Chapter 11
Draco can’t wait to see Hermione again.
Their phone call ends when Hermione—her words going slow and soft with drowsiness—finally sounds like she’s on the verge of truly passing out. Draco insists she goes to sleep, but for at least two hours after he finds himself unable to go to bed.
On top of—the whole mess of the situation. Draco is starting to worry in a more serious way about whether or not he’ll ever be able to recover once she gets her memory back.
He feels like an ecosystem that has been permanently changed by the introduction of a new type of creature. A biome that may not be able to support itself if that new and lovely thing moves on.
He won’t be okay, when it’s all over—Draco is sure of that much.
But it’s hard to worry about that right now. With the memory of her soft voice coming through the phone to him from a long way away. Of that little giggle, and of how crazy she seems to be for him.
How is it possible? How can she like him this much?
And the way she talks to him…
Good boy.
Draco is humiliated at his own reaction to those words. Hermione had been teasing—just throwing a little flirtatious cherry onto the sundae of their conversation. He should not have felt so impacted.
It’s just—he wants to be good. He, who’d spent his entire childhood trying to bluster and boast his way into feeling like he had value. He, who’d spent his older teenage years making all the wrong choices to try to find power and approval.
Yes, Draco wants to be good.
He finally falls into a fitful sleep after reading and rereading the latest library book he’d gotten from Babel. It’s comforting, to see and touch the yellowed pages. To think of a beautiful girl working at the library, organizing books like this every day.
He dreams of Hermione in sweet pink high heels, and a very little dress. He dreams of her asking him to unbuckle her shoes, and then asking him to buckle them back up right after. He does it all. He does anything she asks. And she looks so pleased with him, and she says: good boy.
~
The next morning, Draco wakes up with unusually insistent morning wood. He masturbates while still clumsy with sleep, thinking of her.
Draco showers after and reflects with some chagrin on the long, hard (ha) stretch of time ahead of him wherein he’ll presumably need to be doing a fair bit of wanking, considering he’s expected to somehow be in close quarters with Hermione while not giving in to her teasing, insistent pursuit of him.
But after his shower—over his cup of coffee—Draco sees a Ministry owl at the window, and that does the trick in cooling him off. Better than a cold shower, is the sight of that red Ministry seal on an envelope..
Draco feels sick to his stomach every time he gets one of these. He stares at it on his marble countertop, jaw nervously working, for a full minute before opening it. He hopes it is just the routine check and not anything to do with Hermione…
He exhales when he unfolds the letter and finds that it is, indeed, just his normal monthly Ministry check-in.
The typical salad of words— return to society… probation period… behavior under additional scrutiny.
At the bottom, as always, Draco is asked to rank his well-being on a scale from 1-10. He assumes it is some low-effort, bureaucratic way of keeping a rough log of how mentally stable former Azkaban inmates are. Probably for the purpose of sending probationary officers and Mind Healers if the number dips too low too quickly.
Not wanting to invite anything like that, Draco always circles 10. He does so now.
He realizes, in a moment of quiet shock, that he actually means it this time.
Hermione texts him just then. Like the sound of a bell chiming in the ether, after the strike of his pen on 10 .
Hermione: so, i was thinking
Draco smiles immediately, watching her little bouncing “...” idle across the bottom of the screen as she types further.
Hermione: how much can a guy really even like a girl if he hasn’t asked her out to dinner?
Draco pauses.
Does she think he doesn’t like her?
Draco: I’d love to take you to dinner
Hermione: no, no! you have to ask! like, romantically
Draco laughs quietly down at his phone. If this were a cartoon he’d have hearts floating in his irises.
Draco: Oh, okay.
Draco: Hermione—will you please let me take you to dinner?
A red heart icon appears on his message, and Draco blinks down at it. That’s new. Wow, he likes that feature. How does he do that too…?
Hermione: swoon!
Hermione: yes, draco. I’d be delighted to go to dinner with you :)
Hermione: I miss you. when shall you take me out? And where?
Draco: I miss you too.
Draco: Anytime. Whenever and wherever you want.
(Okay, maybe Ginny was right about him being aristocratically unemployed.)
Hermione: tonight?
Draco: Done.
Draco: Restaurant in mind?
Hermione: it’s a bit posh
Draco: Good.
Hermione has a very sweet idea of posh, and it’s a candlelit Italian restaurant two streets away from her flat. It really is quite nice. Sweet and rustic. Though Draco’s late father’s voice echoes in his head: the right woman is like a garden. Feed and water her to make her happiest. (The food and the water that Lucius had been referring to was money).
Draco makes a mental note to take her somewhere very posh soon, or at least bring her some expensive gifts. For all of his father's faults, he had been successful in wooing the woman he loved.
“Thanks for taking me out,” Hermione says, smiling at him. “I wanted to get dressed up.”
“You look so beautiful. I like your hair like that.”
“Up?” she laughs.
Draco can’t fight a lopsided smile, the way he always smiles when he can tell she’s making fun of him.
“Up, down,” he says. “Sideways. You’d look good no matter what.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Hermione giggles. She laces her fingers with his. “Your clothes are extra fancy tonight, I see.”
“Just stuff for dinner. Dinner shirt,” Draco says, leaning back so she can see. “Formal jacket. Dinner watch.”
“How very classy. Let me see the shirt. What’s different about it?”
“Well—“ Draco shifts his jacket a bit to the side. “It has a stiffer collar. And the fabric is usually smoother than casual shirts.”
“Ask me about my clothes now!” she giggles, sipping her glass of white wine with a bright smile.
“Alright. Tell me about that lovely dress, please.”
“I bought it this week,” she says. “Because I wanted to look pretty for you. I got new shoes.”
Everything about this statement makes Draco flush. She wanted to look pretty—for him? And also, of course. He remembers the dream with her shoes.
“The shoes are purple,” Hermione says, unaware of his heating cheeks. She pokes a foot out to show him. “Matching.”
“They’re beautiful,” Draco says. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you,” she says, pleased. “I hope you like my underwear too. It’s also matching.”
Draco had been reaching for his wine glass but his fingers slip and he has to fumble rapidly to keep the wine from spilling.
~
After dinner, Hermione asks Draco to come over.
Ginny’s disapproving voice clangs around in Draco’s head.
Needless to say, that’s my best friend you’re dealing with. So I expect you to be a perfect gentleman.
Perfect gentleman.
PERFECT GENTLEMAN.
But Hermione’s fingers are laced sweetly with his. She’s walking close. Her head just up to his shoulder, the smell of her vanilla perfume filling his head as they walk slowly back to her place.
He tells himself— just back to her front door. Then say you’ll see her next time. That you have to head back to London…
But at the front door, Hermione takes his hand and puts it on her own waist.
“I like when you hold me,” she whispered. Her eyes turned up all the way to look at him. So much smaller and gentler than he is. “I like you.”
“I like you too,” Malfoy says. His hand on her waist is warm from her skin, which seems to be glowing with heat through the thin fabric of her purple dress.
He glances down involuntarily to see her shoes.
Glossy and purple. Four rounded straps, under which her painted little toes are visible.
He exhales quietly, trying not to think about purple underwear.
“I think I should head back,” he says softly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Oh, no. Come inside, Draco. Please?”
So he does.
She tugs him close by his tie. She stumbles a little in her heels, and he catches her with two hands on her hips. The little flare of her. So soft, so rounded—God, he wants so badly to…
Hermione presses her hands to his chest and slides her fingers down to his stomach. Then she slides them a bit lower. To the silver buckle of his belt.
“Hermione,” he breathes quietly. “You—ah—I shouldn’t—”
But he barely knows what he’s saying. It’s a habit. A distant muscle memory, that he ought to try to keep things strictly above the belt.
“Were you raised religious or something?” she whispers with a curling smile. “You seem so… repressed.”
He laughs, shivering when she draws a single finger down the front of his trousers.
“Do you feel… guilty?” she breathes.
“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse and unsteady. “Yeah, I do— Hermione— your hand feels good…”
“Let’s try something,” she whispers. “How about you just do exactly as I say? No need to think. You can turn that head off…”
“Oh God. Ok. Yes, okay—yes, yes—“
“Sit down, handsome.”
They’ve walked backwards into the kitchen, and now Hermione pushes Draco lightly back onto a chair. He tips his face up to watch her.
Her brown eyes are alight with warm mischief, and her lips—the shimmery pink lipstick smeared now, no doubt on the corner of his own mouth—are curled upwards in the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks. Pleads.
Hermione lifts a single finger and presses it to his lips. He parts his mouth involuntarily and she giggles at that. She drags her fingertip down until the soft pad of it catches on his bottom lip. Draco just stares up at her, loving her with every cell he has.
“Shh,” she says, teasing.
“Okay.”
“You are so cute,” she says softly. “Really. Draco. I—”
She trails off, gazing at him with the sort of wonderment that Draco was pretty sure he’d never see in another human’s eyes.
“Do you like doing as you’re told?” she asks.
He nods, mouth dry.
“I can—I can like that,” he says.
Hermione laughs.
“Good boy.”
The little groan that escapes Draco is entirely involuntary. The deep, thrumming pleasure that is quieting his mind is edged with embarrassment.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“You like me?” she asks softly.
“Yes. Yes— yes.”
“But you feel nervous to have sex? Guilty.”
“Yes.”
“I can make the decision easy, if you’re alright with it. If you’re not, just tell me. We can just cuddle.”
Draco wishes he knew what he looks like right now. He feels wild-eyed. He feels his hair messed, his collar askew. His eyes must be half-lidded with all the unbearable desire for her he feels.
“I'm,” he swallows. “I’m alright with it.”
Hermione smiles, all excitement. She moves forward even closer to Draco, gently cupping his face in her hands. He stares up at her, feeling saved.
“Undo your belt,” she says quietly.