Breaking The Pattern

They’d spent the day together, parting ways for the Christmas feast. Draco had decided to sit with the snakes, well aware that he’d spend the following day surrounded by the Weasleys. Blaise’s mother had decided to join him at Hogwarts, likely looking for her eighth husband.

She’d arrived for dinner in her dress robes. An ostentatious gown which Blaise had to help get over the bench so she could sit down.

There are more parents at the Slytherin table than Draco would have thought. It is a pleasant surprise. Seeing the happiness on the younger students' faces. 

Still, there is an invisible curtain between the four house tables.

Draco tries to look at the prodding mothers at his table- correcting their child’s manners- and see love. A desire for their child to be successful. But watching a mother at the Hufflepuff table wipe sauce from her son’s chin with a soft smile makes that difficult.

“My son tells me you are seeing the Granger girl,” Elora Zabini comments, laying her hand over her dinner knife.

She has always put Draco on edge. Like she would have him under her spell and then under her knife before he knew it. Blaise is enamored with his mother in an unhealthy way. 

Draco feels he can say that now that he has come to terms with the need to please his own father. Difficult to see the forest through the trees.

“Yes. I am.”

She cocks a brow and slices the chicken in front of her in one fluid motion.

When she stabs her fork into it, he can’t help but swallow thickly.

“Good for you. It is important to recognize the trends in society when selecting a partner,” she lifts a bite to her mouth and Draco shifts, more uncomfortable than he has been all day.

Trends?

“Mother, leave Draco alone.” Blaise is smiling.

“Being with Granger was never a choice,” he says. “She was inevitable.”

“Have you boys checked him for love potions?” Elora asks, completely serious.

Much to Draco’s horror, Blaise and Theo nod.

“Even you must admit, your words speak to a particular sort of infatuation. I have heard professions like yours quite a bit in my time,” she sips at her elf wine.

The day that Draco takes Elora Zabini’s advice on love is the day he has truly lost his mind.

So he just nods his head and downs his pumpkin juice.

The conversation turns to Theo’s plans for his fortune. Elora seems very interested in the young man’s words. Blaise had better watch out or his next step-father will be his very wealthy best friend.

“I’m gay,” Theo blurts and Draco has a sneaking suspicion that the black widow was using one of her legs to get her point across.

Elora laughs, but there is no humor behind it.

“And young,” Blaise points out. “Very young.”

And suddenly they are all uncomfortable. This is the kind of holiday Draco remembers. He could easily be sitting across from his father complaining about Goblin taxes using slurs.

“If you would all excuse me, I’d like to get dressed for the celebration,” Draco stands up, leaving his plate half full.

Theo stands and nods, practically falling over the bench to escape the table. “Me too.”

Neither Blaise nor Elora look surprised. Draco wonders if there is anyone alive who could finish a meal with them at the table.

He and Theo flee upstairs, laughing about their mutual fear in the face of the widow.

When Draco reemerges from his rooms, he is wearing dress robes and a bright smile. Making his way downstairs, he is pleased to see that the Great Hall has been transformed into a beautiful evergreen forest.

While the Yule Ball had been decorated in glittering snow and icicles, everything this year is red and green. Fifty-foot evergreen trees stretch towards the sky and wrapped presents are stacked along the walls. The four tables have been transfigured into a beautiful dance floor with tall tables at the edges, where the many adults are already mingling. Of course, the students permitted to attend are probably still getting ready.

“You are early, Mr. Malfoy,” Molly Weasley greets him. 

“Have you seen Hermione?” He asks.

“I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment. Dinner ran a bit long.”

Draco nods, a bit disappointed that he’ll have to wait.

“You look very dashing, Draco,” Molly says, setting down her glass flute.

“Thank you,” he turns and looks at her robes. They are bright red, with small figures of dancing witches and wizards.

“Would you like to dance?” He asks, offering her his arm.

She looks surprised but smiles. “I would very much.”

And so Draco guides them out onto the dance floor. He’d been forced into lessons as a young boy and while it is clear Molly was no professional, they fall into step fairly well.

“I don’t think she took her eyes off you once during dinner. Not even when Nearly Headless Nick came through the table to say hello,” she says softly, staring at the flower on Draco’s lapel.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to take away from your time with her.”

“No, no. Not at all. I just mean that she is in love with you. I don’t think I realized that before today.”

Draco smiles as they spin across the floor. His friends made fun of him relentlessly for doing the same thing. Watching her from across the room. Theo had forced him to sit on the opposite side of the table.

“I am quite looking forward to tomorrow,” he changes the subject.

“Oh, Christmas is so wonderful. I had to guess at your size for your gift, but I think I managed alright.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Nonsense, my boy.”

“Mind if I cut in?” A hand on his arm makes them both stop short.

Hermione looks stunning. Draco can see the freckles across her shoulder blades and he has to refrain from reaching toward her. A moment of possessive desire shoots up his spine. 

Her gown has thin white straps with flowing white fabric. Like a snow flurry. Where her Yule Ball gown had been elegant and proper, this is awe-inspiring. She looks a bit like a fairy, translucent fabric clinging to her tan skin. Draco has to wonder if she had needed some sort of spell to make it fit so exquisitely.

“Draco?” She asks, and he realizes he is still holding Molly Weasley. Idiot. He drops his arms and nods, grateful when she just smiles at Molly and steps into his arms.

“You look very handsome, Draco,” she says, holding him close. His finger on her shoulder slips beneath her strap.

“Hermione, you look-,” ethereal, magnificent, flawless. “Incomparable.”

A deep blush sets into her cheeks and Draco is struck once more by the pale wonder of her gown.

“What is that?” She slides her hand from his shoulder to his lapel.

“A periwinkle. The same shade as your Yule Ball dress, fourth year,” he looks down at her, remembering the flowing dress she had worn four years ago.

She beams at him and he leans down to kiss her.

As they spin across the dance floor, Draco wonders if anyone else is in attendance. He’ll have to ask Blaise or Theo tomorrow because he is too enraptured by Hermione to notice.

She tells him she is tired far too soon for his liking. They hadn’t left the dance floor for what felt like days. Potter had even tried cutting in, but Draco couldn’t let her go.

He doesn’t ever want to let her go.

“I’m going to go upstairs now,” Hermione says, dragging him by the hand off the dance floor. The spell is broken and Draco knows he has been selfish with her tonight.

“I’m sorry, Granger. I should have,-” he starts.

“Don’t apologize. This was incredible. Good night, Draco.”

“I love you,” he presses a kiss to her brow, not wanting to let go.

“I love you too,” she tilts her head back and lifts onto her toes. He bends a bit further and she kisses the top of his head.

She giggles and walks away, looking over her shoulder at the door.

Draco absolutely despised the “sleeping in separate rooms” idea. 

He turns and notices that the hall has emptied out. A few older couples still sway on the dance floor and many more sit, drinking.

He could find his friends. Or say goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Instead, he just downs a glass of firewhiskey, hoping it helps his taut muscles relax enough to sleep.

He could have walked Hermione upstairs. Should have really. But if he had, it would have been impossible not to pick her up and carry her to his room.

Draco finds his way to the eighth-year dorms, and groans at the sight of at least three couples snogging on various pieces of furniture.

Not fair.

Once he reaches his room, he reaches for the knot of his tie and kicks off his shoes.

“Incendio,” someone casts, and suddenly his room is cast in shadows by a number of candles catching fire.

He whirls around to the bed and is shocked by what he finds there.

Hermione Granger is laying in a robe that looks suspiciously like her gown transfigured, atop Draco’s bed. 

“What-,” he starts but she just waves her wand and a cascade of mistletoe grows above his bed, twisting and twirling around nonexistent arches until he has to step towards the foot of the bed to see her face.

“I did some research,” she says, matter of factly.

Nothing is sexier than Granger doing research.

“And?”

“Mistletoe is most definitely a pagan tradition,” she points above them.

“Yes?” 

She reaches for the tie of her robe. When she pulls the knot free, Draco’s breath hitches.

Hermione is wearing the skimpiest lingerie he has ever seen. It is pale, near-translucent fabric that clings to her curves, teasingly. 

“And, it was often used during intercourse,” she lets her robe slip down her shoulders.

Only Hermione Granger could make the word intercourse seductive.

“Uh huh,” Draco swallows, kneeling on the end of his bed.

With a flourish, Draco’s clothes disappear.

He doesn’t care, he just stares at her long tan limbs, stretched leisurely in front of him.

“Now, most of my research indicated it was used to promote fertility,” she whispers, the air around them growing thick.

“But I found a much better reason to conjure it this evening,” she teases, separating her knees the smallest amount.

Draco loves her. Has loved her longer than he knew. Restraint is becoming near impossible.

“And what reason is that, witch?” he asks, completely under her spell.

She vanishes her clothes, places her wand on the table beside his bed and beckons him closer.

“Passion. It is meant to bring lust and love to those who lay beneath its sprigs.”

Draco is definitely in lust and in love. He can remember something else mistletoe was rumored to be.

Lucky.

Crawling forwards, he lays his body over hers and kisses her deeply, letting his tongue slip between her lips.

Her skin is cool, and he can’t help but curl his hands around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

“Draco,” she says against his skin. Her back arches and her exposed neck drives Draco to a feral place.

He needs to be inside her. He parts her thighs with his knee and stares at her core.

They are both wound up. Tight.

“One thing we have never lacked is passion,” he says before slipping down her body to her navel. He looks up to find her mouth parted in an O and her eyelids fluttering.

He kisses her stomach, her hip bone, her pelvic bone. When he moves lower, she lets out a small whimper.

No, she isn’t nearly aroused enough yet.

It lights a fire inside of him. He presses a hand to her stomach and takes his other hand to play with her slick folds.

“Let go for me, love,” he says, exhaling sharply. He hasn’t been this hard in months. This desperate for her orgasm.

Her hands go to her chest and she widens her legs a bit more, granting him access to her wet center.

He lowers his face to her and glances once more at her face before licking slowly, teasingly at her folds.

She moans and it spurs him on. Moving a finger slowly in and out of her while tracing ancient runes into her skin, finding her clitoris and listening to her mewl.

That’s it, he thinks. That is my witch.

In a way only he can do, he licks and sucks at her mound until she is bucking underneath him. When she melts into the bed, he thinks of her words once more. Has he brought her peace? Pleasure, certainly.

Whatever she thinks, he is not letting her out of this bed tonight.

Draco slides his hard cock into her hot pussy gently, loving every twitch and gasp he elicits from her.

“Open your eyes,” he says, yearning to connect with her in every way he can.

She does more than open her eyes.

She reaches for him, and pulls him into a searing kiss. He starts to move, slowly at first and then, when he can’t hold himself back anymore, faster.

He can feel himself bottoming out, her tightness squeezing his cock.

Hermione scratches at his back, even though they can’t get any closer.

“God, this is,” she cries, but he kisses her, swallowing her words.

Inadequate. Words would be inadequate to describe the way their bodies move together.

Draco feels himself reaching the brink and so he reaches down to play with her clit, hoping that she is nearing a second orgasm.

“Oh, Draco. Yes, like that.”

“My witch. My perfect, perfect witch,” he grunts out, biting at her neck and pinching her nipple.

They come together, falling through bliss until they are both laying, sweaty beneath the mistletoe.

As they both come down from the pleasure, Draco thinks of the origins of mistletoe.

While Hermione is on the potion and Draco never misses a contraceptive spell, he can’t help the swell of joy inside him when he thinks of his cum inside of her. 

Hermione places a stasis charm on a couple of the candles, the room dimming as the rest go out.

They nestle together, her body tucked perfectly into his, staring up at the mistletoe.

“I think this is one tradition we should always keep,” he says, picturing their future in a solid sort of way he hadn't dared before.

“Alright,” she agrees, nuzzling closer. They fall asleep in each other's arms, at peace.