she cooed, his tail thumping against the wooden floor so loudly and forcefully that it practically shook the table. This, she assumed, was what finally woke Malfoy.
“Morning, Granger,” Malfoy’s drawl sounded from the kitchen doorway not five minutes later. He was clipped, grumpy, and likely assumed it was her fault he was now awake.
Despite his signature scowl firmly in place and his morning disheveledness, he was still breathtakingly handsome. Not that his appearance was ‘disheveled’ in the normal sense of the word. He was more casually rumpled than anything else.
The blue stains that streaked his face from last night’s unfortunate drink incident were gone, along with the temporarily dyed eyebrow, which was a pity, really—she’d liked the look. Or more accurately, she would have liked to laugh at the look. He was always so well put together that seeing him anything other than perfect had been a welcomed relief.
Today he wore a cashmere sweater, dark gray, that looked divinely soft, and his typical black trousers, which of course were finely pressed and fitted. The only things remotely out of place was his hair which was slightly tousled from sleep, or perhaps constantly running his fingers through it, and his socks. He hadn’t put on his shoes before leaving his room. It was odd to see him padding around in socks, of all things— having never seen him in anything but his dragonhide boots and ridiculously expensive loafers.
They were black socks with small, golden snitches that flitted across the fabric. Harry’s socks, she realized, suppressing a laugh. She’d enchanted them herself, so there was no mistaking them. She would have commented on it, maybe made some snarky but friendly quip, or teased him again about ‘seeing’ Harry in the romantic sense of the word, had he deemed her worthy enough to spare a glance. Which he had not. He had, however, spotted Atlas.
“Atlas, you absolute traitor,” Draco grumbled as he poured his coffee, adding two sugars and just a touch of cream.
Hermione gave Atlas a scratch behind his ear, leaning down to fake-whisper, “Don’t listen to him. You’re a very good boy. Nothing traitorous about you at all.” Atlas’s tail resumed its thumping with vigor, and Malfoy’s frown deepened though he still refused to meet her gaze.
“Oh, don’t act so wounded, Malfoy,” she said with a faint smirk. “If I were here every day, he’d probably find me much less fascinating.” Which was only partially true. He found her so interesting because she fed him table scraps, but Malfoy wasn’t clued into that little aspect of their dynamics yet.
He gave a sour look, his mouth twisting into something that bordered on pouty and should not have looked as good as it did on him. “You are here all the time.”
“Oh, posh, I am not,” she replied breezily, giving Atlas another long scratch. “I do have a job, you know. Monday through Friday, just like you. It’s quite literally impossible to be here all the time.”
He scoffed, but he didn’t argue the point as he took his usual seat at the table. There, she’d left a proper English breakfast waiting for him under a stasis charm, complete with both bacon and sausage links, toast, a poached egg, and a grilled tomato—the closest thing she could offer as a peace offering after last night’s fiasco.
Hermione waited for some sign of appreciation, any flicker of acknowledgment that he’d noticed she’d gone to the trouble of making him breakfast, and that she hadn’t included the beans she knew he hated but had included the fried tomato which she knew he loved. But Malfoy simply picked up his fork, shoveled some egg onto his toast, and barely looked her way while he ate it. The great ponce. She really shouldn’t have expected anything different, but for some reason she had.
“Malfoy, we need to talk.” she said sharply, crossing her arms. Atlas, who still had his head on her lap, gave a small whine at her sudden lack of attention and she had to fight the urge to look down at the big darling.
Draco shot her a suspicious glance, eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, looking like he was preparing for battle. Which was probably a fair assumption considering how angry she had been at him last night, but that was then. She really had no intention of fighting him today, not yet at least.
“What about?” he asked cautiously, taking a sip of his coffee.
“About what you want from all this, because frankly, I have no idea and I have a suspicion that you don’t either.”
She thought she caught a glimpse of something unguarded in his expression, something almost vulnerable. But then Atlas, sensing the apparent tension, and still upset over not getting his just attention he gave a loud bark that jolted them both. Malfoy’s gaze flicked down, and he scowled when he saw the massive dog’s head sprawled across her lap.
“You’re not feeding my dog at the table, are you?”
“What?” She infused the single word with just the right mixture of shock and indignation. “Of course not.” It sounded believable. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was currently feeding him so technically speaking, she wasn’t lying. He narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced but seemingly too tired to press the point further.
“You do realize that changing the subject doesn’t work on me, don’t you? Your mind might work that way, but mine most certainly does not.” She picked up her tea, eyeing him over the rim of it as she waited for his retort which she was sure was coming. She was not disappointed either, though he didn’t have to be quite as cruel in his words as he was.
“I’ve told you what I’m looking for, Granger.” He said, mimicking her power play by maintaining eye contact as he took a swig of his coffee. “Several times, in fact. Clearly, you’re not very good at finding it.”
Hermione bit back her own sharp retort, keeping herself in check. This wasn’t about her, or her feelings, this was about figuring out his, “I didn’t ask what you are looking for, I asked what you want from all of this.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“No, actually it isn’t. You told me what you want in a woman, yes, and forgive me for saying this but your ‘criteria’ for such a match seems to shift every time I introduce you to someone who perfectly fits your—”
“Perfect?” he cut her off, his grip tightening on his coffee cup, his jaw visibly clenching. “Have you lost the plot, Granger? Because if you think for a moment that any of those women have been perfect, then you clearly are either not listening to me or you’ve gone mental.”
She pressed her lips tightly together, counting to three before speaking again “First of all, that was rude. I have listened to you, quite diligently so, which is no easy thing by in by, especially when you keep changing your mind like a darn Cornish Pixie high on Moonstone Dust. And before you say anything, because I know you want to, please keep in mind that I’m trying to help you! But I can’t do that if you keep rejecting these perfectly good—”
“Perfectly unhinged you mean! Or are you forgetting what happened with this last one?”
Hermione blinked, holding back her instinctive reaction to roll her eyes. She’d half expected this outburst, but it was still ridiculous. “She seemed perfectly lovely until you decided to say… well, whatever it was you said to make her—”
“I said nothing that warranted a drink being tossed at me,” he replied stiffly, interrupting her once again.
“Nothing?” She scoffed in a sort of high pitched yell.
Listen, she wasn’t perfect. Nor was she a saint. She couldn’t always ignore his prattish, condescending, ridiculousness now could she? She might have been a witch, but she was only human and as such she occasionally fell for emotional baiting techniques. She wasn’t proud of it, but there it was.
“Nothing,” he repeated, his gaze drifting away as he adjusted the collar of his sweater as though it had become unbearably tight. His discomfort only deepened her suspicions, but she let it go.
“Malfoy…” She honestly didn’t want to spark another argument if she could help it so she changed tactics and with his first name instead.
“Draco,” She softened her tone, hoping to coax him out of his usual defensiveness. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you wanted… well, a fling. Something simple, possibly fun, and—” she cleared her throat, keeping her voice even, “something… physical in nature.”
It was almost adorable how red he turned at her words and she tried very hard not to marvel at it “Have I got it wrong? Because if so, please, please, tell me now.”
He shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in a sizable gash on the table, and cleared his throat “No, you haven’t gotten it wrong.” His eyes flicked up to hers, a blush creeping up his cheeks. It was oddly… endearing.
“Okay.” and it was, okay, that is, yet something about saying it out loud and hearing him admit it made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure why.
“Okay?” He asked, almost cautiously and for a moment Hermione wondered if he noticed her discomfort or if he simply didn’t believe her when she said the word.
“Yes, that— that’s good to hear.” she said with a small nod, “Just making sure. I was beginning to wonder if maybe we weren’t on the same page, and that was the reason this wasn’t working. But if you’re sure—”
“I’m sure.”
“Good.” She paused, taking another sip of her tea. “So, if we’re clear on that now, I have some questions for you to help clear things up further. If that’s alright with you.”
After a moment, he gave a small, reluctant nod.
“Right, then,” she murmured, mentally sorting through the dozens of questions she had prepared. She decided to start simple, something he couldn’t possibly squirm out of. “First things first, are you more interested in a casual, one-time thing, or would you prefer something more… substantial?”
He laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes as if she’d just asked him something absurdly obvious. “I don’t have time to chase after a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking.” It wasn’t, but it was duly noted. It was also nearly 100% untrue. He was, after all, spending a decent amount of time with her every week, twice a week. Time that would surely end if he wanted to start dating again. And that was… okay.
It was okay.
“Something casual, then,” she said, clearing her throat and focusing on the task at hand, though she couldn’t shake the strange, aching feeling building in her.
Her concentration wavered as she caught the faintest scoff from him. She raised a brow, giving him a pointed look. “Do you have something you would like to share, Draco?”
His lips curved up into a smirk “Only that there’s nothing casual about sex, Granger.”
“Wait, hold on, now I’m confused again.” she frowned while he muttered something snarky about her swotty little self actually not knowing something, which she chose to ignore.
“I’m not sure which part of that confused you, Granger, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to spell it out for you if you don’t already know it.”
She blinked. Then she blinked again.
He had the audacity to sigh then, his voice laced with exasperation as though he were explaining something painfully obvious. “There’s nothing casual about sex, Granger. It’s unbelievably complicated, and you’re delusional to think otherwise.”
Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Good lord, Draco,” she replied, a chuckle escaping her lips. “No wonder I can’t find you a good romp. You’re overcomplicating it. It’s only sex, not a bloody love confession. It doesn’t have to be confusing, or complicated. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be anything other than satisfying one's most basic and primal needs.”
Draco looked both bemused and vaguely horrified by her nonchalance on the topic “Oh, please. You can’t actually sit there and tell me you enjoy meaningless dalliances, Granger. I won’t believe it.”
“If I’m satisfied, and he’s satisfied, then why does there need to be anything more?” She paused, noting the delightful shade of pink creeping up his neck. He was flustered, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. Knowing she made him all emotionally rumpled and off-kilter. “No need to make it so complicated.”
Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, his cheeks burning as he stumbled over his words. “I—well—I mean—it’s not—” Adorable. Absolutely adorable, he was, and the more he stuttered over his words the more she wanted to ruffle his feathers. The gorgeous, preening, peacock that he is.
“It’s just sex, Draco,” she said, her tone teasing. “I’ve had it, Harry’s had it, I’m sure you’ve had it—”
“Of course I have,” he snapped, squaring his shoulders defensively.
Her smile widened. “Then why are you so… squeamish about it?”
“I am not squeamish,” He was positively mortified by the accusation. It almost made her laugh.
“If you say so.” She let her words hang in the air, watching him squirm more. “Is it the ‘casual’ part of it that’s getting to you?”
“As I said,” he replied, almost in a growl, “there’s nothing casual, or simple, about sex.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a soft, almost sultry tone. “But it can be, Draco.”
To her delight, he seemed to choke on his own breath, his eyes going wide as he sputtered. Hermione let out a delicate, breathy laugh, rising from her seat, removing Atlas from her lap as she did. She took slow, measured steps around the table, watching as Draco’s gaze tracked her movement.
“It’s really quite easy,” she continued, her tone light and teasing as she made her way towards him. She placed her hands on the back of his chair, just above his shoulder, turning it slightly so he faced her. The legs scraped softly against the floor. “If you’d like, I could show you.”
“Wh-what?” His voice came out as little more than a whisper, and she could see the tension in his jaw as he turned to look up at her.
“All you have to do is focus on the feeling of it all,” she murmured, moving to stand in front of him, her gaze steady on his.
His eyes had blown wide, and she swore she heard him gulp as she stepped between his legs, leaning down, her presence a little too close, a little too tempting. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as though he were struggling against some invisible force. She was almost positive it was because he was trying not to touch her, and not because he felt awkward with what she was doing. In fact, her intuition told her he liked it.
She paused, gauging his reaction, then lifted her hand slowly, giving him every opportunity to swat her away. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained perfectly still, his body taut with anticipation as her fingers threaded through his hair, lingering there for a moment before she gave a gentle, experimental, tug, tilting his head up to meet her gaze.
His eyes met hers, wide and slightly dazed, and she was certain she heard a low, involuntary growl escape his throat. The spark in his gaze was dark and unguarded, a simmering mix of anger and… something that made her heart skip. Something that almost looked like desire.
“It doesn’t take much, you know,” she murmured, her voice a soft, teasing whisper as she leaned down. “A gentle touch,” she added, her other hand cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, “a soft kiss.” She leaned closer still.
Draco’s breath hitched, and Hermione felt a thrill of victory at the way he tensed beneath her touch. She lowered her voice further, her tone turning even softer. “You don’t even have to be attracted to her, if it’s just for one night. One night of fun. It could literally be… anyone.” She might not have been what he claimed he was attractive to, but she was clearly having some effect on him and she would be lying if she said she didn’t love it.
At her words, Draco swallowed, hard, audible this time as he clenched the chair arms even tighter, his cheeks flushed. She felt a surge of boldness, emboldened by the way he sat there, motionless, waiting, as if he were under her spell. “All you have to do is close your eyes,” she whispered, her breath brushing his skin like a caress.
She watched as his eyes fluttered closed as though it had been a command she had given him. A request he needed to follow. His lips parted slightly, his breathing was shallow. Heart pounded in her chest as she leaned in closer, a breath away from his lips, her voice barely a murmur. She was so close to kissing him, it would be so easy to do so. For a brief moment she actually wondered what it would be like, to kiss him. What he would do if she did, if he would kiss her back. If his lips were as soft as they looked.
“Imagine it’s anyone you want. Keep the lights low, or off altogether. Just enjoy yourself.” she whispered against his skin. To her surprise, he leaned into her and she allowed her lips to ghost along the line of his jaw, just enough for him to feel her, just enough to leave him wanting more. She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and slightly ragged, his usual snark and bravado gone as he sat there, utterly still, his hands clenching the wood so tightly she was surprised it didn’t crack under his grip.
“Like that first night we danced together,” she whispered, her lips grazing his ear as she said it “when you just… let go.”
That seemed to break whatever composure he’d been holding onto. In an instant, his hands left the chair, his grip moving to her waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her hips as he steadied her. She had expected him to push her away, to snap out of the spell he was under. She had hoped, a small part of her at least, that he would pull her closer and finally, finally, kiss her. Actually kiss her. But he did none of those things. Instead, he abruptly stood, so quickly that his chair shot back and fell with a crash, sending Atlas scurrying out of the room whimpering and startled.
Before she could react, he had wrapped an arm around her waist, the other sliding down to grab her firmly grab her arse. She let out a startled squeal as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around him to keep herself steady. Her pulse quickened, her heart racing as he spun them and backed her up against the counter before setting her down with a soft thud.
She was still catching her breath when he stepped between her knees, his hands resting on them. His face was inches from hers, his eyes dark with a hunger she hadn’t seen before, and his lips curled into an almost wicked smirk as he leaned closer.
“You think you’re the only one who can play games, Granger?” His voice was low, his tone laced with a deliciously dangerous edge as he tilted his head, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that left her breathless.
“I-I– it wasn’t” Her heart, along with her words, stuttered. “It wasn’t a game.”
He hummed, not at all believing her, and leaned in even closer. His hands moved slightly up her legs. Mouth brushing the shell of her ear, breath warm against her skin. “Tell me, do your little one-night stands know how to touch you?”
Her breath hitched, her mind momentarily blank as his strong hands continued up, up, up her legs. Delicately, oh so delicately, touching her. Stopping just below the hem of her skirt “Do they make you shiver, Granger? Do they know how to make you sing?”
Her mouth went dry, and though she wanted to respond, her body refused to cooperate, every nerve ending seemingly tuned to the sensation of his voice, the way it sent shivers down her spine. His voice seemed to flow through her, slow and molten, lingering on each word as if he wanted to imprint it into her skin.
“Do they even know how to make your skin prickle,” his voice seemed to flow through her, slow and molten, lingering on each word as if he wanted to imprint it into her skin. “or to make dragons stir in your stomach when they say your name?”
He let the word roll off his tongue, rich and slow. Her name, low and deep, a growl that curled around her. Because he most certainly wasn’t playing fair now. “Hermione.” It was like dark honey, and it enveloped her, each syllable wrapping around her until she was breathless. A shiver ran through her, unstoppable, her eyes fluttering closed. Gooseflesh erupted along her arms, heat flared in her core, and her toes in her shoes. Her mouth parted with a soft gasp, and she could feel the smirk radiate from him without even looking.
His hands slipped higher up her legs, pulling the fabric of her skirt with them. The delicate and light touch moving towards her inner thighs. Unabashedly she spread them further for him. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it, and then, without thinking, she let out a soft, breathy gasp as his fingers traced up higher, her body betraying her entirely.
“Do they set your nerves on fire, Granger? Do they make you drip with want and desire?” he murmured, leaning in until his mouth was so close to her lips she could almost taste him. They brushed over the corner of her mouth, not quite a kiss, but it was enough to send her pulse skyrocketing. Her breath hitched, and she fought to keep her composure as he pulled back, just enough to leave her wanting.
“Nothing to say?” he teased, his tone light and taunting. “Or are you finally out of clever quips?”
Her mouth opened, but before she could form a retort, his fingers slid higher, tracing the path of the lace on her knickers. Instinctively arched into him, her mind hazy with the heady thrill of his touch, every nerve attuned to his proximity, his scent, his voice, his… everything.
A smirk crept across his face, that infuriatingly smug, utterly gorgeous smirk that made her want to hex him and pull him closer all at once. Then slowly, he leaned back, his hands slipping away as he straightened, leaving her perched on the edge of the counter, breathless and wanting.
With deliberate slowness, he took a step back, his eyes raking over her as if savoring the sight of her thoroughly flustered state. He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, his face the very picture of nonchalance.
He tilted his head, a faint smirk on his lips, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “If your one-night stands aren’t doing that for you, Granger,” he said, his voice soft and infuriatingly calm, “then why the fuck are you even wasting your time on them?”
With that, he turned, striding out of the kitchen with an air of complete satisfaction. As the door swung closed behind him, she let out a shaky breath, the quiet returning to the room as she tried to compose herself. But the silence only seemed to amplify the thrum of her heartbeat, the lingering heat in her skin, the maddening imprint of his voice, his hands, his mouth so close to hers. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her. Her body ached from the loss of his warmth and touch.
Finally she slid off the counter, her legs weak, her mind still scrambled, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and muttered “That… fucker.”