Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You can do this.

While it wasn’t a great sign that even the little voice in her head sounded sceptical, it only served to strengthen Hermione’s resolve, solidifying her determination that this endeavour wasn’t going to be one of the ones that led to one of her episodes. She could do this.

She could do it.

She could do it.

She glanced down at her outfit for what seemed like the hundredth time, resisting the urge to tug at her skirt hem and reminding herself of what she’d seen in the mirror before leaving her flat. After a moment, she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath before stepping through the doors and into Emerald & Ore, hoping that her long strides and upright posture would project a confidence she hadn’t quite been able to access just yet. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d been to the club, of course. In fact, by that point, she’d long since lost count of the number of times she’d been there. Two years earlier, when her relationship with Ron had finally ended with a soft whimper after a slow, agonising death and she’d found herself alone for the first time in her adult life, she’d spent countless nights losing herself in the overpriced cocktails and pounding music that Emerald offered, but it had been months since she’d last passed through its doors.

This was different than before, though.

This wasn’t an escape for her. 

It was a hunt. 

She was a huntress.

Her lips curved in a small, almost feral smirk and she tried to ignore the slight hitch in her breath and her racing heart. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, no longer used to the length and weight of the silky blonde waves, she allowed her gaze to glance over the room. 

She’d met the muggle whose hair she used for her polyjuice on a train to Vienna several years earlier. Initially, she’d been quite put off by the way the woman sitting across from her continually brushed her overlong hair over the course of the trip, leaving dozens of strands of it on her seat and the floor. It was only after it occurred to her that it might be convenient to have a stock of hair from a foreign muggle to use in potions that she’d taken the first available opportunity to eagerly collect as many of them as she could, tucking them into a small velvet pouch. She’d been using the woman’s hair for her polyjuice potion ever since. 

Pretty in a way that didn’t draw too much attention, the woman was built similarly to Hermione in both height and figure, which allowed her to move through the world a bit more seamlessly than she would have in a smaller or larger body. The only problem, really, was the hair. Down to her waist, the silky strands were heavy and seemed to constantly find their way into her mouth, which drove Hermione even more mad than her own curls had before she’d learned to keep them under control.

Might be time for a new polyjuice potion , she thought to herself absently as she took in the crowd filling the club.

Little had changed in the club since the last time she’d been there. The space wasn’t overly large and had a luxurious, intimate feel, perfect for London’s magical community. The outside walls were lined with booths and tables, flanking the small, often packed dance floor at the centre of the room where she’d spent hours losing herself in the freedom of movement. 

She’d missed this place, she realised.

She’d missed the liberation and sense of self that she’d felt those nights on that dancefloor. It was difficult to explain, even in the privacy of her thoughts, but she’d found a piece of herself on those nights out that she hadn’t even known had been missing. At some point, it had become her happy place in a way she hadn’t expected.

Of course, that wasn’t the only thing she missed.

Without meaning to, she allowed her gaze to track up towards the small balcony that overlooked the dancefloor. Unlike the bold lights illuminating the rest of the room, the balcony remained mostly in shadow with just a couple of soft, warm sconces lighting it, but there was no mistaking the familiar figures she saw up there. 

She inhaled sharply, reminded yet again of why it had been so long since she’d been there. 

It wasn’t that she hadn’t known who owned the place when she first started coming. In fact, when Draco Malfoy first purchased the building that sat just deep enough into Knockturn Alley to feel a bit dangerous, but not so deep as to discourage people from venturing there, the sale had been reported in the Daily Prophet for all to see. And then, just a few months later, there’d also been a front page article announcing the club’s opening, with Draco’s smirking face filling a large portion of the page. Everyone knew who owned the club and anyone who’d been there knew that he spent most nights perched in what could only be described as a throne up on the private balcony, surveying the crowd. 

It simply hadn’t mattered to her. Not at first, anyway.

By the time she left for the last time, swearing that she would never risk coming back to the club, she’d almost gotten used to those eyes on her, their intensity feeling like a slice straight through her. In fact, it was that familiarity, and her own obsession with it, that had ultimately forced her to give up her nights out in the end. 

After all, there was no way that she, of all people, had any business harbouring a crush - if something that felt as devastating as what she felt when she looked at him could be deemed so harmless as a crush, that is - on Draco Malfoy. It was simply outside of possibility. 

And yet…

She could hardly be blamed for the attention, of course, with the way he sat there, beautiful as carefully carved marble and with only a bit more warmth. The way he’d matured was breathtaking. Devastating, even. His smirks, once cold and mocking, had grown seductive in their knowing amusement and made her ache to feel the brush of those full, defined lips over her skin. The arrogance that had bristled so much in their youth had settled into a steady confidence that felt near lethal in its appeal. On his long limbed, broad shouldered and leanly muscled form, his suits - all black, bespoke and cut to absolute perfection - showed off the way he’d filled out, and she was quite sure that she’d seen the hint of a tattoo peeking out from his cuff one night, adding another dimension to his otherwise perfectly aristocratic appearance. 

She hated everything she believed him to be and yet no one had ever drawn out even a fraction of the desperate need that he so effortlessly built in her, even without the necessity of proximity.

She remembered, with a clarity that felt almost shameful, the first time she felt his attention on her. She’d been to the club wearing her polyjuice disguise a handful of times at that point, already addicted to the freedom of it, when the weight of his attention sent tingles across the back of her neck. The heat in his gaze when she’d finally looked up at him stole her breath, trapping her in his attention for several seconds before she realised what was going on and looked away.

After that, she’d felt the weight of his gaze every time she was out on that dancefloor. Even when he had some other pretty witch perched on his lap, which happened often enough to set her teeth on edge, she’d been aware of his stare brushing over her.

At first, she’d done her best to ignore it, but she could never quite keep herself from peeking up at him when she thought he might not notice. Soon, peeking turned to looking and looking turned into returning his stare until finally the fact that they were communicating with only the most subtle shifts in their expressions was undeniable. 

He’d quirk his eyebrow just barely. 

She’d draw her lips into the slightest smirk. 

He’d peek his tongue out to wet his lips. 

She’d lick her own as she felt her knickers dampening.

At first, she’d insisted to herself that it was no big deal. He didn’t know who she was, after all, and since he never came down from his tower, there seemed to be no danger that they would go beyond looking. Eventually, though, she couldn’t bring herself to even pretend to care whether it was safe or not. She felt alive beneath his attention and ended every single one of those nights alone in bed, crying out his name as she brought herself to climax, imagining what it could be like if he did come down to her. 

In the end, it wasn’t him that came for her. 

Instead, it was Theo.

Draco’s right hand man - literally, the man spent most nights standing just behind and to the right of his boss with his arms crossed firmly and his eyes constantly scanning the club for trouble - had moved up behind her without noticing and murmured, “Mr. Malfoy would like to speak to you upstairs.”

She’d glanced up at Draco, finding him leaning forward in his chair with his hands steepled in front of him and his unwavering attention centred on her. Her breath caught as his eyebrow quirked almost imperceptibly, the slight movement offering an unmistakable invitation. To say that she’d been tempted to take what she wanted that night, damn the moral implications or the consequences, would be an understatement. 

As tempted as she had been to make her way upstairs and allow herself the pleasure she knew she would find there, though, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not while wearing another woman’s face. But also certainly not while wearing her own. 

It was with that realisation that she felt the familiar ache blooming in her chest as her heart began to race, a panic that felt familiar and foreign all at once building in her without warning. She’d never had a panic attack at the club before, had never even gotten close, but knew the signs all too well by that point.

So, of course, she’d run. 

And in the light of the following morning, unable to convince herself of all of the lies she’d been telling herself for months, she’d decided she couldn’t go back and she hadn’t. In fact, she’d kept her distance from Draco entirely since then. Even the handful of times she’d seen him out in the Alleys or at events, she’d been careful not to even look at him for too long, terrified that he’d find out that it was her all along.

Of course, the fact that she’d taken the first possible excuse to return to the club wasn’t lost on her. She just preferred not to think too hard about it.

She wasn’t there for him.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Dragging her attention away from the balcony, she made her way through the crowd to the bar. Rather than opting for one of the effervescent cocktails that she’d always preferred when she went to the club, she opted for a soda water so that she could keep her wits about her. 

She had a job to do, after all.

As she allowed her attention to scan the room, she bristled with recognition that her lack of investigative experience was already proving problematic. She didn’t even know where to begin. Her determination didn’t waver, though. Instead, her resolve only hardened. If it took months, she would come back each and every night until she found some evidence of who she was looking for.

“You came back.” The voice from behind her, somehow familiar and distinctly changed all at the same time, seemed to stop time. 

Draco Malfoy.

While she was certain that she must have heard him speak at some point over the years - their paths having crossed incidentally several times since they’d left school - she couldn’t actually remember a specific one. Unsurprising, really, she’d hardly paid him any mind in the years between the war and her time spent dancing in his club and she’d avoided him since. Still, she knew it was him immediately.

Much like the rest of his overall demeanour, the grating, arrogant intonation she remembered had been replaced with unwavering confidence and a deep, honeyed whisky timbre that sent chills down her spine. 

He’d come for her.

The thought jumped into her head unbidden, stealing her attention from the sound of his voice, and she felt the speed of her heart increase. After taking a slow, deep breath, she turned and looked up at him.

If he’d been beautiful from a distance, he was absolutely devastating up close. His eyes were a stormy grey that seemed deeper and ever so slightly warmer than when they were children, though she was sure that was impossible, and his smirking lips had a fullness and flush to them that made her ache to feel them against her skin.

Stop it, Hermione.

“Dance with me,” he continued smoothly, apparently unbothered by her lack of response. While his tone wasn’t outright commanding, there was a firmness to the request that had her aching to comply.

She opened her mouth, as though she might reply, but before she could think of anything to say she found herself being drawn towards the dancefloor. The press of his hand against her lower back was light - barely there, even - but she could swear that he was searing her skin through her clothes with the touch. 

As they reached the dance floor, the song changed, transitioning to a slow, seductive beat that seemed to weave through the rest of the bodies surrounding them, drawing bodies together. The energy in the room immediately shifted, the weight of something unmistakably sexual settling over them.

Her lips parted as she tried to catch her stolen breath, Hermione looked up at Draco and found him watching her intently.

“You ran away,” he said as he took hold of her hips, tugging her in closer as he began to direct their movements to the beat. 

She allowed herself to be directed, all too aware of the heat that had begun to gather at the juncture of her thighs. She was quite sure she’d never been so affected by another person before, and certainly not with the speed and ease exhibited by Draco.

She considered replying to his words, but decided against it and pressed her lips together tightly. Instead, she began moving with him, allowing just the barest brushes of her body against his as the fantasy she’d indulged more times that she was willing to admit turned to reality. 

Some part of her was surprised at the heat of him when they touched, as though she might have expected him to be cold against her skin, like a statue come to life. She gasped when she felt him pull her closer, slotting their bodies against each other so that she could feel that heat searing through her dress.

“You’re not going to say anything to me?” He asked, amusement obvious in his tone. “Are you afraid to use your voice?”

Looking up at him, she allowed her own smirk as she slowly shook her head back and forth only once, licking her lips subtly as she stilled.

His resulting laugh was low and seductive, filled with promise that she couldn’t quite place and amusement that felt almost dangerous. After a second, she allowed herself to be turned to face away from him, lips parting as he pressed against her from behind and brushed her hair over her shoulder to bare her neck with the barest touch of his fingertips over her skin. 

He was a surprisingly good dancer. Though his movements were controlled, he moved smoothly with the beat of the song and commanded her body to move with his effortlessly. Without even thinking about it, she found herself leaning back against him and continuing to allow him to guide her movements as she lost herself in the moment. 

Her eyes fluttered as everything in her screamed to surrender, aching for more of that easy control he exhibited. She felt desperate to let herself take anything that he might offer and the little voice in the back of her head that urged caution - the one reminding her of all of the reasons that she stayed away in the first place - seemed to be getting fainter and fainter as she was taken over by the desire he drew out of her.

“What’s your game?” He murmured, his grip on her hips tightening slightly as he drove the movement of her body. 

Surrendering completely, she rocked her bum back against his hips and gasped as she felt the length of his cock pressed against her lewdly through the layers of their clothing. To have evidence that he was just as affected as she was made her feel simultaneously powerful and needy, the desire for more leaving her breathless.

“Ah ah ah, little one,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel the brush of his lips against the shell of her ear.

She groaned, her eyes falling closed and her head tilted back to rest against his shoulder.

In the back of her mind, that little voice once again reminded her that she was supposed to be focused on the serious matter that had brought her to the club in the first place, but she couldn’t seem to muster any desire to focus on anything other than the body that was pressed against hers and the promise it provided.

“Don’t make me take drastic measures,” he murmured, the threat coming across more sensual and intriguing than actually scary in any way.

She could only imagine what those drastic measures might entail…

As she felt a wash of cool air over the front of her body, she blinked her eyes open and found that he had maneuvered her to the edge of the dancefloor and was leading her towards an unmarked door only a few feet away.

“Oh, I…” She trailed off, realising that she’d unintentionally broken her silence.

Again, he chuckled, squeezing her hips once more. “Last chance, little one,” he murmured, leaving her confused about what exactly the threat he was leveling at her was. “Tell me to leave you alone. I’ll go back upstairs. You can go back to dancing and I’ll go back to watching you the way I always have.” 

Again, she blinked. 

She knew that she should take the opportunity he offered to return them to the status quo so that she could focus on what she was meant to be focusing on right then. It shouldn’t have even been a question. And yet, she couldn’t seem to make her lips form the words. In fact, as she searched for all of the reasons to send him away that should have been easily accessed, she found none. He’d taken her over. 

“Or, we can go through that door,” he continued after a few moments, his voice low enough that she had to strain to hear him, “and I can give you what you’ve been begging me for with your eyes for the past two years.”

She gulped. 

There was no denying the promise in his tone. More than that, though, was the instinctive understanding that he would almost certainly keep that promise. 

Stepping through that door, she knew, could change everything. 

“Through the door,” she found herself croaking, hardly more than a whisper. When, barely a second later, she felt him grip her hips a bit tighter and press himself even more firmly against her back, she knew there would be no mustering regret for the decision. At least not just then. 

“There she is,” he murmured, having tipped his head low enough that she could feel the wash of his breath over her skin as he continued to maneuver her towards the door.

Just as they reached the threshold, she heard him softly murmur a spell that she couldn’t quite make out and watched as the door slowly opened, revealing a long, darkened corridor. Once again, she found herself searching for the voice of reason somewhere in her mind, but found only desire. 

Once he’d led her inside, the door closed firmly behind them, dampening the sound of the club outside of it and allowing only a bit of light through the small window.

They were alone. 

Draco wasted no time, rearranging their bodies smoothly so that her back was pressed against the wall only a few feet from the door with him caging her in on all sides. The look in his eyes was one she’d seen there before, be it from a much greater distance than the matter of inches that separated them now, but the magnification of its intensity was something she hadn’t been prepared for.

She found herself almost amused at the fact that she’d ever thought him cold. Everything about the man in front of her screamed fire and, while she was certain that she would inevitably be burned by him, she still couldn’t muster even the barest desire to move away from his heat. 

“Are you going to keep speaking to me now?” He asked with a hint of amusement.

Licking her lips, she shook her head. 

His chuckle was low and deep as he moved his hand to her hem, teasing the very tips of his fingers over the skin of her thigh as he slowly inched the fabric higher. “So I’ll just have to make you moan then?” 

She was sure that he felt the way her thighs twitched at the promise in his tone and wondered if her own eyes flashed the way his did at the question. Suddenly, a feeling of power that she’d never had in her life moved through her and she reached down to place her hand over his on her thigh.

His eyebrow arched and he tilted his head slightly, watching her closely. 

Her own stillness had nothing to do with uncertainty. Instead, she lifted her chin just enough that she knew there would be no mistaking the challenge in her and waited for that slight deepening of his smirk before she began dragging his hand further beneath her skirt along the skin of her thigh.

“There she is,” he murmured again, a hint of what sounded like pride in his tone, as his fingertips reached the lacy edge of her knickers. 

She drew her hand back then, pulling it out from under her skirt to glide it over his chest, shamelessly feeling the firm lines of his body beneath the soft fabric of his obviously expensive shirt. 

If she was going to do this - and, by that point, there seemed no doubt that she absolutely was - she was going to enjoy herself. She was going to let herself touch him and experience him and truly sink into those fantasies she’d been harbouring.

“Are you scared I won’t like your voice?” He asked, amusement combined with something knowing apparent in his tone. 

Her only response was a soft chuckle. Of course she thought that he wouldn’t like her voice - but not for the reasons she assumed he thought. If he knew it was her, of all people, that he had pressed against the wall, she was convinced that he would move away from her as if he’d been burned.

She knew that should have been enough to stop her, that it was unethical at best to continue with this knowing that he wouldn’t want it. And yet, even that reminder wasn’t enough to make her pull away. 

“I would like it,” he insisted, something akin to a vow, as he dragged his fingertips along the waistband of her knickers, dipping just beneath the elastic teasingly. 

She shuddered, gulping, and allowed her eyes to fall closed at the sensation. 

She’d lost count of the number of times she’d imagined a scenario very like this one or some version of it. It felt as though she’d pictured in detail every possible way that he could touch her and yet the reality was so much more overwhelming than she could have ever imagined. 

“Tell me you want me to touch you,” he murmured as he dipped down to press a kiss against the pulse at her throat, dragging his tongue over her skin seductively as he drew back to look into her eyes.

She blinked her eyes open and looked up at him, her lips parted and need written all over her face.

“Say it,” he insisted as he dipped his hand into her knickers just enough that she felt the tickle of his fingertips low on her tummy. 

Rather than answering with words, she parted her thighs and arched her hips away from the wall. The move could leave no doubt as to what she wanted, and yet he remained still and simply watched her. 

She realised then that he wouldn’t give her what she wanted - needed! - until she gave in. 

The part of her that refused to back down bristled, determined not to go down without a fight, but another part of her all but whimpered with the desire to relent. She could whisper, a little voice reminded her. Or whimper. Or even scream. It was even possible that she could speak in her normal, unaltered voice and he wouldn’t recognise her anyway.

Unintentionally, she allowed a small, needy sound to escape her throat.

His lips curved slightly and he dipped his hand deeper into her knickers, brushing against her heated flesh without actually giving her any of the pressure that she was desperate for.

“All you have to do is tell me you want it,” he murmured, dragging his bottom teeth over the ridge of her jaw, “and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll see stars.” 

His voice was a combination of confident promise and teasing, but she was sure that she also heard a desperation lingering somewhere in the background that matched her own. She realised then that he was feeling the same pull she was just then, the same need, and any lingering defenses that she’d managed to hold onto fell away. 

“Please,” she whispered finally, gripping his shirt in her fist. “Touch me.”

Her cheeks flushed as she heard the desperation in her words. Even though she kept her volume so low that it could barely be heard above the muffled pounding of music from the other side of the door, there was no mistaking the need. 

He let out what could only be described as a growl as he finally dipped his hand fully between her legs. At first, he lightly dragged two fingers along the length of her slit, testing the slickness he found there, but soon he added a bit of pressure as he circled her clit.

“You’re bloody dripping for me,” he groaned, his own pleasure apparent in the sound. 

Her eyes closed as she arched her hips away from the wall, pressing against his hands as she chased more. It felt as though all of that building need that she’d first spent over a year cultivating and then spent months trying to ignore all flew to the surface of her consciousness, driving a need unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

“I’ve wanted this for so bloody long,” he growled against her neck. “You have no idea.” 

She felt the press of his fingers against her entrance, teasing and testing before they dipped inside her just enough for her to cry out softly at the stretch. Desperate to see the look on his face, she opened her eyes and found him watching her unflinchingly. 

“So tight,” he murmured, smirking as he slipped his fingers deeper and drew another whimper out of her. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to stretch you open. Have you been waiting?” 

Unable to help herself, she let out a breathless laugh.

“No?” He asked, arching an eyebrow as he curled his fingers to stroke her from the inside. At the deep, guttural moan he drew out of her, his smirk deepened and he tilted his head. “Little liar.”

She licked her lips. 

She hadn’t been waiting. In fact, in some ways she'd been rather determined not to wait. In the months since she’d stopped coming to the club, she’d actually been on quite a few dates and had even invited a couple of those dates into her bed. Still, there was no denying the fact that none of them had even gotten close to affecting her the way he did, turning her on and making her desperate for more of their touch the way he seemed uniquely able to.

He was an anomaly. 

“No matter who touches you,” he continued as he began fucking her with his fingers a bit more intently until she was crying out and gripping his biceps hard enough to leave marks there, “no one can do to you what I can.”

She wanted to deny it, to insist that he was just like any other wizard, but she knew that he would somehow see straight through the lie. Without even trying, he’d done something to her, he’d stoked something she hadn’t even known could exist.

Her brows furrowed as she felt herself ascending toward her peak. 

“There it is,” he murmured as he dragged his thumb over her clit, causing her hips to jerk almost violently. “Are you going to come for me, little liar?”

Unable to answer even if she’d wanted to, she simply allowed her mouth to fall open as she rode against his hand almost desperately, chasing the orgasm that felt just out of reach. 

“That’s it,” he continued, his own voice sounding a bit strained as he continued the absolutely maddening rhythm of his fingers. “You’re getting so close, I can feel you trembling on the inside.”

When a desperate, mewling sound hit her ears, she was startled to realise that it had escaped her own lips and her eyes flew open. When she found his attention still rooted on her face, unwavering and blistering in its heat, she cried out once more.

There was no denying what was happening right then and her cunt clenched around his fingers at the realisation. 

Draco Malfoy had his hand down her knickers, his fingers inside of her, and he was about to make her come. 

And he didn’t know it was her.

“Ah ah ah,” he murmured, using his free hand to tilt her chin up so that she had no choice but to focus on him, “stop thinking. Just feel.”

Easier said than done , the little voice in the back of her head chimed in.

Still, having her attention rooted on those absolutely gorgeous glacial eyes and the constant smirk on his full lips certainly helped to shut down the thoughts that threatened to steal the orgasm he’d promised her. Though her eyes fluttered with each stroke of his fingers, she managed to keep them open so that she never broke eye contact.

“That’s it,” he urged her on, leaning in closer. “Don’t look away. I want those eyes on me when I make you come.” 

She cried out, gripping him so tight that her fingers were beginning to ache.

“Don’t look away,” he repeated. “ Watch who’s making you come.”

Her brow furrowed as a fleeting awareness floated through her mind. There was something to his words, something heavy that she couldn’t decipher with her mind and body so completely wrapped up in the sensations between her legs. 

Later , she decided. She’d think about it later.

For now, she did as he’d commanded and kept her attention on him. For most of the years that she’d known him, she’d have taken no pleasure in his touch, but that had changed and now she couldn’t think of anyone whose hands she’d rather have between her legs. 

“Please,” she whimpered as she rode against his fingers, forgetting to remain quiet.

“Yes,” he replied, moving in closer as he continued to fuck her with two fingers and circle her clit with his thumb, “that’s it.”

“Malfoy,” she whimpered as she felt the heat of his breath against her lips, “please.”

His growl at her whimpering his name sounded almost otherworldly and barely a second later, he closed the distance between their mouths and caught her lips in an immediately encompassing kiss. Without meaning to, her hands released their hold on his arms only to move to the back of his neck as she kissed him back, immediately lost in the taste of him.

Only seconds later, though, she cried out into his mouth and broke the kiss as she threw her head back. The orgasm that had been building so deliciousness finally crashed over her with such intensity that she shuddered almost violently, her thighs tightening around his wrist as she rode out the sensations. 

When finally her body settled, she sagged against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Only when she felt him drag his hand out from between her legs, carefully tugging her skirt back into place, did she blink her eyes open to look at him. Her mouth went dry as she watched him lift the hand that had just been inside her to his lips to taste the moisture that lingered there.

“Mmm,” he hummed, returning his gaze to her face. 

She felt a renewed flush, her cunt clenching around what now felt painfully empty. That she’d just come and was already ready for more at just the sight of him licking her from his fingers felt a bit like madness, but there was no denying it.

“Always wanted to know what it would taste like to make you come, Granger,” he murmured, holding her gaze intently.

She froze.

There was no denying that the words had been said intentionally, letting her know that he’d known all along that it was her, and her stomach dropped. 

No. 

His smirk deepened. “Do you think I don’t remember how you move?” He asked, his tone conversational even as his gaze remained almost brutal in its intensity. “Cute.”

She licked her lips nervously, still feeling rather paralyzed.

“Did you get my notes?” He asked then. 

Confusion came first and then a bolt of ice cold dread shot straight through her. 

No, no, no.

Without even thinking about it - quite frankly, unable to really form coherent thought just then - she lifted both hands and pushed him away from her before scrambling toward the door.

“Come back when you’re ready to talk, Granger,” he called after her, sounding amused. “Or when you want me to make you come again. Next time, I want to taste you directly on my tongue.” 

Unable to stop herself, she turned to look back at him and found him leaning up against the wall, propped on one shoulder and watching her with a smug, unbothered expression. So startled by his demeanour, her steps faltered and she nearly stopped, but quickly got her wits about her and pushed through the door he’d led her through earlier and back into the club. 

As she pushed through the crowd and finally out into the darkened Alley, her mind reeled. She could feel the familiar tightening of her chest as her heart started to race, her breaths beginning to come in pants, and tugged out her wand to apparate herself back to her flat before her panic took her over. Unable to stop herself, though, she glanced back at the entrance to the club one last time. 

How could he possibly be so calm?

He’d just confessed to being a murderer…  

Hadn’t he?

*****

As the door swung closed behind Hermione, leaving Draco standing alone in the darkened hall, his smirk deepened. It was a calculated risk, of that much he was certain, but having seen her reaction, he was convinced that confessing both to who he was and to knowing who she was had been the right thing to do.

By nature, he wasn’t a patient man, but he knew all too well that this was one of those times that it was necessary. Hermione Granger would not be moved by brute force. In fact, she would only fight against it tooth and nail if faced with it.

No, she needed to be finessed, gently maneuvered exactly where he wanted her until she was convinced it was her idea all along.

He was willing to take his time.

For now.

Smirking, he lifted his fingers back to his lips and sampled some of the slickness lingering there.

“Ambrosia,” he murmured, his gaze still rooted on the door she’d disappeared through.

Finally, he turned and headed in the other direction, slipping through the door at the end of the hall and into his office. Once he’d lowered himself down into his desk chair, he slipped open the bottom-most drawer and murmured the spell that would unlock its false bottom. Still smirking, he pulled out the parchment that he only used for her and grabbed a quill.

Now, what to write?