Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. The Sage-Green Door

Free.

Hermione Granger felt free in that moment.

Her Mind Healer had told her that, according to Muggle psychology, she was a people pleaser.

And of course, he was right.

Hermione Jean Granger had stopped thinking about herself at the age of eleven, the moment she boarded the Hogwarts Express. She had started thinking about Harry—keeping him alive, actually, which she had done quite well for a child.

She had thought about Ron, about his disastrous academic performance and his on-again-off-again assholery.

She had thought about the entire bloody wizarding world without once asking herself, “But what do I want?”—not even in that overworked, oversized brain of hers.

When was the last time she had truly thought about herself?

That was the question her Healer had asked her, just three months ago.

Sitting on the cozy couch in his office, Hermione had done something entirely new:

She froze.

She didn’t know.

Maybe it was back in fourth year, when she’d gone to the Yule Ball with Krum. Maybe—but she wasn’t sure.

Maybe it was when she kissed Ron during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Swapping a wet kiss in the middle of the worst moment of her life—maybe that had been something she did for herself.

Or maybe it was when she decided to double-major in Magical and Muggle Medicine.

But even then… becoming a Healer still felt like part of her chronic need to fix everyone else.

She realized—with total, overwhelming shock—that she had never truly thought about herself.

After the war, it was like her future had already been written.

She got together with Ron.

She aced her NEWTs.

She moved in with Ron.

She graduated and started working at St. Mungo’s.

Everything in order.

Everything very… boring.

There had been passion with Ron, yes—and a staggering amount of awkwardness in the early years. But then everything had settled into routine.

Safe. Predictable. Always the same.

And at first, that was exactly what she had wanted.

After seven years of her life on a roller coaster, she was ready to get off the ride.

But Hermione Granger was not made for routine. Her mind moved faster—differently—than everyone else’s.

And soon, everything began to feel… dull.

Monotonous.

Purposeless.

Everything was fine. Everything was calm. But nothing sparked her.

And don’t even get her started on the sex.

“How long has it been since you had an orgasm, Hermione?”

The question hadn’t come from a therapist.

It had come from Ginevra Molly Potter—née Weasley—one evening at the Burrow, during a cutthroat game of backyard Quidditch.

Ginny was strictly banned from playing—she was a professional, after all, and would have wiped the floor with them.

But she’d fixed Hermione with those deep brown eyes and dropped the question of the decade.

“Uh…”

That had been her answer.

Uh.

She’d had plenty of orgasms—on her own. Especially with that particular purple Muggle toy she’d bought in a shady Amsterdam shop during Ginny’s hen night.

But with a man?

Or rather, with one man?

Never.

Not that Ron was terrible.

He was just… selfish. And stuck in his ways.

“Hermione…”

“I didn’t answer!” she protested.

“That is an answer,” Ginny replied with pity, handing her a cup of tea.

Hermione’s sex life with Ron—the only man she had ever slept with—could be summed up in two steps:

1. She gave him a blowjob until he was hard.
2. He climbed on top of her, fucked her missionary for ten minutes, then rolled over and passed out.

The end.

Hermione always finished by herself, listening to him snore beside her.

Then she’d clean up, rinse her toy, and tuck it neatly back into her drawer.

Once Ginny had gotten past the horror of hearing this about her brother, she had declared Ron an amoeba and insisted Hermione at least talk to him.

He was neglecting her, and a woman like Hermione Granger should never be neglected.

But Hermione disagreed.

She didn’t feel neglected—not sexually, anyway.

She didn’t know anything different.

Ron had been her first—and probably would’ve been her last.

Before him, she’d only ever kissed one other boy: Viktor Krum. She was fourteen.

Now she was twenty-eight.

Thirty was looming on the horizon.

And she couldn’t stay stuck anymore.

She couldn’t keep drifting.

She didn’t want to be a shadow of herself any longer.

So, on the eve of their ten-year anniversary, Hermione said enough.

She looked at Ron and said enough.

It happened one evening after dinner with Harry and Ginny.

They were walking home when Hermione turned to Ron and, in the most casual—and least-Hermione—way possible, said:

“Ron, I think we should break up.”

And the second the last syllable left her lips, she felt free for the first time in ten years.

Ron looked at her like she’d grown a third eye.

Then he laughed.

Told her to stop messing around. That after ten years, they should be thinking about starting a family, not making jokes.

But Hermione repeated herself.

Said it wasn’t working.

Said they were stuck in an endless loop and never trying anything new.

Within three days, she’d packed her things and moved into Grimmauld Place.

She hadn’t seen Ron since.

Ginny had mentioned that her brother was wandering around the Burrow like the Bloody Baron—gloomy, silent, seeking comfort from the Weasley matriarch, who treated him like he was ten years old.

“Pathetic,” Ginny was still saying as they Apparated into an alleyway in Mayfair, not far from one of the entrances to Magical London.

“If instead of acting like a child who needs coddling, he’d tried behaving like a proper boyfriend—and maybe learned how to shag a woman—he wouldn’t be alone right now.”

Ginny Potter had been her best friend since their days at Hogwarts. And the mouth of truth. Especially when talking about her brother.

She was an incredible woman: stunning, and brutally honest in her judgments. Her long red hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a loose green sweater that slipped off one shoulder. In her arms, she carried a huge box hastily labeled Kitchen.

She was a Quidditch star—her best friend—and Hermione didn’t even get that bloody sport. But Ginny wore it in every inch of her being: in her athletic clothes, her sculpted body, the way she walked.

“Ginny, I didn’t leave Ron because of the sex,” Hermione felt compelled to clarify.

“Oh, but I think that’s a big part of it, Mione,” Ginny replied, stepping out of the alley and into the lively chaos of London, still holding that box.

“Name me just one memorable performance in the last ten years. Just one.”

Hermione thought about it.

Maybe it was also because of the sex.

Ron had never asked what she liked—only what he liked. He liked being touched, he liked certain sounds, he didn’t like going down on her.

“How many orgasms did you have with him in ten years?” Ginny asked, too loudly.

The answer was simple.

Hermione had never come. Not once.

She had faked it, to avoid hurting him, but she had never had an orgasm.

People said it was normal, that many women didn’t reach climax.

But Hermione did—when she was alone with her vibrator.

Ron just had never touched her enough.

“Your silence says more than I thought it would,” Ginny replied, locking eyes with her warm brown gaze.

“I don’t think orgasms are essential for a good relationship.”

“Oh, but they are,” the redhead countered sharply. “If a man takes his time to make you come, it’s because he wants to. He enjoys seeing you enjoy it. He puts in the effort.”

She tilted her head. “You were just settling, Hermione. And I say this about my own brother, so trust me—I’m being serious.”

Hermione sighed.

During the months at Grimmauld Place, Ginny had brought up that topic more than once, as if having an orgasm were the measure of a healthy relationship.

Hermione didn’t consider her relationship with Ron a failure. Boring, maybe. But not bad.

She had felt loved. And Ron could make her laugh. But he didn’t challenge her. Not intellectually, not physically.

She saw him more as a child to protect than a man to desire.

They walked peacefully along the pavements of Mayfair until they stopped in front of an elegant building. A late-nineteenth-century townhouse, four stories high, with a brick-red façade accented by white detailing. The ground floor, bright and white, had windows framed in what looked like travertine marble.

Climbing plants snaked up the walls, giving the building a cheerful feel—one of the neatest and most charming in the area.

Hermione looked up. The penthouse was a modern structure perched on the third-floor roof, with large glass windows that reflected the light. A small dream.

“Well, nice place,” Ginny agreed, pausing at the steps that led to the entrance door, painted a delicate sage green. “You said it’s magical?”

“According to the estate agent, it belongs to a wizard, and only members of the magical community live inside,” Hermione explained, rummaging in her pockets for the keys. “But it’s a hybrid, since it’s in the heart of Muggle London.”

Ginny nodded as Hermione pulled out the keyring.

She had fallen in love with the place at first sight.

She had always dreamed of living in central London: close to her parents, to St. Mungo’s, to the bustling city streets. Close to Harry, who worked at the Ministry, and to the Leaky Cauldron, with easy access to Diagon Alley.

“Interesting,” Ginny said, eyeing her with mischief. “Maybe one of the neighbors can introduce you to the magical world of multiple orgasms.”

“Ginny!” Hermione protested, laughing despite herself.

She slipped the key into the lock, still giggling, as Ginny tilted her head back to look up at the building.

“You said the owner’s a wizard?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, hearing the click of the lock. She made a mental note of which key it was.

“Mh. When a wizard is rich enough to afford a townhouse in Mayfair, he’s usually eccentric enough to do something weird with it,” Ginny chuckled, climbing the steps.

“Like what?” Hermione asked.

“Like a dragon in the garden. Or a hot tub that sings Celestina Warbeck every time you turn on the hot water.”

They both laughed as Hermione pushed the door open, stepping into the building’s entrance hall.

A wide spiral staircase of marble curved up toward the upper floors. Each apartment was marked by a high-end wooden door with a nameplate: theirs was number 4. There were probably three small flats on the ground floor.

The floor was inlaid with black and white marble in a geometric pattern, and the walls were clad in pearlescent carved wood. A gem.

There was a noticeboard with building announcements, a floor plan, and useful numbers for Floo Powder and maintenance.

No elevator.

Hermione headed for the stairs, which were lined with a black brass Art Nouveau banister and a cream-colored carpet.

This place was exactly what she had always wanted: a little corner of elegance, silence, and magic.

She had fallen in love with it the moment she saw it in the estate agent’s window in Diagon Alley.

A perfect balance between Muggle aesthetics and magical functionality. As if it had been designed just for her.

Her flat—number 10—was on the third floor. It wasn’t large: just seventy square meters, well laid out, with a small balcony where she could place a chair and read in the glow of a London sunset. There was a living room, a compact kitchen, a bathroom with a gold-lacquered brass clawfoot tub, a bedroom, and a small study.

It was warm and welcoming. The perfect place to start over.

And the rent was absurdly low. Or rather, it had become low after she’d made an offer.

A few days after she’d left the deposit, the estate agent had sent her an owl to let her know that the landlord had decided to significantly reduce the rent, since she was—his words—his “favourite war heroine.”

Strange. But Hermione wasn’t in a position to complain.

“This place is gorgeous. I can’t believe you’re paying so little,” Ginny was saying as they climbed the stairs. “This guy must be seriously eccentric. And probably has a dragon in the courtyard if he’s giving you this place for under a hundred Galleons…”

“Excuse me.”

A calm, low male voice made them both stop on the landing to the first floor.

They turned.

A man was leaning casually against the banister.

He was stunning. And oddly familiar.

His hair was curly and brown, tousled with artful precision, falling over a pair of eyes as green as a spring meadow. His face was sculpted, with almost delicate features, a Romanesque nose, full lips, and a few scattered freckles that gave him a mischievous air. A playful—and unmistakably sensual—smirk played on his mouth.

He was tall and lean, dressed in black jeans and a navy-blue shirt unbuttoned at the chest, where the edge of a serpent tattoo peeked out from his right pectoral. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing more tattoos along his arms.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said with a crooked smile. “Especially since you were talking about my courtyard dragon, and I thought I’d offer some clarification.”

“Theodore Nott?!” Ginny exclaimed, pointing at him without the slightest decorum.

Hermione stiffened.

That wasn’t Theodore Nott. Or rather, that wasn’t the Theodore Nott she remembered.

That was an upgraded version.

The shriveled boy she used to compete with for the top mark in Ancient Runes had vanished.

She remembered a quiet, gaunt kid, always sitting in the back of the classroom, nearly invisible.

Adolescence had clearly done him good, she thought, unable to stop herself.

“Ginevra Weasley… or should I say Ginny Potter?” he asked, raising an amused eyebrow. “Gryffindors really do travel in packs.”

Then he tilted his head slightly. His smile widened.

“Hermione Granger. My new tenant. It’s a pleasure to finally see you.”

Tenant?

“Um… hi, Theodore,” Hermione greeted, awkwardly.

“Theo, please,” he corrected her with a grin. “Let’s skip the formalities—we’re childhood friends, after all. And you did send my father to Azkaban, for which I’ll be eternally grateful.”

He chuckled, stretching his legs as he approached with a smooth stride.

“Uh… you’re welcome,” Hermione mumbled. “Do you live here?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Theo said, stepping even closer, smiling like a cat playing with its prey, “the entire building is mine.”

“All of this?” Hermione was stunned.

“Yes,” he replied solemnly, still smiling. “Except the penthouse. That has a different owner.”

Theo now stood directly in front of her. He truly was a more seductive, confident version of the boy she once knew. He looked like someone who had taken life into his own hands and bent it to his will.

“I didn’t know what to do with my father’s money,” he said with a casual shrug. “I work at the Department of Mysteries, but I get bored a lot. So I bought a few buildings around London to supplement the pittance the Ministry pays me.”

“Oh.”

“When I saw your name on the offer, I knew you’d be interesting to have around. So I said yes.” He smiled again. In that moment, he looked exactly like the Cheshire Cat. “We’ll definitely have fun.”

Hermione didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know Theodore Nott well enough to say whether she was intrigued or alarmed. He was so different, so in control of himself.

She was almost envious.

“May I?” Theo asked, pointing to the box she was holding.

“What?”

“May I help you, Granger? A lady shouldn’t carry all her emotional baggage on her own.”

He winked, taking the box from her and giving it a light shake. “And cookware?!”

“They’re not pots,” Hermione huffed, even more thrown by his tone.

“Great, so just emotional baggage,” Theo replied, starting up the stairs while whistling.

Ginny watched him, a wide, amused smile on her face. She leaned in close to Hermione and lowered her voice.

“If you don’t fuck your landlord within six months, Hermione, I swear I’m ending our friendship.”

“Ginny!” Hermione protested, scandalised—but unable to stop the laughter rising in her throat.

“I heard that!” Theo’s voice floated down from above. He turned slightly, looking at them over his shoulder with a dazzling grin. “And for the record, I’m absolutely in favour of it.”

He paused, eyes fixed on Hermione.

“You’re incredibly sexy, Granger. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Hermione flushed deep red.

No. No one ever had.

*

Hermione’s apartment looked like it had been made just for her. Ginny was staring up at the towering bookshelf above the fireplace, her head tilted all the way back.

Hermione smiled, brushing her hand along her friend’s arm as she walked in and tossed the keys into the tray by the door.

Boxes were scattered across the pale wooden floor, contrasting with the powder-blue sofas. The whole house smelled of polished wood and clean wax, all soft pastels and soothing tones.

Theo closed the door behind him with a grin.

 “Lovely colors, beautiful light, and a balcony to read on—excellent choice, Granger,” he said, setting the box he was carrying down next to a stack of sealed ones.

Hermione nodded and glanced at him over her shoulder. “It’s like you picked it out just for me.”

Theo chuckled as he walked over to the two women. “It would definitely be a clever way to flatter you, but no—it was my interior designer. He said it was ‘Instagrammable’, whatever that means.” He waved a hand dismissively and plopped down on the sofa with a small bounce. “By the way, where’s Weasley? I thought he’d pop in during moving week.”

Hermione suddenly fell silent, looking at the handsome man in front of her. Theo was watching her like it was nothing, one brow arched.

“Um… Ron and I aren’t together anymore,” she announced, feeling as if it had only just become real by saying it aloud.

Theo opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Oh,” he said, before a small, amused smile curved on those annoyingly perfect lips. “I honestly thought we’d get to see another Golden Trio wedding. I even bought a suit, just in case,” he teased, then his smile tilted to the side. “Can I ask what happened after what—what has it been, a hundred years?”

“Ten,” Hermione corrected him with a sigh. “No… we just didn’t work anymore.”

She felt a little awkward talking about Ron in front of the absurdly attractive man now lounging on her sofa, one leg draped casually over the other.

“Well, I have to admit, I might’ve seen it coming,” Theo tilted his head just enough to make his curls shift. “Ron Weasley is a boy. A good guy, sure, maybe even a decent boyfriend, but still—a boy.” He said it lightly, like it was fact. “You, Granger, need a man.”

Hermione stood frozen in place.

Was that really how Ron came across to others?

She had never seen all that immaturity people kept claiming he had.
It was like she’d lived in a version of reality where it had always been just the two of them, no one else.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that…” she replied.

“Oh please, it’s very simple!” Ginny chimed in, letting the box in her hands drop to the floor with a thud, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Ron was a sloth in bed and Hermione got bored.”

Theo raised an eyebrow before chuckling under his breath.

“Ginny!” Hermione scolded, nodding toward Theo, who was still laughing.

“Oh come on, you know it’s true,” Ginny went on with more enthusiasm. “He only ever did missionary—no variations, no surprises. He seemed more worried about not messing up the sheets than actually giving you a proper good time.”

“GINNY!” Hermione’s face went completely red as she stared at her friend, utterly shocked.

“What? I’m just telling the truth!” Ginny shot back, hands on her hips.
Theo leaned further back into the couch, his green eyes locking on Hermione.

“Only missionary, Granger? For ten years?”

Hermione crossed her arms under her chest, avoiding his gaze.
She felt… kind of judged.

“Not even one orgasm,” Ginny added mercilessly, clearly enjoying the unlikely alliance with the former Slytherin.

Harry had always avoided saying anything, since Ron was his best friend.

“Not one?” Now Theo looked genuinely scandalized. “No, no, no, Granger—this is unacceptable!” He jumped up as if someone had just insulted him. “You’ve subjected yourself to a decade of creative abstinence! A brilliant mind like yours needs to be stimulated on all levels!”

Hermione looked up at him. He was close. Too close. And he smelled amazing.
She still couldn’t believe this was Theodore Nott—and that he was her landlord.

He stared down at her, one eyebrow raised, his face drawn in the most theatrical kind of shock.

Maybe, Hermione thought, Ginny wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe…

A loud sound cut through her thoughts.

All three looked up toward the ceiling.

The noise came again. Rhythmic. Precise. Building.

“What the hell…?” Hermione muttered.

That mischievous smile returned to Theo’s face.

Then came the scream.
A full, rich, vibrating female moan that almost made the walls tremble.

Ginny burst out laughing.

The words weren’t entirely clear, but Hermione could’ve sworn she heard “Harder… please…” whispered like a plea.

She flushed instantly.

She had never… begged like that.

The sounds continued. Rhythmic. Relentless. The moans grew louder, more desperate.
A kind of wild ecstasy. Almost unreal.

“Sweet Merlin, who is that?” Ginny asked, still laughing.

A masculine moan joined in, confirming every suspicion.

Theo tilted his head back, amused.

“The penthouse owner,” he replied. “He usually starts after dinner. Must be particularly inspired tonight.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she stared at her landlord, who now had a hand under his chin like that pornographic symphony was completely normal.

Then the bed—or something heavy—scraped across the floor above.

And the woman screamed again. Loud. Joyful. Begging for it to never stop.

“Does it always sound like this?” Hermione’s voice pitched slightly as the banging intensified, the moans getting louder and more uncontrolled. “Is that why you lowered my rent?”

Theo chuckled. “Absolutely not.” He shook his head.
“I lowered your rent because you're the woman who testified against my father ten years ago and made me free to be who I am. I wanted to repay you for that,” he said softly.
“Though I probably owe you one of my Cavouts at Gringotts to even things out.”
He pointed to the ceiling. “That was definitely not part of the deal.”

“You knew?” Hermione asked quietly.

Theo raised both eyebrows. “That he has an intense sex life?” he said rhetorically.
“Of course. He’s my friend. That it sounds like that? No. I’m quite shocked, actually.”

He took another step toward her, lowered his voice, and leaned in, brushing her ear.

“Still, that’s exactly how you deserve to be treated, Granger,” he murmured.
“By a man who knows how to make you scream and beg. Who takes you with the same passion you put into reading—a hunger so deep it leaves you breathless.”

Another moan erupted from upstairs, this time male.
The woman was still pleading, screaming not to stop, to ruin her.

Hermione shivered as Theo pulled back, flashing her a mischievous, knowing smile.

Ginny whistled, impressed.

“I have a feeling that wasn’t just some half-assed missionary,” she said, laughing.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but another loud bang rang out—something hitting the wall hard enough to shake the chandelier.

Theo raised his hands, innocent.

“No idea what’s going on up there, but it’s... enlightening.” He laughed, then looked again at Hermione, who was still frozen in place.
“But if you want a guided tour of the penthouse, Hermione, I could put in a good word with the owner.”

She gaped, searching his expression for mockery.
She had never begged during sex. Ron had never made her feel like that—like her life depended on it.

“He always listens to me,” Theo went on. “And I’m sure he’d let you skip the line.”

“Theodore Nott, it’s official—I love you!” Ginny laughed, grabbing his arm.
“Please help me with her!”

And from the look the two exchanged, Hermione knew she didn’t stand a chance.

*

He got out of bed, running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.

The woman beside him was still asleep, her back rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

He hated when they stayed the night.

It felt too intimate. Too intrusive. Like sleeping beside him meant violating the sanctity of his bed, his personal space.
Sure, a few hours earlier he’d had her screaming, taken her in every position imaginable, tasted every inch of her. But sex wasn’t intimacy to him.

He didn’t even know the name of the naked woman tangled in his sheets.

Camille... Catherine...

He had no idea.
She had probably told him at the bar under his office, but he’d erased it somewhere between one smile and the next.

He really needed to work on his memory.

He told himself he’d shower, kick her out, and then probably head downstairs to crash at Theo’s.

He stretched, brushing his fingers over his abs, and walked into the en suite bathroom.

Like a ritual, he turned on the shower and let the water heat up. He placed his soft, expensive towels within reach and then glanced at himself in the mirror.

The gods had decided he’d be not only an excellent lover but also devastatingly handsome.

As he grew older, his sharp features had given way to a more defined jaw. His face was masculine and cold, his eyes a vivid silver.
He wasn’t huge, but he was tall and fit enough to be intimidating. Still, he remained elegant, refined, magnetic.

He tousled his blond hair again and stepped under the hot water, staying there for about ten minutes.

When he stepped out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed his wand to dry his hair.

A soft, rhythmic knock on the door made him smirk.
He set the wand on the sink and made his way quickly to the door. He knew exactly who it was behind the heavy wood.
Theo was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, smiling.

“Brilliant performance, Malfoy. The whole building gave you a standing ovation,” he said, clapping lazily.

Draco smirked and gave an exaggerated bow. “You here to write me a review or join in for a round?”

Theo chuckled and stepped inside. Draco let him pass, watching as his friend glanced around the room.

He adored Theo—he’d been his lifeline after the war, after Azkaban, after Draco had busted his ass to get his life back on track.

If it hadn’t been for Theo—and Blaise—he probably would’ve killed himself on the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Instead, Draco had pulled himself together. He’d completed his NEWTs under house arrest at Nott Manor, then studied Magical and Muggle Law, graduated, and passed the bar both at the Ministry of Magic and in the Muggle UK.

A few years later, Blaise had introduced him to his friend Blake Blackthorne, a Squib with a law firm, and together they’d founded Blackthorne & Malfoy, the most renowned legal firm in London.

“Oh no, no, I already got plenty of satisfaction just listening to you,” Theo laughed. “I counted three, Malfoy. That third one sounded like a satanic ritual.” He tilted his head. “Bit too loud, actually. Even if I’d felt like joining, that voice would’ve killed the mood. And also…”
“And also what?” Draco prompted, closing the door.

Theo flopped onto the black leather sofa, practically bouncing, summoned a bottle of bourbon and a glass from the kitchen with his wand, and poured himself a drink.
“I came to deliver some juicy intel,” he said, taking a sip.

Draco chuckled and sank into the armchair across from him, watching as Theo enjoyed the expensive liquor, peering at him from under his long lashes.

“Juicy?” Draco raised an eyebrow.
Theo nodded, green eyes narrowing mischievously. “I’ve got a new tenant downstairs. Very interesting creature.”
“Interesting like circus freak or interesting like mind-blowing fuck?” Draco asked, finally intrigued.

Theo gave him a knowing look. “Interesting like a ridiculously sexy doctor, long dark hair, even sexier brain—borderline criminally brilliant. Just got out of a long, boring relationship with a guy who never gave her an orgasm and only ever did missionary…” he added flatly. “A crime against humanity, if you ask me. With a woman like that, I’d probably make the walls shake.”

Draco’s lips curved.
His favorite kind of prey: sexually frustrated women just waiting for someone to show them all the dirty secrets.
They were usually desperate enough to fulfill every one of his kinks.

“Oh no, Draco,” Theo said, shaking his head with a grin, “she’s not your typical frustrated woman. This one’s brilliant. She’s gold.” He emphasized the word as if it were part of the woman herself.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me she’s never come?”
Theo shrugged, stretching. “That’s what they say,” he said, taking another sip. “A real shame. She’s so damn sexy and so sexually repressed that when she heard your little concert upstairs, her eyes went wide.” He chuckled. “Pretty sure she had a spiritual crisis over a decade of no sex life.”

“And you’re telling me this because you want me to…?” the blond prompted, curious.

Theo leaned back on the expensive sofa, giving him a sly look.
“Just go say hi, Draco. She definitely needs some friendly neighborhood support,” he smirked. “Offer her some wine, a free legal consultation, your dick… mostly your dick.”
“Theo…”
“Oh come on, Malfoy. You know she’s perfect for you—beautiful, smart, repressed, just dropped a dead weight and desperately needs to learn that sex isn’t three pumps and a ‘did you like that, babe?’”
He leaned forward. “Would you ask her if she liked it?”
“Absolutely not. She’d tell me herself.”
“Exactly.” Theo stood up, amused. “Apartment 10. She’s on morning shift tomorrow, you can catch her when you’re back from that fancy office of yours.”
He headed toward the door, throwing Draco a playful glance over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Chapter Text

“I swear I didn’t do anything!” The shrill voice of the boy on the other side of the desk was grating on Draco’s nerves.

He was watching the kid with his cheek resting against his right hand, the Malfoy signet ring glinting on his finger. For the past thirty minutes, he had been silently observing this ridiculous-haired, overpaid little football star shriek like a hysterical housewife, while his agent paced restlessly along the perimeter of Draco’s office. The man had already traced the same path along the two walls next to his desk seven times.

Muggle footballers were dumber than Quidditch players. Draco decided that very moment, as Thomas “Tommy” O’Connor—the Chelsea golden boy—kept babbling out a pitiful defense, after a file accusing him of sexually abusing a minor had been handed to the British Police. It had sparked one of the biggest media frenzies in years, right on the eve of the summer European Championship.

He had always thought Tommy was an idiot, with more air in his head than in the ball he kicked. But the kid earned forty million pounds a year and paid Draco handsomely.

Filthy money.

Draco had more wealth than that mop-headed twat, but he still needed to fill his Muggle bank account a little. The Malfoy family’s mountain of gold didn’t carry quite the same weight in the non-magical world.

And Draco loved being rich.

“Please believe me, Draco, I’ve never touched those girls.”

“You’ve said that seven times in the past half hour, Tommy. I get it. Do you think I’m stupid?” Draco sighed, raising an eyebrow. “And for God’s sake, Stunner, would you sit down? You’re making me nauseous.”

The agent, Emil Stunner, froze mid-pace and looked over at the man behind the desk.

Draco Malfoy, one of the most sought-after lawyers in London (and the entire UK), was staring at him with that glacial silver gaze of his, colder than the Arctic.

He wore a tailored ice-grey Prince of Wales check suit. The jacket was draped neatly over his leather chair. His crisp white shirt was complemented by a matching waistcoat and a slick black tie held by a platinum tie clip.

He was incredibly young. When the agency first recommended him for their players, Stunner had nearly laughed in their faces. The man wasn’t even thirty. Yet he always seemed one step ahead of everyone.

Tommy O’Connor was the tenth high-profile client to tie himself to Draco Lucius Malfoy and the firm of Blackthorne & Malfoy.

“I keep repeating it because you’re not saying anything!” the kid accused, jabbing a finger at the blond.

“And what should I say, Tommy?” Draco asked calmly. “That you’re a fucking idiot?”

The footballer’s eyes went wide at the insult. “How dare you—” he snarled.

“Oh, I dare.” Draco smirked. “You’re a massive idiot, O’Connor—so full of hot air you probably float in your sleep.” He leaned forward slightly. “Remind me what you’re accused of?”

“Sexual abuse of a minor, but that slut—”

“That slut,” Draco cut in sharply, “is fifthteen years old. And she has some pretty disturbing conversations with you backed up on her computer.” He opened the court file and shoved it toward Tommy. ‘“I’ll kidnap you from school and i will fuck you in the ass”? Really, O’Connor?’ His brow arched. “Is that how you speak to a lady?”

“But—”

“Shut up.” Draco leaned in further, voice low and cold. “I know it’s hard for an overinflated football ego like yours to sit still and listen, but you’d better start now, kid.”

Tommy opened and closed his mouth like a fish before nodding. The cold stare from the man across the desk had always terrified him.

"I’m going to speak very slowly so even you can follow." Draco tilted his head. "You messaged a fifthteen-year-old. Got her to send you compromising material. Shared it with your teammates. Ordered her an Uber and met her at your flat, where you gave her drugs ‘to help her relax.’ You had sex with her—and filmed it." His eyes narrowed. "Then you begged her not to tell anyone about the cocaine because ‘it would ruin your career.’" He pointed a finger at him. "Now, besides being an incomprehensible fuckwit, do you even know how many crimes are in that story?"

Tommy shook his head.

Draco laughed—without amusement.

"Of course you don’t." He raised a hand and began counting on his fingers.

"Grooming a minor—up to 10 years in prison. Possession and distribution of child pornography—5 years just for possession, up to 10 for distribution. Sexual abuse of a minor—up to 16 years. Administering drugs for sexual purposes—up to 10 years. Possession of illegal substances—up to 7 years. Recording sexual acts without consent—only 2 years for that one. And last but not least: witness intimidation—" Draco stood straight "—If the judge’s a Tottenham fan, that alone might cost you 7 years."
He paused.
"We’re talking almost 50 years behind bars for one stupid fuck-up, O’Connor."

Tommy swallowed hard, staring at his lawyer like he was afraid to even breathe.

Draco Malfoy terrified him to his core. He had more authority in that office than Tommy’s entire team board and manager put together.

"Tell me the truth—was she actually agree to fuck with you?" Draco asked quietly, leaning closer again. "Be careful how you answer. I’ll know if you’re lying. I’ve got a whole department for these kinds of crimes and a colleague who’d love to offer your little friend pro bono assistance—and bury you."

Tommy flinched, as if shocked by electricity, and his green eyes began to well up. "I swear, Draco, she was okay to have sex with me!"
He saw Draco staring straight into him and felt his stomach turn with nausea.
Draco said nothing for a few moments, watching the boy tremble. Then he sat back.

"Please, believe me," Tommy pleaded, leaning forward.

"I’m not paid to believe you. I’m paid to get your ass out of this shitstorm with the least amount of blowback." He grabbed an expensive-looking pen and reopened the file. "You’ve got two options."

"What are they?"

"First: settle. You’ll have a record, but we keep this out of court. We call the girl, offer her a very generous check, get her to sign an NDA. You admit responsibility, then spend a few months in a Swiss rehab center after the Euro. Later we repackage you as a born-again Christian with a thing for sad poetry about Alpine landscapes on Facebook." His tone was dry, biting. "You’ll apologize to the girl—word for word, exactly as I dictate to you—and head off to the Euros with your dick safely tucked in your jockstrap."

"Draco..."

The blond turned, casting a sharp glance at the sports agent who had dared to interrupt him. Emil immediately looked away, terrified.

“The second option is to discredit the victim.” Draco lowered his gaze to him. “It’s a move I don’t personally endorse, but one I’m obliged to put on the table.” He looked at him intently. “You talk to the press. Say she’s blackmailing you, that she’s after your money, that she misunderstood everything. Claim you’re practically the same age, just three years apart. Cry on Norman Graham, BBC, wherever they’ll have you. Pull that dumb, pouty face of yours while I work on destroying her credibility” He gestured with one hand as he spoke.
“You’ll keep your nose clean, get rid of that ridiculous thug haircut, lie low for a while, and we’ll ship your arse off to some Italian club until things settle down.” He shuffled some papers.
“But that’s a longer game than a settlement—feminists on your back, protests at every match.” Then he looked at him again, gaze sharp enough to make him flinch.

Tommy barely managed to breathe as Stunner finally stepped forward and dared glance at Draco’s ice-cold face, which now looked carved from solid marble.

“What do you recommend?” Tommy asked quietly.

Draco was silent for a few seconds, weighing how much theatrical drama the moment required in front of those two idiots.

“First of all, I recommend you stop acting like a fucking idiot. And regardless of which path we choose—start embracing celibacy for a few months.”He said it bluntly, then tilted his head slightly. “Understood?”

Tommy glanced at his agent before nodding, trying to steady his trembling hands.

“Good. And while we’re at it, let me make one thing perfectly clear, so there’s no misunderstanding,” Draco continued calmly. “Even though I don’t believe you’re a rapist, Tommy, if I ever see you back in my office with another sexual assault file—if I hear even a whisper, a rumor, a hint linking your name to the word ‘underage’...” his silver eyes turned into frozen blades, “I’m done. I’ll drop you in front of the press and leave you to drown in your own shit.”

He watched the boy begin to breathe even harder.

“And I swear on whatever shred of decency I have left, I won’t just watch you sink. I’ll be the one digging your grave.”

He shut the file with a sharp snap.

“Clear?”

Tommy nodded again, more terrified than ever at the thought of having that man as an enemy.

“Voice, O’Connor.”

“Yes, Draco,” the player answered, nearly leaping to his feet, his voice thin, all arrogance melted like snow in the sun.

“Excellent.” Draco nodded with a faint smile. “Now, in my opinion, we’d be better off going for a plea deal, if that works for you.” He folded his hands on the desk, the seal ring catching the light.

When he began his path to redemption, still confined to Nott Manor, Draco had asked himself what career could make use of his pureblood education without causing a scandal. It was Theodore who suggested law. Draco had always been authoritative, quick-witted, eloquent, and shrewd. Becoming a lawyer would open the door to a different kind of power.

He saw it immediately: sitting in a luxury office, dealing with all sorts of clients. He began studying Magical Law and, almost simultaneously, enrolled in Law at the Oxford University to learn about Muggle legislation too. He was a former blood purist in search of answers, and Draco Malfoy never left anything to chance.

He became fascinated with the Muggle world: their glass towers, the way they lived comfortably without magic, the complexity of their society. Almost without realizing it, he had entered the non-magical legal system.

Draco had changed.

He’d started following football, Formula 1, rugby—alongside Quidditch, of course. He’d bought a huge television, even got a driver’s license (though cars still terrified him). He bought a mobile phone for himself and one for his mother, then forced Theo to do the same. For the first time, he felt like he was blooming.

Draco Malfoy had reclaimed his place in the Wizarding World and carved one out in the Muggle world too. And yet, every time he found himself face-to-face with some rich kid as dumb as a hollow pumpkin, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had once been just like that.

“But that would give him a criminal record, and it might be an issue for travel...” Stunner interjected cautiously.

Draco sighed, brushing a finger along the bridge of his nose.

“Stunner, how long have you and I been working together?”

“Three years, at least,” the man replied, adjusting his glasses.

“And in those three years, how many of my decisions have harmed one of your clients?” Draco asked rhetorically.

Stunner fell silent.

None.

Draco Malfoy had never harmed anyone. He was impeccable, relentless—and a bit of a shark. Blackthorne & Malfoy had only existed for five years, but it was already one of the most sought-after law firms in the United Kingdom. Aspiring lawyers lined up for an internship, and getting Draco as your legal counsel was a near-mythical achievement. Just booking an appointment came with a two-month waiting list—on a good day.

Everyone told Stunner he was lucky to have direct access to the “Icy Blond,” as he was known in the Premier League hallways.

It was staggering to think he was only twenty-eight.

“And in any case, I’ve already thought of that,” Draco said, rising from his chair with disarming elegance. “Before initiating the plea bargain process, I’ll try to speak with the victim’s lawyer. I’ll request a meeting here in the office and attempt to convince her to drop the charges.”

He looked down at the footballer.

“I’ll talk to her myself, with all the calm and poise the situation requires. Unlike you, Tommy, I know how to speak to a lady.”

He hammered the kid for another half hour before dismissing him and his agent. Draco sighed as the office door closed behind them and rubbed his temples.

Bloody hell, why did I ever decide to get involved with the Premier League?

He already had a headache and was itching to go home.

The door opened slowly, and a pair of leather shoes caught his eye.

Blake Blackthorne appeared at the door with an amused expression, tapping lightly before stepping inside. He wore a sympathetic smile that didn’t quite hide his amusement. At forty-five, Blake was the picture of refined charm—his salt-and-pepper hair gave him a distinguished air. Slightly round in the middle, his belly peeked out from beneath a crisp white shirt under a sleek black suit. Not tall, but solidly average, and with a face that inspired trust.

"I just saw Tommy O’Connor leave this office looking like he’d seen the devil," he said dryly. "I think he’s genuinely wondering if your wife melts in acid when you fuck her. I assume you scared the shit out of him."

Draco gave a weary laugh. "I don’t have a wife—and none of my lovers have melted afterward. As far as I know, anyway."

He pushed himself up from his ridiculously comfortable chair and joined his business partner, who handed him a large Americano from the kiosk downstairs.

Blackthorne & Malfoy occupied the 38th floor of One Canada Square—the tallest skyscraper in London, right in the heart of Canary Wharf. Draco and Blake had purchased the entire floor using a small fraction of Draco’s vaults of gold, and turned it into their law firm. It had been a minor investment for Draco, but a bureaucratic nightmare to convert Galleons into Sterling.

He called the firm his creature.

Since Blake was a Squib, it had been relatively simple to turn the office into the first hybrid legal practice serving both the magical and Muggle worlds.

(“To maximize profits,” Draco had quipped to his partner.)

The floor had two entrances depending on who was visiting. The elevators were enchanted—one worked just like any regular Muggle lift, while the other led straight into the magical side of the firm. To Muggles, that one just looked permanently “out of order.”
Still, everyone—magical or not—had to pass through the building’s standard Muggle reception on the ground floor.

Draco had poured everything into the project. He had worked hard to scrub the stain of his name from the wizarding world, and even harder to build a reputation in the Muggle one—where, ironically, he had found far more sharks.

He’d bent the rules now and then, but he knew he’d made it the day his assistant cleared his schedule to make room for a private visit from Prince William.

Yes, that Prince William.

The prince had personally requested to meet him. Draco still remembered the surreal moment when the royal and his future bride stepped into his office. William had needed someone cold enough to stop the tabloids from publishing private photos of his fiancée—and Draco had been ruthless enough to bring half the Muggle press to heel with a single email.

From that day forward, he had served as lead counsel for Prince William—and for his father, Charles, Prince of Wales. He was currently awaiting a call to take on other members of the Royal Family.

His reputation had exploded. Within weeks, he’d had to hire three more assistants just to handle the waiting list.

In this business, it was all about the résumé—and when yours listed royalty and Premier League stars, you didn’t need to chase clients.

They found you.

His real breakthrough in the magical world had come when George Weasley reached out to him for legal assistance regarding the expansion of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Draco had found it rather peculiar that the surviving half of the legendary Weasley twins would ever come to him. But George—still missing an ear and somehow making it part of his charm—had said, dead serious:
“I can’t stand you, Malfoy. But word is you’re the best. And I need the best there is.”

Draco had thrown himself into the work with an almost obsessive dedication, determined to be flawless for the first war hero who had ever knocked on his door.

He helped George open stores in New York, Paris, and Budapest—strategically placed near the world’s top wizarding schools. From that moment on, a tentative friendship had formed between them, and Draco found doors opening in a world that had once treated him like a pariah.

His clientele now included Celestina Warbeck, Viktor Krum, and at least seven starting players from various Quidditch teams. He had connections within the Ministry, served as a liaison with several foreign magical governments, and was one of the personal legal advisors to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic.

As they stepped out of the office, Blake asked casually,

"Was he here about the fifteen-year-old scandal?" Blake asked as they stepped out of the office, while Draco buried his face in the steaming coffee.

The blond nodded gravely.

"He gave me a bloody headache with all his ‘please, believe me, Draco.’ I almost Silenced him—only reason I didn’t is because that big mouth would’ve gone around telling everyone I serve the devil."

Blake burst out laughing, and Draco gave him a wicked, roguish grin.
Blake had become something of a father figure to him—now that Draco had finally made peace with the fact that his real father had been a complete failure. Blake had taken him in, challenged him, pushed him to be better.

Draco felt a fierce kind of gratitude for him.

"Do you think he’s guilty?" Blake asked as they entered the front room of Draco’s section of the firm, where his first assistant sat typing away at her computer.

Draco shook his head.

"I took a quick look into his mind. All I saw was that the girl was, let’s say... active in the encounter," he said calmly.
"Now I just need to figure out whether she was under the influence of anything—or if she just panicked after the fact."

"You don’t like these cases. I know."

"I lived with dear old Fenrir Greyback, remember? Let’s just say I don’t find sexual assault cases particularly entertaining."

He leaned back against his assistant’s desk, resting his hip against the polished wood.

"Greta?"

Blake chuckled at the way the secretary jumped up like she’d been hit by a lightning bolt. She had spent the last few minutes staring at the finely tailored pale grey trousers that hugged her boss’s refined backside.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice at least an octave higher than normal.
Draco turned to look at her, his silver gaze making the woman stiffen even more.

“How long do I have until my next appointment?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

“You have an hour, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied, and the way she said his name sounded almost like an invitation.

Blake snorted again as Draco fully turned toward the woman and rested his hands on her desk.

Greta was an attractive woman. HR liked to hire pretty faces to boost the firm's prestige. She had golden-blond hair pinned into a neat chignon, high cheekbones, and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. She sat with long legs crossed, clad in a navy-blue pantsuit.

Her sky-blue eyes were scanning every inch of the man standing before her, undressing him from his elegant suit with her gaze.
Her wine-red lipstick shimmered slightly as she moistened her lips.
“I’m stepping out for half an hour, Greta. Make sure I’m not disturbed,” he told her softly, then added with a smirk, “I like that lipstick. You should wear it more often.”

Greta beamed and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco straightened with a sly smile, adjusted his waistcoat, set his empty glass on Greta’s desk, and turned his attention to Blake, who was still chuckling.

“Shall we? I’m starving!” he urged, already heading for the exit.
“Absolutely,” Blake said, catching up with him, throwing a glance at the secretary who was now discreetly pointing her wand at herself, trying to cast a cooling charm.

The Malfoy Effect.

“You know, if you sleep with this one too, HR will end up assigning you a house-elf as a personal assistant,” Blake said, amused, walking beside his young partner.

Draco laughed quietly. “It’s not my fault I’m a magnet for estrogen and that my reputation as a lover has reached the recruitment agencies.”
“This is the third one this month we’ve had to let go because after a quick shag with you, they all declare eternal love.”

Draco shrugged, utterly unbothered. “The side effects of being extremely talented, Blake,” he said with a smirk. “It’s a heavy burden, but I carry it.”

*

He left his office after a long Floo call with the Ministry, about a sponsorship for the upcoming Quidditch Championship. He rubbed his eyes as he stepped into one of the elevators. He was tired.

He’d thrown on an elegant black overcoat over his suit—perfect for the crisp March air. Now he found himself among other workers wrapping up their day—mostly Muggles. Draco nodded distractedly at someone as he exited the lift, stepping into the vast, luxurious lobby of One Canada Square.

Outside, London buzzed with its usual chaos: voices, hurried footsteps, taxis, wind. Draco shoved his hands into his pockets and headed toward the nearest Apparition point.
He couldn’t wait to get home and sink into the bathtub.

Maybe he’d write to Theo and Blaise and invite them over for dinner. They did that often—talking about everything and nothing, seated around the island in his ultra-modern kitchen, forgetting the world outside. Or they’d move out onto the terrace to smoke while watching the city lights from his penthouse.

Or… he could scroll through his contacts. There were always a couple of names available—elegant, discreet, beautiful women. Someone with whom he could vent his frustration.

He stopped halfway down the sidewalk.

The sexy doctor from downstairs.

Right. Theo had mentioned her. He’d piqued Draco’s curiosity with that ambiguous tone—part amused, part conspiratorial. Not that Draco lacked women—he never had—but Theo never played matchmaker just for fun. If he had brought her up, it had to mean something. Something… interesting.

Maybe she was incredibly sensual. Maybe she was in crisis. Maybe she needed him.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the stubborn blond lock that always fell over his forehead, and glanced into a shop window.
Well. Since he was out anyway. And Theo had asked so nicely...

He stepped into a wine shop nearby and chose an absurdly expensive Muggle bottle: a vintage Chianti with a bold taste. Perfect.
Then he headed to the Apparition point and materialized in the narrow alley behind his building.

It was just past 5:30 PM when he reached the sage-green front door. He opened it casually and, with a flick of his wand, sent his coat and suit jacket directly up to his apartment. He climbed the stairs to the third floor.

The two doors on the landing were heavy wood, almost antique-looking. They had charm. Very different from the modern entrance he’d had installed for his penthouse. The brass plaques marked the numbers: 9 and 10.

He knew these were smaller, cozier flats. He stopped in front of number 10, the one Theo had mentioned, and knocked twice with his knuckles—calm, relaxed.

Silence.

For a moment, he thought she hadn’t returned from work.

Then there was a flurry of noise—some clattering, something falling, a voice cursing loudly:
“Theo, I swear if you came to talk to me about that damn—”

Draco felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. Time stopped. The door opened.

And there, standing in front of him, was a woman he never thought he’d see again. Not in person.

“Granger,” he said softly, almost on instinct.

Hermione Granger. After ten years. And fuck.

Fuck.

He couldn’t think anything else.

Since when were her curls no longer a mess of thorns?

The woman standing before him was, just as Theo had said, stunningly attractive.

Her hair fell in soft curls around her face, and her features—gentle as he remembered them—had only sharpened slightly with time. Her eyes were large and a delightful shade of golden brown, wide with the same disbelief he felt. Her nose was small, her lips full. Overall, her face was harmonious—hardly matching the sharp-tongued girl he’d known at school.

She wore no makeup, no embellishments. Just an oversized Cambridge sweatshirt that did little to hide how fit she was.
She hadn't grown much taller; she still looked petite and fragile—but perfectly shaped. Almost too perfectly.

Every curve of her body was exactly where it should be: elegant, sinuous, with a soft chest and a flat stomach.

And those legs.

Merlin, those legs. Covered only by dark leggings, they were a masterpiece—long, shapely, slim in all the right ways.

Draco realized he was at a loss for words, staring at those legs, when he heard his name escape from her lips.

“Malfoy?” she asked, surprised.

They hadn’t seen each other in ten years. Not since his trial.
Hermione and Harry had testified in his favor, sparing him a life sentence—and that had surprised him more than anything.
His court-appointed lawyer (because no one wanted to defend a Death Eater) had merely hinted that someone wanted to help him avoid spending the rest of his days in the frozen hellhole of the North Sea alongside his father.

When he saw Harry Potter himself appear behind the bars of his cage, followed by the Golden Girl, he knew the Wizengamot would go easy on him.
He got away with four years of house arrest. A torment, yes—but nothing compared to freezing his arse (and his soul) in that godforsaken place called Azkaban.

And it had all been thanks to Hermione.

She had spoken for nearly fifty minutes, laying out for that revenge-hungry court exactly why a sixteen-year-old couldn’t be condemned for being raised by a degenerate father, coerced into horrific acts, and forced to carry the burden of a world already rotting from the inside.

It had been a speech worthy of a top-tier lawyer.

Sometimes he recalled that memory to draw inspiration in court.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asked again, eyeing him up and down as if assessing him.

“I live here, Granger,” Draco replied, raising an eyebrow. “The real question is: what are you doing here? Don’t you have some cozy little cottage in the countryside, reeking of cow dung, with the Weasel by your side?”

He realized too late that he’d laced the remark with enough venom to provoke her.

Hermione straightened up as if jolted by an electric shock. “For your information, this is my house, you arrogant idiot,” she snapped, lifting her nose into the air in a gesture so haughty it bordered on parody. “I’m starting to think this building is some kind of nostalgic retreat for ex-Slytherins. If I knock on the door across the hall, will I find Pansy Parkinson in hair rollers?”

Draco smirked. “No, Pansy’s living in Italy these days. Playing the cheerful widow in Positano.” He flicked a glance over his shoulder at the door behind him. “Mrs. Traver is a sweet retired witch. I’m sure you two will get along just fine. Maybe trade recipes for calming draughts and harmless hexes.”

“Mhm,” Hermione scoffed, crossing her arms beneath her chest. “So, you came here just to mock me?”

“Actually, no. Theo told me to stop by and say hello. He said you might be in need of friendly neighbors. So...”
He grabbed the bottle he’d brought and offered it to her, eyes narrowing with a hint of charm. “This was one of my welcome gifts. The cheapest one, obviously.”

Hermione looked at him for a few seconds, her gaze shifting from his face to the bottle of red wine in his hand. She was clearly wary. And defensive.

Theo had played his cards well.

He hadn’t told him who the new tenant was—he’d wanted to watch him flounder.
And he had succeeded.

He’d been suspiciously enthusiastic when describing her, and Draco mentally kicked himself for not putting it together sooner.

Extremely sexy doctor: of course, Hermione Granger. Her classic savior complex had naturally led her to a job at St. Mungo’s. After spending her teenage years patching up two walking disasters, it made sense that she’d spend adulthood healing the ungrateful.

An even sexier brain, bordering on illegally brilliant: how could it be otherwise? She was Hermione Granger. Her mind was a neural battlefield, firing at light speed, always one step ahead. He wouldn’t be surprised if she were the best Healer in the entire hospital.
Hermione had always been the best at everything—and for someone like Draco, obsessed with perfection, that had always been dangerously attractive.

Freshly out of a long relationship.
Draco’s lips curled into a slow, almost wicked smile as that detail hit him.

The last time he’d heard anything about Granger, it had come straight from George Weasley. Apparently, she’d been moving in with the Weasel.
Draco had commented that it was absurd for a woman like Hermione to love someone like Ronald Weasley.
George had simply shrugged and said it was a mystery—one that had somehow lasted six years.

A long, boring relationship with a man who had never given her an orgasm and only ever fucked her in missionary…

Draco’s smile turned even more wicked than he’d intended.

“Tell me, Granger, where’s your little lapdog? After ten years, I figured you two would’ve popped out a litter of red-haired, snot-nosed brats by now.” He tilted his head slightly. “It would be hilarious to have a rags-to-riches Weasel at our building meetings.”

“You’re still the same insufferable asshole,” Hermione snapped, her eyes now sparking with fire. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s just me. Ron and I aren’t together anymore.”

“I’d love say I’m sorry… but that would be a lie.”

And he meant it.

Even back at Hogwarts, Draco had thought Ron Weasley didn’t deserve the fierce devotion of such an exceptional—and infuriating—witch.

Now, thanks to the intel Theo had casually slipped him, he knew for certain he’d been right all along.

“Obviously,” Hermione scoffed, letting out a dry laugh. “Draco Malfoy doesn’t do ‘sorry’.”

“On the contrary, I feel a lot of it,” he murmured as he stepped closer, lowering his voice near her ear. “I feel sorry for you.”

“For me?”

“Ten years of missionary, Granger. That’s just… bleak.” He whispered it against her ear, watching with pleasure as she stiffened at his words. “You’ve got so much to catch up on. That’s not like you.”

She smelled of honey and wildflowers—an intoxicating, unmistakably feminine scent.

It triggered dangerous reactions in Draco as he gently brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder and tucked it behind her ear, letting his fingers linger.

“Theo…” she growled, furious.

“Oh, Theo didn’t say a word. But come on—it’s obvious Ron Ron has no clue what to do in bed. And you... well…” He tilted his head, amused.

He straightened up only when she shoved him away, her hands pressing against his chest. She looked flustered, breathless.

“And I’m a very good neighbour, Granger. If you ever need anything…” He took a step back, giving her a slow, deliberate smile. “Penthouse. That’s where I live.”

He turned and walked away, letting her take in his words, letting her see him.

“Welcome to the building, Granger.”

*

Ginny’s laugh drew quite a bit of attention that afternoon.
They were sitting in a little café in Diagon Alley, the day slowly fading into evening as the first shadows stretched across the cobbled streets.
Hermione stared at her friend, hands wrapped around a cup of tea for warmth.

“Ginny...” she chided, watching her laugh with her head thrown back and one hand on her stomach. “It’s not that funny.”

“Oh, but it absolutely is!” the redhead burst out, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Draco Malfoy, the Patron Saint of Multiple Orgasms? Sorry, but that’s objectively hilarious.”

“No. It’s not.”

Hermione had hoped that talking to Ginny might make her feel better. She’d shot off a quick message: We need to talk. Urgent.
Ginny had just resumed Quidditch training and Hermione wasn’t sure when she’d be free.

But as always, Ginny Potter had sniffed out the scent of juicy gossip and replied with a curt: Leaky Cauldron. Now.

“Although, come to think of it, it does kind of make sense,” Ginny went on, still amused. “Malfoy’s always had that dark, brooding, sinfully satisfying sex vibe.”

She shook her head like it was a simple fact of life. “And can we talk about how bloody gorgeous he is now?”

“Well, fu— NO!” Hermione snapped, shooting her a frosty glare.
Ginny took a sip of her butterbeer and raised one eyebrow in silent amusement.
“Have you seen him lately?”

“Hermione, everyone’s seen him. You’re the one who locked yourself away in domestic exile with Ron.” the redhead lowered her voice slightly. “Draco Malfoy’s a successful lawyer. Magical and Muggle world. Dual credentials.” She tilted her head. “He handles George’s stuff, too. Did you know?”

“George? Our George?”

Ginny nodded. “Yep. Didn’t Ron tell you? Malfoy managed all the legal recalculations when Ron took Fred’s shares, and he handled the paperwork for the new shops — New York, Budapest, Paris...”

“No. He never said a word.”

“Maybe he felt a little... threatened?” Ginny guessed, thoughtful. “I mean, he probably didn’t want you noticing a wizard who’s attractive, ambitious, elegant, and — apparently — more than capable of blowing a woman’s mind. You know how it is, fragile egos...”

Hermione snapped her mouth shut.

Since when had the Wizarding World stopped treating Draco Malfoy like a pariah?

Had she really cut herself off that much?

“Some of my teammates — the Harpies — are obsessed with him,” Ginny added with a wicked grin. “They call him Legal Daddy.”
She emphasized the nickname with a raised eyebrow.

“The first time I scolded them. I said it wasn’t okay to objectify someone like that, that he deserved respect...” Ginny shrugged. “Then I saw him. And yeah. I got it.”

“You are married, remember?” Hermione shot her a venomous look.
“Married, not blind,” Ginny replied sweetly. “And neither are you, darling.”

Hermione set her cup down on the table.
She’d always thought Draco was attractive back at Hogwarts — all sharp edges and snobbish posture, distant and theatrical like one of those aristocrats from the romance novels her mother used to hide in the back of her drawers.
But the man who had shown up at her door the day before was something else entirely.

She lingered on the memory: the blond hair no longer slicked back with gel, the sharper, more mature features that still held a trace of youthful gentleness. That smirk — unfortunately, that hadn’t changed one bit.

But it was his eyes — that intense metallic grey — that had struck her most. They had looked straight through her, lingering far too long on her legs.

And for Merlin’s sake, that tailored Muggle suit in icy grey looked indecently good on him.

Hermione couldn’t remember ever seeing a man that attractive.
And then there was the way he moved towards her — the scent of leather, sandalwood, and tobacco in his cologne had gone straight to her head. So masculine, so potent, it had nearly knocked her out.
He really was a lethal weapon.
A lethal weapon in the hands of a complete idiot.

A paper napkin hit her in the face with surgical precision.

“Hermione, sweetheart, wipe your chin. You’re literally drooling,” Ginny teased, dragging her back to reality.

Hermione blinked at the napkin for a moment, then snatched it up and slammed it onto the table.

“Cut it out. I was not drooling,” she said, glaring daggers at her friend.

“I’m not judging,” Ginny replied with a smug little smile. “Maisie Dewer spent half an hour in his office over some ridiculous issue with upper management, and came back saying his cologne was more addictive than a drug — and that she wanted to rub herself all over him and be licked head to toe.”

She tilted her head.

“Compared to that, your dreamy little expression is downright modest.”

“It’s not true…”

“Hermione, listen,” Ginny interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with finding Draco Malfoy attractive. Nobody cares anymore that he used to be a Death Eater. And for Merlin’s sake, if you want to sleep with him and he’s given you even the slightest hint he’s into it — go for it.”

She leaned in, her brown eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Judging by the howling from the other night, I’d say it’d be the best shag of your life.”

“Tch, she was probably faking it,” Hermione muttered. “No one screams like that.”

“I do — when Harry’s feeling particularly inspired.”

“Ginny, please! Harry’s like a brother to me!” Hermione protested, clapping her hands over her ears, desperately trying to banish the image.

She had never understood how Ginny could talk so casually about Ron’s sex life when she herself cringed at the thought of Harry Potter having sex with his wife.

“My point exactly: you have never screamed like that,” Ginny shot back. “You’re a researcher, Hermione. So go explore. Throw yourself into discovering the Sex God who lives upstairs.”

“For once in your life, be selfish. Get fucked like Godric intended.”

She burst out laughing.

“And I swear, the Holyhead Harpies will build a statue of you right in the middle of our locker room. Mark my words.”

Chapter Text

Hermione tried not to think about Draco Malfoy for the next three days.

Even though he was sleeping just a breath away from her, she went out of her way to avoid him like the plague.

It wasn’t easy, especially with Ginny telling her to throw herself at “Legal Daddy” with her eyes closed, sending her owl-post and mobile pictures and tabloid snaps of Draco in an effort to “convince her to open the doors of sex.”

Hermione had avoided looking at the photos and focused on the articles instead.

She realized just how much she had shut herself off from the world when she was able to piece together a full timeline of Draco Malfoy’s redemption arc.

He hadn’t returned to Hogwarts for the eighth year because he’d been under house arrest. From 1998 to 2002, he had been confined to Nott Manor. He was only allowed to leave for meetings with his parole officer and his lawyer.

In 1999, he began studying Magical Law, and by 2000, he was also studying Muggle Law. According to the articles, Draco had a clear talent for legal studies and had graduated just two and a half years after starting university.

In 2002, shortly before being released from house arrest, he earned his Magical Barrister certification, and in 2003, he became a fully qualified Muggle lawyer as well.
That same year, he opened a hybrid law firm — the first of its kind — in London, with a wizard. No, not just any wizard, but a Wizard with a capital W.

Hermione was pleasantly surprised.

Draco was, in fact, a successful lawyer.

There were plenty of Muggle news articles about him, both professionally and personally. Hermione had found the Daily Mail’s obsession with him particularly irritating. They seemed to assign him a new fling every month — which, to be fair, judging by the frequency of moaning she heard from the floor above, might not have been entirely made up.

Draco held a significant presence in Muggle London. He was friends with influential people, often seen in VIP boxes at major Premier League games, and in 2007 he’d even been invited to Royal Ascot, where he sat just behind the Queen herself.

In the wizarding world, he kept a lower profile — but he was still powerful.

He was the lawyer of many of her friends — without her even knowing it. He represented George and, to her shock, indirectly Ron as well. Angelina Johnson, of course, as a Puddlemere United player, used Draco for her contract negotiations, and upon closer reading, it had been him who unleashed hell on Rita Skeeter when the journalist suggested Angelina was cheating on George with a Quidditch player from the Ivory Coast.

Apparently, he worked with Kingsley too.
He also collaborated with the Department of Magical Cooperation and the Auror Office as a legal advisor.

He had made a name for himself. He hadn’t hidden away.
And Hermione found that... fascinating.

She quickly cast a diagnostic spell on her last patient, waiting for the results to materialize.

Today, Hermione was working in the Emergency Ward. It was always the heaviest shift, but she was relieved the day was nearly over.

Studying medicine had always been her dream, and she felt lucky to work at one of the finest hospitals in magical Britain.

Normally, she worked in the Magical Intensive Care Unit, where she had her own office and research center.

Her second home.

Harry, once — right after her breakup with Ron — had had to physically carry her out after she’d spent 23 straight hours experimenting with the Accolyte.

Hermione tended to bury herself in work, something Ron had never really understood, not even when he was an Auror.

Ron wasn’t ambitious in the traditional sense. He wanted to be admired, but without really putting in the work to reach his goals.
Hermione, on the other hand, had very clear ideals and ambitions — which she often set aside for the sake of others.

She envied Malfoy’s unapologetic selfishness.

Toward the end of their relationship, Hermione had reduced her hours at the hospital to spend more time with Ron, helping him through the decision to leave the Aurors and buy Fred’s shares in the family business.

It had been the right choice, and she had supported it — but George had been demanding at the start, and Ron wasn’t used to that kind of responsibility.

Once again, she had set herself aside to help him with his new goal.

And now she was finding out that a big part of the money Ron was making was thanks to Draco Malfoy?

And he’d never told her?

She watched the diagnostic runes flicker in front of her eyes and sighed.

She quickly cast a few stabilizing spells on the patient’s vitals, then looked at the intricate diagnostic spell as it turned green.

“There we go,” she smiled at the man lying on the bed. “We’ve fixed the damage from the spell your daughter cast, and your pectorals are back in place.” She reassured him with a warm voice. “I’ve prescribed a tissue-replenishing potion to take every night before bed, and a magical stabilizer for your daughter.”

She scribbled a note on a piece of parchment and handed it to the wizard.

After seeing him off, she removed her coat, revealing her blue Healer’s uniform underneath.

She tossed the patient chart onto the triage nurse’s desk and leaned against the counter.

“That’s it for me tonight. Don’t forget to give Mrs. Fig her sleeping potion and change the bandages on the boy in 160.”
“Of course,” the woman nodded, then smiled. “Any plans for tonight?”

Hermione chuckled and shook her head. “Someone’s coming to install the Floo connection — and then I plan to take a long, relaxing hot bath.”

“Sounds like a perfect plan,” Carol agreed, her favorite nurse.

Carol was a pleasant and discreet woman in her fifties. Hermione was constantly surrounded by loud, eccentric personalities, and having someone who simply radiated calm was sometimes exactly what she needed.

She glanced at the clock and widened her eyes. “Carol, I have to run. The Floo technician is coming — and I really don’t want to leave him alone with my landlord.”

“Oh? Nosy type?”

“Nosy, gorgeous, and eccentric,” she laughed, hurrying into the locker room to change.

Hermione wasn’t the flashy type.

She wore simple light jeans, a white T-shirt, and a pink cardigan; on her feet, her usual black Converse.

She pulled her hair into a quick bun, grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and slipped out the hidden exit of St. Mungo’s, leaving behind the abandoned shop that served as the hospital’s entrance.

It was a strangely warm day. The sun was just setting as she reached the apparition point behind the wine shop.

She Apparated to Mayfair, sprinting toward her building.

She had asked Theo if he could let the Ministry technician in to finally connect her Floo Network.

She was tired of not being able to go to work directly from her apartment, tired of not being able to pop over to Ginny’s fireplace without waiting for her to call first.

The Floo was one of her favorite magical means of transport — she was never a fan of brooms or the Knight Bus.

Theo had been extremely helpful.

And that still baffled her.

It was hard to reconcile the gangly, gloomy, borderline-depressed figure she remembered from Hogwarts with the man she was slowly becoming friends with.

Theo lived off sarcasm and theatricality. The darkness he used to carry around had seemingly melted away, replaced with a sense of humor that made her double over with laughter.

Theo also seemed deeply empathetic and understanding.

And incredibly ambiguous.

He was definitely not someone you’d get bored with.

She pushed open the front door of the building and raced up the stairs.

She reached the third floor out of breath, leaning against the door — which was open.

“Welcome back, Granger.”

Theo’s voice made her smile as she stepped into the living room.
He was standing with his arms folded across his chest.

Theo wore a thin black long-sleeved top, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing small scattered tattoos. His long legs were wrapped in tight black jeans. His curls looked both unruly and perfectly styled.

“Hi, Theo,” she greeted him, tossing her bag into the catch-all by the door. “How’s it going?”

She looked toward the technician, halfway inside her fireplace, muttering complex spells to activate the connection and set the list of destinations.

Theo shrugged with a smirk. "He's still wrestling with form E13. He called it ‘a slippery bastard with a moving signature.’"

"Typical."

"I offered him tea, he accepted, then asked if I was his boyfriend. I told him I only am on even-numbered days."

Hermione laughed, shaking her head. "And what did he say?"

"He said he hoped it was the 12th. I told him, sadly, it’s an odd-numbered day… but I might make an exception if he signs quickly."

Hermione brought a hand to her forehead, amused. "Theo, please."

“What? I’m just helping him manage expectations!” he said with a mischievous grin that made her laugh.“He should be done in about half an hour, right, Carl?”

"Yes, Nott," Carl replied, poking his head out of the fireplace. "Oh Merlin—is your tenant really Hermione Granger?"

Hermione sighed.

She was used to people’s awe by now. She was a symbol, the Golden Girl, the brain behind the Golden Trio. Even after ten years, people still saw her as something dreamlike.

Theo smiled. "Only the best here."

Hermione stepped a bit closer to the former Slytherin, slightly uncomfortable. "Do you know the technician?"

Theo tilted his head with a smug grin. "I work at the Ministry, Granger. I know everyone."

"Or everyone knows Theo—he’s the least Invisible Unspeakable at the Ministry," laughed the man before disappearing back into the fireplace. Theo just shrugged nonchalantly.

"How was work?" he asked with a rare note of genuine concern. "Are you tired?"

She gave him a gentle smile. She liked that Theo showed her some care. She was so used to people assuming she was indestructible.

"A bit. I was on duty at the Emergency Ward," she explained with a sigh. "And the Wizarding World is full of people who don’t pay attention."

Theo laughed. "Why don’t you take a shower and get changed?" he suggested, and now his eyes had something just a little too persistent in them.

"Why?"

"Come grab a drink with me and Draco," he said—it almost sounded like a command.

Hermione straightened as if shocked by a sudden jolt at the mention of that name.

"We go every Thursday to a little place just around the corner. It’s nice," he went on. "Blaise usually joins, but tonight he’s got a fashion show."

"You mean Malfoy?"

Theo looked at her as if she had just asked whether the house was truly haunted by gorgonsprites.

"Exactly how many people named Draco do you know?" he asked, raising a brow.

"He doesn't bite, I swear," he added with an innocent smile that no one in their right mind would believe.

"I'm not so sure about that," Hermione murmured, giving him a doubtful look.

Theo tilted his head with that usual cat-playing-with-a-mouse expression.

"I know you saw him on Monday. And yes, I assume he brought out that inimitable bastard tongue of his... just like the good old days. But I swear he's a changed man."

Hermione stared at him for a few seconds. She genuinely liked Theo, and he almost seemed to feel morally indebted to her—probably because of the life sentence his father had received. Theo seemed to be waiting for the old man to finally die, and Hermione felt a bit sorry for him. Then again, old Nott had really asked for it.

She would have loved to get inside Theodore Nott’s head, just to see how messy it actually was. It had to be a place full of black velvet, sarcasm, and repressed drama.

"You’re only saying that because you and Ginny have a bet on when Malfoy and I are going to end up in bed."

Theo laughed heartily.

"We haven’t bet yet—but it’s only a matter of time. Come on, it’s written in the stars: the two of you were destined since Hogwarts to screw like rabbits at least once. You already had that ‘get over here and I’ll wreck you’ tension back then."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm a realist," he replied with a smirk. "But don't worry, Granger: it’s not a date. Just a drink between war veterans, old classmates who haven’t seen each other in a decade. And if Draco misbehaves, I’ll hex him. Wouldn’t be the first time."

He nodded at Carl, who was fiddling with some powder with a focused expression.

Hermione sighed. She was tired—exhausted, really. The idea of going out made her sick. But she had learned that saying “no” to Theo meant enduring another twenty minutes of brilliant, annoying, and surprisingly convincing arguments.

"Fine," she finally nodded. "What should I wear?"

"It’s just a regular pub, Herm. Dress however you like—unless you’re trying to impress someone..." he teased, raising an eyebrow.

Theo's green eyes sparkled with amused mischief. Hermione gave him a light smack on the arm.

"Idiot."

"Go on, go. I’ll keep Carl company, and once you’re ready, we’ll go meet the sexy lawyer."

Hermione ignored him but went to get ready. A quick—but meticulous—shower. From her room, she summoned a pair of light high-waisted palazzo jeans with a brown belt and a bold buckle. She chose a soft white sweater with a deep V-neckline that flattered her small but firm chest. She styled her hair with a few light spells and carefully applied her makeup: luminous base, defined eyes, warm brown lipstick.

She didn't like drawing attention—especially since she already did just by existing. All it took was someone saying “Granger,” and the air shifted.

On her feet, she wore caramel-colored ankle boots with a thick heel and round toe. Comfortable, but stylish.

When she returned to the living room, Theo was sitting on the couch, legs casually crossed in a masculine way, fiddling with what looked like an absurdly expensive Nokia 8800 Arte.

"Done," she announced. "I’m ready."

Theo looked up, gave her a once-over, and nodded with theatrical approval.

"Perfect. Carl’s finished everything. He connected the Floo Network to the Weasleys’, the Potters’, your office, and all public fireplaces. I took the liberty of adding Nott Manor. I rarely go there, but when things go sideways... it’s a handy place to disappear."

Hermione nodded.

"He says if you want to connect more fireplaces, just send him an owl."

"Thank you, Theo. Really. I really appreciate your help."

Theo waved a hand like he was shooing the words away.
"Don’t say that, Granger. Makes me sound almost... caring. Heaven forbid."

Then he looked at her more closely, tilting his head slightly.
"You look delightful."

"You think so?" Hermione asked, twirling theatrically.

Theo bit his lip with a grin.
"White suits you. And the neckline doesn’t hurt either."
"One more word and I hex you."

"Learn to take a compliment, Granger," he replied with a sly look.
"Let’s go—Draco’s waiting in the foyer."

Even though the name still gave her a fluttering pit in her stomach, Hermione nodded. Theo opened the door for her with a gallant gesture, and she stepped out. She locked the entrance and slipped the keys into her bag.

She followed Theo down the stairs, noting how he carelessly kept his hands in his pockets as if he had nothing in the world to worry about except doing whatever he wanted without consequences. It was oddly fascinating how he joked about his father’s life sentence—almost seemed happy about it.

She had the distinct feeling that if the owl ever arrived announcing his father’s death, Theo would throw an apocalyptic party.
Maybe one day, when they were closer, she’d ask him about it.

"Ah, princess. I was starting to think the walls had swallowed you."
That low, drawled voice sent a shiver down her spine as she reached the last step and saw him again after three days of ignoring him.

He was leaning against the door of what she had recently discovered to be Theo’s apartment—the one on the ground floor with a garden at the entrance.

Draco’s hair was perfectly styled, a silver lock falling elegantly over his forehead. His face was clean-shaven, soft-looking. His lips curled into that now infamous smirk.

He was tall—easily over six foot three—and the fact that he was that tall and fit made Hermione’s stomach twist.

He wore a soft black cashmere turtleneck that draped neatly into a pair of perfectly tailored dress pants. They were clearly bespoke from how they hugged his legs.

A black jacket rested over his arm, and on his feet were polished dragon leather shoes.

The Malfoy signet ring glittered under the foyer’s dim light.

"Granger. What a surprise!" he said, his smile spreading into a mischievous grin.

He gave her a slow, penetrating once-over, taking her in head to toe like he was appreciating every detail.

"Theo made me come," she said quickly, just as Theo joined her, laughing.

"If I hadn’t, he would’ve made me write a thirty-centimeter scroll on social anxiety."

"Yeah, that sounds like a Theo threat," Draco chuckled, then greeted his friend.

Hermione tried not to look at him.

He looked even more handsome than she remembered—and way too elegant for a pub.

"I just think the nun life isn’t quite right for the Golden Girl," Theo declared, squinting playfully. Hermione braced herself for what she knew was coming.

"Especially since she’s already been practicing the brutal art of celibacy for, what, ten years?"

Draco burst out laughing.

Hermione didn’t remember ever hearing him truly laugh—and at that moment, she thought it sounded... crystalline.

Then she remembered he was laughing at her.

She crossed her arms under her chest and shot Theo a glare.
"If you invited me here to mock me, Nott, I’m leaving."

"Oh come on, Granger. A little self-deprecating humor never killed anyone."Draco stepped closer, leaning down slightly to meet her gaze.
"Theo just wants you to be happy, you know that?"

"Hmph," Hermione grumbled, shooting another glare at Theo.

"Anyway, I need to grab my coat—two minutes. Wait here," Theo announced, slipping past Draco and unlocking his door, disappearing inside seconds later.

He left the two of them staring at each other, the awkwardness creeping up Hermione’s spine as she started to sway slightly in place.

"So… how are you, Granger?" Draco broke the silence.

It felt like a strange way to start.

She had expected him to make some snide, sarcastic remark.
She wasn’t used to Draco Malfoy beginning a conversation in a normal way.

“I’m a bit tired. I barely had time to leave work before Theo dragged me here. You, Malfoy—how’s life treating you?”

His silver eyes were still locked on her, cold and intense.
She instinctively crossed her arms.

“Good. I’ve got my own law firm, and it’s doing rather well,” he said calmly. “Today’s just been a bit heavy.”

“Difficult case?” she asked, genuinely interested.

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “An eighteen-year-old caught in a sex scandal, too much money, and other bullshit.” He chuckled.

Hermione smiled again, but the nervousness lingered as she looked at him and realized just how handsome he had become.

“Are you nervous, Granger?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“I… no!”

“You seem a bit nervous,” he stated, stepping closer. “How long’s it been since you’ve gone out alone without that Weasel?” he asked in a low voice. “Ever been out with a man who wasn’t the Patron Saint of Lucky Bastards or the raggedy charity case?”

There he was. Malfoy.

That familiar sense of irritation wrapped around her like an old, itchy sweater.

“I go out with all my friends just fine, thanks,” she shot back. “I was just counting how long it would take for you to prove you’re still an idiot.”

Draco chuckled and stepped even closer. Hermione caught a whiff of his cologne again.
That same intoxicating blend of sandalwood, leather, and tobacco hit her like a punch.

“Come on, admit it—you’re curious,” he tilted his head.

“Curious about what, exactly?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “How far your idiocy has evolved?”

He moved even closer, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head, “You’re curious to see how I’ve evolved.”

“You? Evolved?” Hermione lifted an eyebrow again. “Where, exactly? In sarcasm? Or maybe in the amount of gel required to get that cow-lick effect on your head?”

“In charm, obviously,” he replied smoothly, like he was commenting on the weather. “And in other, more… practical areas.”

“Funny coming from someone who couldn’t even tie his own shoes at Hogwarts without a house-elf.”

Something flared inside her. A fire she hadn’t felt in a long time.
She was furious. And amused. And… stimulated.

“Don’t worry, I’ve learned,” Draco smirked, leaning in further. “I’ve learned how to unfasten quite a lot of clothing when needed,” his lips curled into a wicked smile, “Want a demonstration?”

Hermione smirked right back, raising a brow and stepping even closer. His scent hit her harder, made her shiver—but she didn’t stop.

“Is that how you win over juries, Malfoy?” she asked, savoring the look in his eyes. “I expected the oratory skills of a successful lawyer to be a bit more… refined.”

“Oh, but I’m excellent, Granger. In fact, I’m the best in London,” he bent toward her ear, his breath brushing her cheek. “Got a real talent with my tongue,” his voice dipped, “I could show you that too, if you’d like.”

Hermione blushed furiously, suddenly lost for words.
She stared at the arrogant smirk cutting across his handsome, elegant face.

God, she hated him.

He was just as insufferable as he’d been at school. Maybe even worse.

She heard him laugh and widened her eyes, ready to fire back at that idiot—
—but just then, Theo’s front door opened, revealing him wrapped in his coat.

“Are you two killing each other already?” the brunet asked, amused.

“I was just telling Hermione about my oral talents—in court, of course, Nott.”

She wasn’t going to survive this evening.

*

Hermione had a few questions.

The first was: what exactly did the Heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight think a “local pub” was supposed to be?

The place they had arrived at was called Timeless, and, true to its name, it looked like it had been frozen in time.

It was an elegant venue, with green velvet booths and brown leather sofas. Fine wooden tables filled the space in front of a low stage, where a jazz trio was playing soft, relaxing music.

“You told me it was a normal pub!” she exclaimed, clearly unimpressed, turning to Theo. “I would’ve dressed up more if I’d known it was a lounge bar!”

“You look perfect, Granger,” Theo replied calmly.

She smiled and lowered her gaze to her drink.

Despite the earlier tension with Malfoy, she was actually enjoying herself.

They were seated around a table surrounded by a green velvet booth. Draco sat directly across from her, his hand wrapped around a glass of aged bourbon. Theo was beside her, sipping an expensive gin.
On the way there, they had talked a little about the past ten years.
Well—she had.

She found it intriguing how attentively the two of them listened as she spoke about her work and research.

Even more exciting was the way they sometimes asked her specific questions, and how eager she felt to answer.

Aside from Ginny, and occasionally George, most of her friends didn’t show much interest in what she did.

Too complicated, too technical—no one even tried to understand.
Hermione had grown used to hiding her intellect, and it often made her feel… wrong. As if being smart was a crime.

But with Theo and Draco, it didn’t seem to be that way.
She could tell they were genuinely curious about her work—and that they were actually trying to follow her explanations.

Draco’s eyes never left her. Every time she spoke, he looked directly into her eyes, and it twisted something in her stomach.
He listened in silence, lazily stirring his bourbon, but his gaze was piercing—like he was looking straight into her soul.
More than once, Hermione had to press her thighs together under the table.

“So you work more as a researcher than a field Healer?” Theo asked, tilting his head.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, although I still take shifts in the Emergency Room and on the wards,” she explained with a smile. “But research is my main focus now. We’re currently working on a new regenerative experimental therapy for permanent magical brain damage.”

She picked up her delicate drink and watched the liquid ripple inside the glass.

“We’re using Muggle machines developed for neurological injuries, combined with regenerative potions made from rare herb extracts, to try and rebuild damaged or compromised synapses.”

“Like damage from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus?” Draco asked, his tone serious.

Hermione nodded gravely. “Yes. But also from botched mental manipulations—like poorly executed Obliviate spells,” she said.
“St. Mungo’s intensive care unit has a lot of patients with this kind of trauma, stuck in long-term care.”

She fell silent for a moment.

Seeing Neville’s parents every day, drifting through the ward like ghosts, broke her heart.

She’d started that line of research after Neville’s grandmother died, leaving him completely alone in the world.

The mind was an intricate network—but with enough determination, it could be repaired.

“Well, just a tiny little project, then,” Theo chuckled. “Have you done any trials yet?”

Hermione smiled. “Yes. We started last month. We’ve had our first results, and it looks promising.”

“You actually treated magical madness, Granger?” Draco’s eyes widened in surprise.

That look again—those silver eyes staring straight through her.

“Not exactly. It’ll take time, and we may never find a full cure, but we do have a therapy that seems to work.
Some of the subjects have started communicating again.” She said “Not fluently,” she added, “but they’re beginning to express themselves.”

That gaze was back—warm and intense.

She pressed her thighs together again as a flush of heat climbed up her body, and he murmured:
“You’re incredible, Granger.”

She blushed and looked down at her drink while Theo laughed softly.
“You really are. The brightest witch of our age.”

“Oh, stop it. It’s not that impressive,” she deflected, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Like I said,” Theo replied, “learn to accept compliments, especially when you’ve earned them.” He placed his hands on the table. “I’m going for a smoke,” he announced, “and to ask the waitress for her number.”

He stood up with a grin and slid away, shooting a cheeky look at the girl he’d pointed out earlier. She sighed in response.

Hermione laughed and shook her head before turning to Draco, who was smirking behind his glass.

“You know, Granger, you still manage to surprise me,” Draco said as he set his drink down and smiled enigmatically.
And just like that, she realized they were alone again.

“Surprise you how?”

“I didn’t expect you to turn out so… captivating,” he said, resting his chin in his hand and looking at her softly.

“You mean smart,” she corrected.

“You’ve always been smart, don’t pretend otherwise,” he chuckled. “I meant all of it. You’re incredibly captivating.”

“And what’s that supposed to be?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A compliment. One you should learn to accept, as Theo said,” he answered casually.

“You’re an exceptional woman, Granger, but you seem to reject admiration.”

It wasn’t a question—it was an observation.

And Hermione suddenly felt stripped bare under his shadowy silver gaze.

He was right.
She wasn’t used to admiration, despite being told how brilliant she was. Compliments felt like burdens—something she had to hide.
She avoided them so as not to overshadow others—so as not to hurt Ron’s fragile ego when he was eclipsed by his genius of a partner. Or… former partner.

She knew perfectly well that of the Trio, Ron had always been the one in the shadows—the one barely mentioned, no matter how much he tried to be seen.

So Hermione had made herself invisible to let the person she thought she loved shine.

“And you—do you like admiration?” she asked, not realizing she was leaning closer, sliding along the booth toward him.

“You’re asking the wrong person, Granger. I thrive on admiration. I adore it,” he said, flashing his famously smug grin.
“Especially when it comes from a beautiful and brilliant witch.”

“Fishing for my attention, Malfoy?”

“Would that be a crime?” he asked, tilting his head.

“No, I don’t think so,” she laughed. “You’d know more about crimes than I would.”

Godric, was she flirting with Malfoy?

“Are you referring to my little vacation in Azkaban, or to my career as a lawyer?” he asked with a provocative smile that sent a chill down her spine.

“I meant your work. I read you’re one of the top lawyers in London right now,” Hermione said, forcing herself to meet his gaze and not think about how unfairly handsome he was.

“Oh, that,” he laughed. “No, seeking attention from a beautiful woman isn’t a crime. Not in the Wizarding World, and not in the Muggle one either.”

“Idiot,” Hermione muttered, giving his arm a gentle push. “I actually read something about you this week.”

“Oh, you read about me?”

Hermione shut her mouth. That smirk had suddenly turned wicked, and it made her stomach twist.

“I found a few magazines in the Healers’ break room,” she replied shortly, trying not to blush.“Is it true you work with the Muggle Royal Family?”

Draco nodded slowly, still resting his head on his hand.

“Not all of them, obviously. I work with Prince Charles, his wife Camilla, Prince William and his fiancée Kate, Prince Edward, and Princess Anne,” he explained calmly.
“And this morning they called me because Prince Harry is returning from Afghanistan, and they need help managing the media fallout. I have a meeting with him on Monday,” he added, closing his eyes slightly. "It’s going to be another pain in the ass. Harry’s a ticking time bomb, and cleaning up his messes will be a kick in the balls every damn time."

"But that’s amazing, Malfoy! How did you do it?" Hermione sat up, curiosity getting the better of her.

Draco shrugged and picked up his glass. "I suppose it was my immeasurable charm—and a couple of my clients who play for Aston Villa whispered to Prince William that I’m a shark, the best in the game," he said casually. "I like my job, Granger. I really do. And I’m damn good at it."

"I can see that," she nodded.

"Of course you can, you overachiever," he teased lightly. "You’re the most perfectionist person I know. You put passion into everything you do."

"And is that a bad thing?" she asked, her voice dropping a few notes.

Draco noticed it too, and leaned in closer, just enough. "It’s a matter of point of view, Granger," he whispered. "Depends if you put that passion into everything you do."

“Like what?” Hermione asked, resting her chin on her fist and looking at him intently.

Draco was so interesting. And so irritating.

The way he smiled—like a predator about to pounce—made her shiver and feel seen for the first time in what felt like a million years.
He looked at her, and she opened up under those metal-colored eyes, feeling warm and daring.

Had she ever truly flirted with anyone?

“Mmh.” Draco leaned in even closer, his lips now brushing her ear. “Want me to show you?”

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, her breath hitching as a shiver slid down her spine. She shifted, and her foot brushed against his leg under the table.

“With that sharp tongue of yours, I suppose?” she whispered, trying to sound nonchalant, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

She felt her underwear dampen as she noticed the way he was looking at her—his smile growing filthier by the second.

Draco chuckled softly, a low, warm, seductive sound.
“Oh, Granger...” his voice was a gentle bite, velvety and dangerous. “I think my tongue could teach you a lot. It’s quite... versatile.”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, but she didn’t look away. Her fingers were now toying with the rim of her empty glass, her heart pounding like she’d just run a marathon.

She held his gaze, even though his eyes were the color of storm clouds.

“You sure you’re not overdoing it?” she asked in a teasing whisper, arching a brow.

Draco tilted his head, wearing that trademark arrogant smile.
“I never overdo it, Granger. I demonstrate. And I’m very persuasive.”

“And if I said yes?” she replied without thinking, a faint smile on her lips, fully aware of the way he was looking at her—as if he could devour her with his eyes alone.

“Then I’d show you just how much passion I put into my oral skills, Hermione,” he said, using her name for the first time, and it felt like a long, dangerous caress.

She shivered again, unable to hide it.

Hermione didn’t have time to respond—Theo returned at that exact moment, bursting the bubble that had formed around them. She was almost grateful. She doubted she could’ve answered without grabbing Draco’s head and pulling him toward her.

“I’m back,” he announced. “And I think I interrupted something.”

Hermione immediately pulled away, sitting up straight as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Draco chuckled, taking the last sip of his drink.

“Theo...” she began, trying to mask her embarrassment.

“Granger was just trying to get me to confess my crimes against humanity,” Draco cut in with amused flair. “But I’m afraid she’s better with words than she is at interrogation.”

“Really?” Theo poured two drinks, handing one to Hermione before collapsing onto the armchair across from them.

“Looked more like you were trying not to rip each other’s clothes off and give the room a live performance...”

“Idiot,” she shot back, accepting the glass with a small smirk, trying to collect herself.

“Malfoy, you’ve gone pale. Is she actually holding her own against you?” Theo teased.

Draco scoffed, but Hermione noticed the corner of his mouth twitch into a smirk.

“She’s getting better,” he admitted, glancing at her in a way that didn’t help the ache between her legs.

At that moment, his expensive Black Barry vibrated. Draco picked it up to check the sender. He stood immediately without replying.

“You leaving?” Theo asked, already knowing the answer.

Draco nodded and turned toward Hermione. His gaze was laced with something like sweet cruelty.

“Duty calls—more... carnal ones, Granger. But if you ever want, I could show you what this tongue can really do. In private,” he tilted his head.
“As we were saying.”

“No need to show me anything, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, chin lifted with mock superiority.“I already suspect it’d be a disappointing endeavor.”

Theo coughed into his glass to avoid bursting out laughing.

Draco laughed, straightened his jacket with amused ease, and took a few steps toward the door.

“Theo, do try not to get the Doctor drunk—she’s not used to letting go.”

“And you try not to catch something nasty,” she shot back.

“I could always come see you for a cure,” he said with a half-laugh.
“Catch you around.” He waved and walked out.

The door closed behind him, and Hermione remained there for a moment, heart still racing, a strange little smile on her lips.

Theo was watching her over the rim of his glass.
“Had fun, didn’t you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, raising her glass.

Theo gave her a sly grin.

“How long has it been since you flirted with a man, Hermione?”

She froze, eyes wide as she looked at her friend.

She had never flirted with anyone.

*

Hermione pressed a pillow over her head in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise from upstairs.

The relentless thumping of the bed was nerve-wracking, rhythmic, and loud—far too loud to be muted by the walls.
Draco had been at it for a solid hour.

She and Theo had gotten back barely two hours ago. Hermione hadn’t even taken off her makeup—she’d just thrown herself onto the bed, crawled under the covers, and pulled on an old T-shirt of Ron’s she still used as pajamas. She’d stolen it back at Hogwarts, and it was far too comfortable to give up.

The noises had started shortly after—loud, vigorous.
At first, Hermione had tried to ignore them, to drift off to sleep thinking about the evening.

She had loved flirting with Draco—he’d teased a part of her brain that had always laid dormant.

But the image of Draco naked had washed over her like a wave of heat.

She couldn’t stop thinking about how far they might have gone if no one had interrupted them. They had been too close, too involved not to end up tangled together.

The girl’s moans echoed through the house, loud and clear, and made it obvious that Draco’s promises weren’t just fantasies.
What did it feel like to scream like that from pleasure?
She’d kept listening with reluctant curiosity—at least until the woman’s first orgasm, a loud cry about fifteen minutes in that made her chandelier tremble.

They were at round four now, and what had been fascinating was becoming unbearable.
Hermione pressed the pillow harder over her face, trying not to hear, but when the girl screamed yet again, “Harder, Draco—oh God, yes,” something in Hermione snapped.

She threw her blankets aside and bolted upright, grabbing a soft cream-colored cardigan in frustration and slipping her bare feet into her worn-in slippers. She grabbed her keys and stormed out of the flat, taking the stairs two at a time up to the penthouse landing.

She’d never been up there, but it wasn’t hard to find the right door—it was the only one on the floor, sleek and modern, made of expensive, polished wood.

From behind it, the moans were louder, clearer. The headboard still slammed against the wall in a maddening rhythm.

Hermione knocked once. Then again—harder. Nothing.
The third time, the door flung open.

A young woman stood there, no older than twenty-five.
She was gorgeous. Amber-toned skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat, plump lips red from kissing, wide caramel-colored doe eyes still hazy with bliss. She was tall and slender, with an almost unfairly perfect hourglass figure, wearing nothing but a crisp white men’s shirt, probably Draco’s, that barely reached her thighs.
She looked tousled, glowing, satisfied. High, almost.

Hermione stared at her without speaking, then took a step forward and shouted into the flat, “Malfoy!”

A few seconds later, Draco appeared in the hallway.
Barefoot, shirtless—his chest covered in a sheen of sweat, muscles tense and defined.

Hermione’s eyes instinctively scanned him: he was in excellent shape, the loose waistband of dark sweatpants slung low on his hips.
His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, his breathing uneven. His erection was obvious through the soft fabric.

When he saw Hermione on the threshold, his lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile.“Well, Granger… what a delicious surprise.”

He took two steps toward her, gesturing for the woman to go back inside. She obeyed, casting Hermione a look—a mix of curiosity and superiority—before disappearing into the shadows of the penthouse.

Hermione crossed her arms, clearly exasperated, and pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, suddenly self-conscious after seeing the woman Draco had just been ravaging.

“Would you mind keeping it down? Some of us are actually trying to sleep,” she snapped, her tone sharp.

Draco moved toward her slowly, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.“My apologies… I didn’t think it would bother you. I thought you were enjoying the performance.” He stopped too close to her, eyes fixed on her face. “Or… did you come up because you were jealous?”
Hermione stepped back half a pace, but he was quicker.

He slipped an arm around her waist and yanked her toward him with no ceremony.

She tried to push him off, but he didn’t budge.
Draco Malfoy was hot—and hard.

“If you want, you can join us.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She slapped his bare chest. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Draco leaned in, nose grazing her cheek, his voice low and velvet-smooth.

“You don’t seem angry. Just… surprised. You came up in pajamas, in that shirt, with your nipples hard enough to show through it…”

He inhaled the scent of her skin, lips brushing the spot just beneath her jaw, where her heartbeat was thudding far too fast. And picking up speed.

“But I can take care of that. You might just find out what it feels like to be wanted by someone who actually knows what he’s doing,” he whispered in her ear.

Hermione stiffened. “Get your hands off me, Malfoy.”

“You say that,” Draco murmured, a crooked grin on his face, “but your face said something very different tonight.”

He placed another kiss under her jaw, feeling her tremble under his hands.

“Maybe you’d rather watch. I know how curious you are, my little Researcher.”

He pressed a damp kiss under her chin.

Hermione was frozen, her body betrayed her, leaning into the heat of his frame, into the hands that gripped her waist with such control.
His scent overwhelmed her again, now mixed with sweat and sex, intoxicating and raw.

“Or maybe…” he continued against her skin, “you want me all to yourself. I’m still thinking about what we might have done—if Theo hadn’t interrupted us.” His voice was a blade, sharp and intimate. “You on top of me… your hair everywhere… your mouth finally opening…”

Hermione yanked herself back, hands trembling. “You’re a pig.”

“And you’re flushed,” he shot back, eyes dark with hunger.
He looked like he could devour her. His chest rose and fell quickly, pupils blown wide.

He moved to pull her even closer, but she stopped him with a firm hand.

“Don’t even try it.”
Draco laughed, low, aroused. “I love it when you bare your claws, Lioness. Makes me want to fuck the stiffness right out of that pretty little body.”

“Go fuck yourself, Malfoy!” she shouted, shoving him back.

“Already did.” He raised an eyebrow. “But thinking about doing it with you… keeps me up at night. Among other things.”

Hermione stared at him for a second too long, her body far more honest than her mouth.

Then she spun on her heel and stormed down the stairs, heart hammering, cheeks on fire, her legs aching for a friction only he could give.

“Come back whenever you want!” he called after her. “The door’s always open. Just knock before you get that turned on next time!”

Chapter Text

September 2004

The smell of Molly’s stew filled the air during one of the Burrow’s noisy Sunday lunches.

Hermione loved them.

Having grown up an only child, she had always found the idea of a house full of laughter and voices fascinating.

George was sitting on the floor with little Teddy and Victoire, who were clapping excitedly behind the latest Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes invention.

Their cheerful laughter tugged at her heart.

She and Ginny were clearing the table while the men were outside in the garden playing with Harry’s new broomstick.

Their joyful voices drifted in from outside, Ron’s louder than the rest.

“So, how’s the house hunt going?” Ginny asked casually, waving her wand as she tried to focus—not very successfully—on levitating the dishes.

She wasn’t exactly a natural at household charms.

“Meh,” Hermione replied, scraping some leftovers off a plate. “I’d love a nice flat in the city, but Ron’s against it. He says it’s too crowded.”

Ginny huffed.
Lately, she’d started to think her brother was pulling some invisible string and dragging Hermione along with him.

They had been together for six years, and only now Ron had started considering the idea of living together. For Hermione, it had been wonderful—the step she’d been waiting for, living with the man she loved.

Until he’d told her he preferred to find a place in the countryside, near his parents’ house.

Hermione didn’t like rural life. She loved the chaos of the city and wanted to stay close to her own parents, with whom she was finally, and with difficulty, rebuilding a relationship.

Still, deep down, she knew she’d probably give in to Ron. She had already thought about sending an owl to the Ministry to connect her parents’ fireplace to the Floo Network.

“And you, as always, are giving in to him,” Ginny said, her expression a mask of disapproval.

Hermione shrugged, as if to downplay it. “It’s not really giving in. It’s just... it’s important to him. And besides, even in the countryside we could find a nice house. With a garden, maybe a little vegetable patch...”
She didn’t even sound convincing to herself.

Ginny dropped a plate on the table with a clatter, a bit too hard. “Hermione. Don’t talk rubbish,” she snapped, almost startling her.

Hermione turned toward her, surprised by the harshness in her voice.
Ginny was one of her dearest friends—perhaps the only one who truly knew everything about her. She was also Ron’s sister, but she knew how to separate those roles. She could see clearly that Hermione was starting to feel sidelined.

“You don’t want a vegetable patch. You want to go to the theatre at night and sip white wine in a bistro while reading Baudelaire and Paracelsus. You want to talk to someone who can discuss international politics, not the weather and the neighbors’ owls,” she accused, hitting exactly where it hurt.

“Ginny, you’re exaggerating...” Hermione tried to say, but Ginny raised a hand to stop her.

“I’m just saying what you already see but refuse to admit,” she said, brutally. “Ron takes you for granted. Always has. It took him six fucking years just to decide to move in with you.” She held up six fingers to emphasize the point. “And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed—because even if you pretend not to, I’ve been watching you. For years.”

Hermione sighed.

She picked up a plate and began wiping it with a napkin, even though it didn’t need it. That strange sensation was creeping in again—that creeping awareness that Ginny was right.

“Ron loves me,” she managed to say.

“I know he does,” Ginny admitted with a sigh. “But he loves you like someone loves their favorite pillow. Comfortable. Reliable. Always there. Never a surprise. Never a ‘Tell me what drives you wild and let’s see if I can make it happen.’”

Hermione blushed. “Ginny...”

“No, let me finish.” Ginny gently set her wand down and stepped closer to look her in the eye. “After everything you do for him—the support, the patience, the loyalty, the constancy—has he ever asked you what your sexual fantasies are? Has he ever done anything for you besides say ‘Thanks, Hermione’?”

Hermione swallowed hard.

No. He hadn’t.

“No,” Ginny answered for her. “Because Ron thinks that as long as you don’t complain, everything must be fine.” She pointed a finger at her. “But you, Hermione Granger, are capable of extraordinary things. You’re fire underneath. And I bet that behind that always-composed face of yours are entire worlds he’s never even tried to explore.”

A heavy silence fell between them.

She had a vibrant mind, one that constantly craved discovery. Hermione couldn’t stay still—her curiosity was infinite and full of life. She wanted to learn and experiment, make mistakes and fix them.
Ron wanted peace.

“And what about you?” Hermione finally asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Do you... with Harry, I mean? Do you talk about... things like that?”

Ginny smiled, this time gently. “Yes. We’re married,” she replied sincerely. “Of course we talk about it and try new things. It’s the foundation of a healthy relationship.” She smiled faintly. “Because I have no intention of spending my life with someone who doesn’t truly see me. I’ve seen too many loves fade into the grey silence. I want him to make me feel. And I want to make him feel. Always—even when we’re tired or overwhelmed.”

Hermione looked at her, then lowered her gaze. She seemed tired.
Ginny’s words echoed in her heart like a wound.

Ginny touched her hand. “You know what?” she said. “You’re amazing with lists, right?”

Hermione chuckled quietly and nodded.

“Then make one,” she proposed, eyes glinting mischievously. “A list of every sexual fantasy you’d like to experience at least once in your life. All of them. No shame. And then, tick the ones you’ve actually lived out with Ron.”

Hermione didn’t say a word.

“Not to leave him,” Ginny added, waving her hands, “not yet, at least. Just to know, honestly, how much of yourself you’re putting aside for him. And whether it’s worth it.” She smiled. “Sometimes, a list is all it takes to see if you’re living—or just waiting for someone to notice you.”

The back door slammed, and the voices of the men grew louder. Hermione turned quickly toward the window and saw Ron laughing with Harry and George, the new broomstick slung over his shoulder, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

Ron, with his sweet smile and tousled hair, the freckles that still made him look like the teenager she remembered so fondly from Hogwarts.

She loved Ron. She was sure of it. He was her first love and would probably be her last. She loved him with a tenderness that frightened her.

But there was no fire. There had never been any fire.

Ginny bent to pick up a fallen fork and whispered, just before they came in:
“You’re not afraid of being hurt, Hermione.
But maybe it’s time you stopped being afraid of being happy.”

March 2008

That morning, London was merciless.

A light rain was falling over the rooftops of Mayfair as she got up after a fruitless night.

She hadn't slept, not even after the calming potion she took upon literally fleeing the penthouse.

Damn Malfoy.

Hermione was furious. Furious mostly at herself, because if that idiot had been alone, she would have thrown herself into that apartment to find out if the screams from that girl were really the result of physical talent.

Hermione didn’t know fire. She didn’t know that kind of wild passion that made her clench her thighs just at the sound of someone’s name, and she didn’t understand why, after only three days, she was feeling it for Draco Malfoy.

As hateful as ever—and yet, somehow sexier than he’d ever been.

She got out of bed, threw on her cardigan, and shuffled toward the kitchen, tying up her hair and slipping on her reading glasses.

The kitchen was small, charming with its white wood and colorful tiles. Hermione found her apartment warm and welcoming, so lovely that sometimes it felt like karma had led her exactly there.

Of course, the price to pay was living just below Draco Malfoy’s penthouse—but she was working on that too.

She was thinking of crafting a Silencing Charm to soundproof the room and finally stop hearing the orgiastic nights of the infernal blond.

She grabbed the kettle and filled it with water, then took her wand and lit the stove with a small Incendio.

She had asked Theo if she could buy a Muggle stove to replace the magical one, and Theo had said she could do whatever she wanted—so long as she didn’t burn the building down. Hermione had replied that it was more likely to happen with that cursed magical stove.

She set the kettle down and began searching for something to nibble on for breakfast, before sitting down at her laptop to draft the minutes from her latest research results.

She had nearly opened every cabinet in the kitchen when someone knocked on the door.

Hermione jumped.
Three sharp knocks—each one more impatient than the last.
She glanced at the clock: it was just 7:00 a.m.

Raising an eyebrow, she walked to the door and opened it without thinking—
And there he was.

She huffed as she found herself face to face with an impossibly well-dressed Draco Malfoy.

Despite the early hour, Draco looked flawless. He wore a navy blue tailored suit. The color made his moon-pale blond hair stand out even more, perfectly cut, with that usual rebellious lock falling over his forehead.

He didn’t have the jacket on, and his crisp white shirt peeked out from beneath a vest made of the same fine fabric as his trousers. On his feet, he wore expensive black dragon-hide shoes.

He held a cardboard tray with two steaming cups of what, judging by the smell, was coffee, and a white paper bag.

Before she could slam the door in his face, he extended the tray toward her and said,
"I come bearing peace offerings." He smiled with half a smirk. "Or at least enough caffeine to keep you from calling the authorities."

Hermione stared at him, eyebrow raised, but opened the door wider.
"You came close, you know?"

"I know."

Draco sobered, just for a second, and the shift in his expression startled Hermione.

"I was an idiot last night. I might have crossed a line," he said sincerely as he followed her inside."If you wanted to report me, you’d be well within your rights," he continued, as Hermione set the tray down on the small kitchen table."I can even put you in touch with a colleague of mine—she works for me and hates me with every fiber of her being. Old-school feminist."

"She hates you?"

"Deeply," Draco chuckled. "She loathes me. I’m what she calls 'the embodiment of the patriarchy.'" He ticked off the reasons. "White, straight, rich, powerful… I’ve slept with the last six assistants and let HR fire them after. So yes, if you wanted to press charges for me drunkenly trying to involve you in an orgy, and putting my hands and mouth on you after you told me to stop—know that she would love to destroy me." He tilted his head. "Though I’d settle."

Hermione wrapped her cardigan tighter around her and tried not to laugh as she sat at the table. Draco joined her across from it.

"One of us has to maintain the reputation of being smart in the room. And suing the best lawyer in London sounds… idiotic," she said, amused. "And for now, you are the idiot in this room."

Draco passed her the cup. "Touché."

She took it. They exchanged a long glance.

It was so strange, seeing Draco Malfoy in her apartment, perfectly put together, sipping what looked like Starbucks-style American coffee. It felt surreal—and oddly funny.

She opened the white paper bag he had placed on the table: two croissants and two frosted donuts. As if he knew she probably wouldn’t eat anything more than a dry biscuit from the cupboard.

"I knew you hadn’t eaten. Moral heroines always skip meals when they’re stressed," Draco sing-songed, grabbing one of the donuts.

"And do pathological narcissists bring sweets to win forgiveness?" Hermione shot back, grinning as she gave him a sly look.

"Only if they think they still have a chance."

He said it lightly, but his eyes betrayed him for a moment.
They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"How is, um—" Hermione gestured upward, looking at Draco’s confused face.

"Who?"

"The hot girl who was screaming like a mad banshee and answered the door naked last night wearing what looked like a copy of your shirt."

Draco looked down at his chest, then back at her."Oh, the girl from last night." He shrugged. "I don’t even remember her name, Granger. I sent her away right after you left."

"Charming."

"Don’t look at me like that," Draco defended himself. "It’s the truth. I get used too, you know."

"Poor victim of the system," Hermione teased behind her coffee cup, amused.

"I am a victim," Draco said dramatically, placing a hand on his forehead. "Women only see money and looks in me. No one wants to know the real me."

"And find out you’re an overly theatrical idiot, yes," she laughed, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "I thought you were more romantic, Malfoy."

"Me?" Draco pointed to himself, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"Yes. Given all the pureblood etiquette nonsense, I always pictured you as very prim and proper, sending poems to the women you court."

Draco burst out laughing, and Hermione delighted in the sound—low, clear, and warm. His features relaxed when he laughed, and a new light lit up his ivory skin.

"Oh, Granger. Knowing how to treat a woman doesn’t mean being romantic," he said, still chuckling. "I suppose I could be romantic for the woman I fall in love with—but that hasn’t happened yet."

"So no poetry?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.

"No poetry," he replied, raising his cup to his lips.

"Although, to be honest, it would be pretty funny to read a poem written by you," she teased. "Roses are red, violets are blue, I’d like to fuck you hard, hope you want it too."

Draco gave her an offended smile as he pinched off a crumb from his doughnut and tossed it at her.

"You cheeky little brat," he said with a laugh, then tilted his head to the side. "Tell me, Granger," he began, leaning toward her, "how much did the Weasel cry when you broke up with him? Did he beg?"

Hermione leaned back in her chair.

"Asshole," she snapped, crossing her arms. "I don’t think he cried. But we were together for ten years, living together for four. It was hard... even for me," she explained with a sigh. "I just came to the conclusion that I was living in someone else’s swamp. Trapped in a role I hadn’t chosen." She took a sip of coffee, locking eyes with his cold, metallic gaze."I realized I wasn’t doing anything for myself anymore. And that if I waited much longer, I’d forget who I was."

Draco nodded, genuinely. "I’m not surprised, Granger," he said, setting down his glass. "What surprises me is that it took you ten years. Weasley was never going to fix his inferiority complex while standing next to a woman like you."

Hermione’s eyes widened. "Was that… almost a compliment?"

"It was a clinical diagnosis. Don’t get any ideas," Draco said, shooting her a glance over the rim of his coffee before taking a sip. "You’re a particular kind of woman. You can’t be with someone who’s afraid of your success, who— even with good intentions— tries to dim your light just a little." He tilted his head again. "You need someone who loves the way you burn when you’re chasing a goal. Not someone intimidated by it."

Hermione was taken aback.

She had never seen it that way. Everyone had focused on the physical, on how Ron had been selfish in every possible way.

No one had ever considered that Hermione had felt mentally repressed, that the fire inside her had been slowly dying, day by day, just to keep Ron from feeling inferior.

Hermione had never really thought of it that way either. Ron was loyal and brave, funny and interesting.

She hadn’t fully understood that complex of his, but it had always come out whenever she achieved something.

Draco, instead, saw it clearly: someone without ambition cannot understand the ambitious.

"And anyway…" the blond continued— now with a teasing gleam in his eye, no longer serious— "Everyone knows he didn’t even satisfy you in bed."

Hermione’s jaw dropped, scandalized. "Excuse me?!"

Draco shrugged. "Oh, come on, Granger—everyone knows!" he laughed. "Not saying there were official surveys, but... the suspicion was widespread. George and I talked about it. More than once."

"You and George Weasley?"

"Yeah. He’s a client of mine," Draco said curtly. "We talked about it sometimes. He always wondered how you stuck around with his brother for that long. I had my own theories."

"Oh really? Like what?" Hermione was now leaning her whole upper body over the table, staring at the smug blond who had a sly look in his eyes.

"Martyr complex. Like every damned Gryffindor I’ve ever met. Florence Nightingale syndrome," he rattled off casually.
"Or maybe just fear of being alone."

Hermione froze at the realization that Draco Malfoy had understood her better in three days than someone who’d been by her side for ten years.

She looked at him like she’d never seen him before, thinking maybe he was more empathetic than people gave him credit for.

"The fear of being alone makes us do the stupidest shit," he continued, voice lower now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. "And you... you just saw Weasley as the only one who’d never leave you. So you clung to him."

Hermione’s breathing slowed. Strange emotions rose within her. Draco seemed so sincere, so immersed in his analysis that he didn’t even seem like himself.

He seemed almost… human.

"Of course, you could’ve chosen better from the start, Granger. A weasel who wouldn’t know a pussy from a hole in the ground— come on, I thought you were smart!"

Obviously, it only lasted a few seconds.

Hermione threw a piece of croissant at him, not caring that his suit probably cost something like three thousand pounds (and was clearly Muggle-made).

"And you’re a snarky idiot."

"Better an idiot than boring," he laughed, looking up at her from under his pale lashes. "What time’s your shift?"

Hermione glanced at her watch. "I start in two hours."

"Perfect. Then I’ll wait, and we can leave together— if you want. It’s the least I can do after acting like a total arse," he said, tilting his head.

And Hermione… couldn’t bring herself to say no.

*

"Ginny told me this place looked like it was made for you, but I didn’t think she meant it this literally, Hermione!"

Harry Potter stood in the small living room of Hermione Granger’s new flat, eyes wide with something close to reverence as he took in the enormous bookcase. He looked as though he might ask permission to enter, afraid the walls lined with books might somehow pass judgment on him.

"Merciful Merlin..." he whispered.

The room was a warm, orderly embrace of soft colors and polished wood. Every wall was covered with powder-blue wooden shelves that stretched all the way up to the ceiling, packed with books meticulously arranged by height and author, interspersed with framed photographs, small sculptures, and pale ceramic vases. Above the curved mantels, decorative arches framed lush ferns and trailing vines that hung lazily, as if standing guard over the knowledge below.

An elegantly carved frame surrounded the fireplace, above which a large black screen had been set into the wall — something that looked oddly out of place in such a classic setting. But Hermione never did anything without a reason.

On a round table of dark wood with a pale marble top, a rustic vase held eucalyptus branches, and beside it, a cluster of ripe pomegranates rested on a porcelain dish like a Caravaggio still life.

Two identical sofas, plush and inviting, faced each other as though awaiting a long conversation. The decorative cushions — geometric, elegant, perfectly matched to the Persian rug beneath them — seemed to say: “Sit down. Stay awhile. Read something.”

Hermione appeared from the kitchen holding two steaming mugs.

"I knew you’d make that face," she said.

"Well, you turned your living room into the Hogwarts library — of course I’m making this face!" Harry chuckled, watching Ginny practically float down onto one of the sofas. "This place is amazing — are you really paying that little for it?"

Hermione smiled and nodded. "I think it helps that the landlord believes he owes me for freeing him from his father."

"Godric, I still can’t believe your landlord is Theodore Nott," Harry said as he sat down next to his wife. "I see him every now and then at the Ministry — I thought he'd gone a bit off the rails."

"Well, he’s not all there," Ginny laughed, accepting the tea Hermione handed her, "but he’s kind to Hermione."

Harry gave Hermione a questioning look, and she nodded seriously.

"Yes, oddly kind. He’s always available, always helpful," she explained to him. "I never imagined he’d be like this — back at Hogwarts, he always seemed so... depressed."

Harry turned to look at the large glass door leading to the balcony.
It had been nearly two weeks since Hermione had moved in, and Harry had only just returned from a mission. Balancing Auror shifts and finding time to see her wasn’t easy, but he always made an effort—especially since she had broken up with Ron.

It was an awkward position for him: on one hand, he was comforting Ron, devastated by the breakup; on the other, Hermione was now sleeping in the room next to him and Ginny. And it didn’t help that his wife was completely on Hermione’s side.

“I think he had issues with his father,” Harry said, rubbing his chin. “Once, after a Quidditch match, I was in the infirmary. I overheard Madam Pomfrey and Snape whispering—something about Tiberius Nott attending the Slytherin game and beating Theo unconscious afterward.”

“Seriously?” Ginny covered her mouth, horrified.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “That would explain a lot… Theo does seem genuinely happy that his father’s in Azkaban for life.” She said it in a low, almost unsettling tone.

Growing up, she had always imagined pureblood heirs—Malfoy, Nott, Parkinson—as spoiled brats, raised in velvet cocoons with tea served by house-elves and bedtime kisses. But Draco had suffered violence at the hands of his aunt and emotional abuse from his father. And now she learned Theo had grown up under the threat of a man like Tiberius Nott.

All that polished aristocratic façade had turned out to be nothing more than a glossy mask.

And Theo—strange, ambiguous, always teetering between sarcasm and cheek—wasn’t acting as her lackey out of interest, but out of gratitude. He felt indebted for being "freed."

Hermione hadn’t attended every post-war trial. She had testified for Draco and Narcissa, and against Lucius. And she’d played a not-insignificant role in Tiberius Nott’s life sentence. She’d seen him kill Colin Creevey during the Battle of Hogwarts. That memory had burned her with rage.

If she had known that man had also destroyed his own son’s childhood… she might have asked for worse than life imprisonment.

“Poor Theo,” Ginny murmured, her voice a whisper.

“Did someone say my name?” came a light, impudent voice. Theo had just walked in, making Hermione laugh.

She had learned that locking the door was a personal offense to him. In the end, she had given up. Theo came in without knocking, like he’d lived there forever. Strangely, she didn’t mind anymore.

He was carrying two massive bags of Chinese food. Despite their fallen aristocrat airs, Theo and Draco had a real obsession with Muggle food.

“The devil himself!” Ginny laughed.

Theo ruffled her hair and planted a loud kiss on Hermione’s cheek.
“Always summonable—for food and gossip.”

He was dressed impeccably, as always. A blue cashmere jumper, light jeans, and—of course—obscenely expensive dragon-hide boots.

Behind him appeared another figure: a tall, dark-skinned young man with a lean but muscular build. He wore a beige sweater and tailored black trousers. His hair was short, immaculately cut.

Following him, a petite blonde with delicate features and a gentle expression. She wore a pink turtleneck tucked into a black skirt and held the man’s hand with casual ease.

“Remember Blaise and Daphne?” Theo asked. “Hope you don’t mind—I didn’t want to be the only snake among lions.”

Hermione watched them enter. Then, as if by reflex, her eyes darted upward—hoping, searching—for a third figure behind them. And immediately regretted it.

“Don’t hurt yourself craning your neck like that, Granger,” Theo teased. “He’s not coming. Dinner with his mother.”

A flash of disappointment stirred in her chest. Harry gave her a raised eyebrow, confused. Ginny and Theo were already giggling like two schoolgirls.
Hermione turned away, cheeks flushed, trying to ignore them.

“You should’ve seen them last week,” Theo whispered to Ginny, covering his mouth like they were at church. “I swear, they were this close to tearing each other’s clothes off at the pub. Seconds away.”

Hermione obstinately ignored them and turned to Blaise.
“Nice to see you again,” she said, offering her hand.

“Granger,” he replied with his usual half-smile. “Nice place.”

His handshake was firm. Behind him, Daphne handed her a pink paper bag with a gentle smile.
“We got you a little something for your new hideaway.”

“Thanks, Daphne… Greengrass, right?” Hermione asked.

“Zabini, actually. For a while now.”

“FINALLY!” Ginny exclaimed. “Another wife in the club! I was starting to feel lonely!”

Daphne laughed heartily and dropped onto the couch next to Ginny.
“Good catch, Daphne,” Ginny said with a wicked smile. “Grade-A beef.”

Theo burst out laughing so hard he had to sit down.

“Ginny…” Harry sighed, running a hand over his eyes. “Please…”

“What can I say?” the blonde replied with an allusive glance. “Once you go Black…”

Theo’s laughter jumped an octave while Blaise shook his head, a faint, mischievous smile on his full lips.

Hermione giggled, closing the front door behind her—for the first time in months, genuinely looking forward to an evening away from her books, and away from her thoughts.

Dinner proved one thing: they’d all been absolute idiots in their teenage years.

Blaise was lounging comfortably on her sofa, engaged in a lively conversation with Harry about a Quidditch match. Of the Slytherin boys’ trio, Blaise seemed to be the least unhinged. Calm, composed, his voice had a steady warmth that was oddly soothing.

Daphne, perched on the edge of the table with a glass of red wine, looked effortlessly elegant. Her long legs were crossed, and her sharp, intelligent gaze flicked between Ginny and Theo, who were talking at lightning speed as if reading each other’s minds.

It was strange, seeing them so in sync. Hermione sat in front of a sea of empty Chinese takeout containers, savoring the rare calm of a house filled with voices and laughter.

“...and so I told Hermione to make a list of her sexual fantasies—just to figure out how repressed she really is.”

Hermione’s head snapped up at Ginny’s last sentence. Her best friend was now looking at her with that devious glint in her eyes—the look that always preceded something deeply embarrassing.

“Excellent advice,” Daphne nodded approvingly.

“Ginny, you didn’t—” Hermione stammered, her cheeks flushing furiously as she glared at her friend, vaguely fantasizing about hexing her into next week.

“Herm, you put that idiot brother of mine before yourself for years. Writing down his shortcomings is the least you deserve.” Ginny smirked, and the fact that Theo was nodding in agreement, beer still in hand, made it even worse.

“She never let me read it, though,” Ginny went on.

“And you won’t now that you’ve made it public, thanks,” Hermione snapped, grabbing her wine. Suddenly, getting drunk sounded like an excellent idea.

“Oh, maybe she’ll let Draco read it,” Theo quipped, leaning against the wall, his usual crooked, mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Hermione nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“Draco?” Daphne arched a brow. “You’re shagging Draco?”

Hermione quickly wiped her mouth and shook her head. “NO!” she exclaimed, alarmed.

“Not yet,” Theo corrected smoothly, leaning over the table to eye her. “Wasn’t he talking about his oral talents a bit too close to your face last Thursday?”

“He was talking about his job!” she protested, far too loudly to sound believable. Panic was creeping back in—bloody serpents and their mind games.

Ginny rested her chin on her hand, watching it all unfold like a theatre piece.

“Sure, ‘Law & Licking,’” Theo tilted his head. “Granger, are you honestly gonna deny there’s sexual tension between you two?”

“I—” she faltered, pinned down by Theo’s piercing green eyes.

“I left you alone for two minutes to go smoke, and you were practically breathing into each other’s mouths.” He leaned back. “And the way he was looking at you? Like he was picking which couch to bend you over.”

Hermione stared, wide-eyed, utterly speechless under the weight of Theo’s all-too-accurate observations.

“That’s not the point—”

“Oh, it totally is!” Ginny chimed in. “Hermione, just let go. Explore a little.” She tilted her head. “You left Ron to change your life, didn’t you? So change it.”

Ginny stood up and walked over to her. “Take a trip. Book a week off work. Buy a short dress. Go dancing. Get a new haircut—” she listed off, then leaned in dramatically, “And for the love of Merlin, let Legal Daddy fuck you unconscious in honor of all the Harpies.”

Daphne burst out laughing. Theo, surprisingly serious, nodded in agreement.

“If he has no issue—and from what Theo says, he doesn’t—why are you still torturing yourself with questions?”

Hermione fell silent.

Ginny's words hit home. She had ended a ten-year relationship because she said she “wanted to live.” She’d felt trapped, repeating the same day endlessly, like time had stopped. And she realized she’d been disrespecting herself.

So she’d walked away.

But it had been four months, and the only thing she’d done was move into a new flat. No men. No travel. Just work. No indulgence. No self-love.

She shot up from her chair so fast it nearly tipped over. Her legs carried her to the front door, past a startled Harry and Blaise.

She grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open, stepping onto the landing.

She could clearly hear Theo laugh behind her: “I’ll lock up, darling—have fun.”

She rushed up the few stairs, hand already on Draco’s doorbell.

The chime rang out in the quiet air. She froze, finger to her lips, doubt finally starting to creep in.

What if he’s with someone?

She knew he had at least three different partners a week. She hadn’t heard any noises lately, but…

Theo had said he was with his mother. Had he not come back yet?

Time passed—so much that her moment of madness began to fade into regret.

Draco wasn’t home.

She sighed deeply and turned around, ready to retreat and apologize to her friends for her impulsiveness.

“Granger?”

His voice made her jump. She looked up.

Draco was right in front of her, climbing the last step with a raised eyebrow.

And Merlin, he looked better than ever.

He wore a crisp white turtleneck, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, revealing the faded Dark Mark on his left forearm. Black tailored trousers hugged his hips, held up by a thick leather belt. Everything, as always, screamed luxury.

He looked her up and down, slowly. Her snug brown sweater, her short black skirt, the knee-high boots.

Silence thickened between them.

Draco took a step closer. “You okay?” he asked, his tall frame looming over her.

Hermione stared for a few more seconds as he drew even closer—close enough that the scent of his cologne clouded her thoughts.

“Gran—” he started, but she cut him off.

She kissed him.

One second, her lips were crashing into his, and her arms were around his neck. Her eyes clenched shut, bracing for rejection.

Draco froze—shocked—and Hermione felt her courage drain away. She began to pull back, eyes fluttering open to see his expression.

He was stunned. Wide-eyed. Lips still parted.

She stepped back, a hand to her mouth. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I just—”

Then his eyes darkened.

In a flash, he pushed her against the wall, pinning her there with his body. One hand gripped her waist, and his mouth was back on hers—this time hungry, demanding, on fire.

Hermione didn’t resist. She parted her lips and welcomed the searing heat.

Draco’s tongue slipped into her mouth, tangling with hers. The kiss was messy, passionate, feral. She moaned, arching into his hard body, his hands sliding down to her ass. He grabbed her roughly and lifted her up.

Her legs wrapped around his hips instinctively.

She didn’t know Draco was this strong—but she liked it. Her core rubbed against the front of his trousers as they devoured each other, starved.

Draco was only the third man she’d ever kissed—but he was in a league of his own.

Waves of heat pulsed through her belly. He seemed to know exactly what to do, how to touch her, how to handle her.

She sank a hand into his silky blond hair, the other clawing at his shoulder. She rocked her hips against him, drawing a growl from his throat.

Her lungs burned for air. She pulled back slightly, his grip firm on her ass.

He licked her lower lip, a wicked smile curling his mouth. His tongue traced her jaw to her ear.
“Stop me, Granger. Say no, or I’ll ruin you tonight.”

She whimpered, grinding her hips again, feeling his arousal pressing between her legs through the layers.

“Say no before it’s too late,” he repeated, rotating his hips. She gasped at the friction, her back arching.

He licked her earlobe. “Tell me what you want, Granger.”

Hermione threw her head back, eyes locking with his—darkened by lust, his face flushed with heat.

She toyed with his hair, then leaned in, lips brushing his.

“I want you to make me forget.”

Draco smiled—the filthiest smile she’d ever seen—and kissed her again.

Hermione knew.

That night, he was going to ruin her.

Chapter Text

Draco pushed open the front door with one hand, letting it slam against the wall behind him.
He didn’t care. The only thing on his mind was the woman wrapped around his neck, devouring his lips.

Hermione was caught in a frenzy, her tongue tangled with his, one hand buried in his moonlight-colored hair while he gripped her hips and pressed her against the erection that was straining painfully against his trousers.

With a flick of his hand, the lights turned on, and he led her into the vast open-plan space, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across one wall, revealing a glittering view of London at night.

Draco dropped Hermione onto his large black leather sofa, making her bounce slightly. She grabbed his white jumper and yanked him back down, kissing him with wild urgency. He pushed her legs apart so he could settle between them, his hand sliding down between her breasts still hidden under her light brown sweater.

She was breathtaking like that, curls fanned out against the leather, honey-colored eyes closed, lost in the fury of their kiss.

The blond gripped one of her thighs and licked her lower lip before trailing down to her chin, which he bit.
Hermione moaned, her hands tangled in his hair, heat pooling low in her belly.
She had never felt so turned on in her life.
His body, his lips, his heat—she wanted him everywhere. She wanted to be consumed by him.

“Take your clothes off,” she whispered as he nipped at her neck.

He laughed against her skin and grabbed the hem of her sweater. He nearly tore it off, revealing her flat stomach and a white lace bra so delicate it looked almost virginal.

Draco looked at her, eyes dark with desire as his fingers grazed her bare skin.

“You're impatient,” he murmured. “But before I take my clothes off, I want to make you come at least once.”
With that same feverish energy, he tore off her bra.

Hermione gasped as the cool air hit her chest, his hand already cupping her right breast. She responded eagerly, arching her hips toward him.

She didn’t have much experience—and what she had, hadn’t included a man determined to drive her mad before even starting.

Draco clearly had a plan. His quick fingers pushed her skirt up to her waist, revealing white panties.
She silently thanked the gods for wearing a matching set.

He grinned, wicked and hungry, as he touched her center.
“You’re soaked, Granger,” he said lowly, fingers lazily stroking her through the fabric. “Am I turning you on that much?”

“Malfoy…” she breathed, his finger pressing against her folds still covered by her underwear.

“Draco, Granger. You need to call me Draco,” he whispered in her ear. “I want to hear you scream my name when I fuck you like you deserve.”

Her stomach twisted at his words, a shiver racing down her spine.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” he continued mercilessly. “I’m going to take off your panties, have a look at that golden little pussy of yours, and then enjoy every drop of how wet you are for me.”
He smirked against her ear as he pushed the ruined fabric aside.
“I’m going to lick you until you come on my tongue, and then I’ll fuck you. First here, on the couch. Then in my bed.” His fingers found her clit and circled it with calculated precision, making her arch into him.
“I’m going to fuck you all night, Granger. I want to hear you scream how good it feels to be ruined by me. I want you begging for my cock, and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll feel it in your throat. You like that idea, sweetheart?”

Hermione moaned again.
No one had ever spoken to her like that.

Deep down, she knew she should be offended. He was treating her like a filthy whore. So dirty. So vulgar.
And yet…

She couldn’t stop soaking his hand. She couldn’t stop burning.

She wanted him.

“Malfoy… I…”

Draco pulled his hand away slightly, making her whimper in frustration.
Hermione opened her eyes to look at him. His gaze was dark with lust, almost terrifying.

He looked at her like she was the most irresistible thing in the world, like he was going to devour her.
He was beautiful—so shamelessly, painfully beautiful. The sharp jawline, the chiseled features, lips curled in a smoldering grin.

“What did I say?” he whispered against her lips. “What do you call me?”

Hermione shivered at the sheer control he was exercising over her.
So primal. So intimate.

“Draco,” she moaned.

He placed his hand back between her legs and slid a finger inside her. Hermione's eyes flew open.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” he teased, thrusting his finger into her at a steady pace.

He added a second finger, aided by the flood of wetness between her legs. Hermione threw her head back, arching as waves of pleasure rocked through her.

It had never been like this.

It couldn’t be like this.

She felt undone as he pressed his thumb to her clit, rubbing to push her higher.
She was dripping. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of her was obscene—and intoxicating.

“I’ve dreamt of fucking you since Hogwarts, Granger,” he growled, grinning. “And of seeing whether there’s liquid gold between your thighs.”

He kissed her exposed throat as she whispered a prayer.

She was praying to Draco Malfoy—and couldn’t think of anything more delicious.

He wanted her. She saw it in the darkened silver of his eyes. He wanted her like no one ever had.

He slid down, kissing between her breasts and down to her navel, then peeled her skirt down and off completely, leaving her bare beneath him.

Exposed. Open.

She had never felt so vulnerable in her life.

She felt his breath against her inner thighs and instinctively pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at him.

He shot her a blazing look as he grabbed her thighs, folding them back and spreading her wide, revealing her fully to him.

Draco’s eyes dropped, and he licked his lips.

“Did the Weasel ever get a taste of this perfect little cunt, Granger?” he asked, brushing a finger along her slit.

The touch made her moan even louder.

“No,” Hermione answered, watching him. “He said it made him feel… a bit dirty.”

Draco barked a laugh and brought his finger to his mouth. Watching him suck it clean nearly made her come.

“Merlin, what an idiot,” he sneered. “You taste exactly like the gold you’re made of, Granger.”

He used that same wet finger to stroke her clit, lazily, making her twitch.

“So feel free to grab my hair while I lick all that gold from you—it’s going to be intense.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she said, catching the way he was staring at her.

“I know my strengths. You’re the brightest witch of our age,” he whispered, blowing softly on her folds, making her moan. “And I? I eat pussy like a champion. And I think she already knows she’s about to get every bit of attention she’s ever craved.”

"You’re such an asshole, D—OH!" Hermione’s eyes flew open when Draco’s tongue touched her sensitive, responsive skin.

Her stomach twisted as he licked her slowly, cleaning her of her arousal.
Hermione moaned, a sound that didn’t even feel like her own. Draco’s tongue was warm, deliberate, ravenous. It felt like he truly wanted to devour her.

He moved against her skin with maddening slowness, unhurried, as if he wanted to take all the time in the world to drive her insane.
He dipped his tongue barely inside her, and her back arched instinctively.

"Fuck…" she panted, her hand shooting down to claw into his moonlight-blond hair.
She gripped tight, pushing his face lower, his nose now brushing her clit.

She felt him smile against her skin before lifting his eyes to her.
His gaze, dark with passion, locked on her from between her thighs. That look—intense, filthy—shook her to her core in a way no one ever had.

A loose strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, giving him a wild, feral air. Hermione clutched his hair tighter as she tilted her head back.

Draco began sucking her clit with purpose, and Hermione shattered beneath him.
Her legs trembled, her eyes flew open wide for a second before closing again to surrender to the waves of pleasure shaking her very soul.

It exploded through her veins like a bomb. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel pleasure so raw, so intense.

"Draco… oh God…" she gasped, the sight of his head between her thighs driving her further toward the edge.

Why had she ever denied herself this?

She sobbed a moan as he slid a finger into her, matching the rhythm of his tongue against the center of her pleasure.
Hermione tangled a hand in her curls and wrapped her legs around his head.

"Oh, the little lioness is enjoying herself," he chuckled, and the vibration of his voice made her nearly scream.
"I told you, Granger. You’ve got a brain full of synapses—me? I know how to use my tongue."

"Bastard…" she panted, pushing his head closer again.

Draco laughed softly, spreading her legs even wider.
He looked up at her with eyes dark and molten, slipping two fingers inside her before diving back down to taste her sensitive skin again.

Hermione writhed, one hand tightening in his hair, unconsciously trying to push him away to catch her breath.
The tension inside her was tightening—pulling taut.

There it was.

Hermione no longer felt her body, no longer felt the couch beneath her. She was lost in a sensation she’d only ever known alone—
A tide dragging her under, pressure building with maddening intensity.

Draco curled his fingers just right and sucked, licked, teased her clit.
He pinned her down with one strong arm across her stomach, guiding her through the surge of pleasure that built and built—until it snapped.

"Draco!" she cried out, the orgasm hitting her like a slap to the face.

She felt him licking her still, helping her ride the wave, grinning as her body gave him more.
She had come—for the first time—with a man.

And he hadn’t even taken off his clothes.

Realization crawled up her spine like a shadow—
She was losing control.

Through the haze of her orgasm-blurred vision, she saw him rise over her, saw him wipe his mouth—slick with her arousal—in a gesture so shamelessly sexy it nearly made her come again.

How could he be that obscenely hot?

"One," he said smoothly, holding up a single finger in front of her face.
"Let’s see how many orgasms it takes to shut that brilliant brain of yours off, Granger."

Hermione wished that had been enough. Her peripheral vision had blurred almost completely as he withdrew his finger and crossed his arms over his white sweater, starting to pull it off.

Draco was in shape, kneeling at the foot of the sofa, revealing a sculpted, smooth abdomen. He was unfairly beautiful, even with the faint silver lines of Harry’s Sectumsempra scars slashing across his stomach. Hermione also noticed the small tattoo on his neck—Azkaban runes. Draco seemed to try to hide them, and she could understand why.

She pulled her legs back to push herself toward him, to touch that smooth, warm, perfectly toned skin.

He kissed her, tossing the sweater aside, and grabbed her legs, pulling her closer. Hermione squeaked in surprise as Draco smiled against her lips. His mouth tasted like her, like fire, and something so ancient she couldn’t name it.

She wanted to feel that again, to throw her head back and roll her eyes in that same shattering orgasmic bliss. Her hands slid to his belt, fumbling to undo it quickly, making him laugh into her mouth.

He was clearly pleased with himself, and Hermione hated Malfoy’s smugness—but right now, her brain could process nothing beyond the growing, uncontrollable hunger for him.

She wanted this man to drag her into oblivion.

Draco let her undress him in a frenzy. As she worked open his trousers, he touched her again—his fingers lazily stroking her clit while he kissed her neck and took her left nipple into his mouth.

Hermione moaned, impatient, finally managing to unzip his pants and slide her hand into his boxers. Draco growled when she wrapped her fingers around him and started to stroke.

She touched him for minutes before he removed her hand and finished undressing, standing naked in front of her.

Hermione swallowed. He was bigger than she had imagined—definitely more than she remembered Ron being. Every inch of that man looked like it had been sculpted to please a woman, and she found it almost absurd.

They kissed again, fiery and deep. Now she could feel Draco’s urgency on her tongue, his hardened cock pressing against her thigh as he climbed over her.

She’d never been with anyone but Ron. That body above hers felt foreign—strange in a way—but it was a small part of her that resisted. Every other part craved him.

This was the first selfish thing she’d done in ten years.

The realization hit her like a punch of adrenaline.

“Let’s start… comfortably, for you,” Draco teased, grasping her thigh.

Before she could reply with the appropriate snark, the tip of his cock slid into her, and she clung to his shoulders, feeling the slow, fluid push of his full length filling her completely.

“You’re so tight, Granger. Bloody Salazar,” Draco gasped, locking eyes with her. “It’s like you’re a damn virgin.”

Hermione flushed. Draco was still, as if weighing his next move.

“Perfect,” he whispered in her ear, a filthy, sex-drenched smile curling on his lips. “Tell me if I go too hard, because I’m going to fuck you until you forget your name.”

She tried to reply again, but her voice failed her. He rolled his hips—and the first thrust made her jolt against the slippery leather of the sofa. The second felt like he was splitting her in two.

It burned. It was intoxicating.

Hermione dug her nails into his pale back as his thrusts became faster, sharper, relentless. She hadn’t believed anything could top what she’d felt earlier, but she was wrong. Draco’s rhythm was brutal and exact, as if he had a map of her body and knew exactly where to strike.

The sounds escaping her lips were obscene. She’d never made them with Ron—not once. Even though she knew this position well, Draco was stronger, angling her hips so he could go deeper. The pace was brutal, focused, cleansing.

Hermione scratched down his back, throwing her head back as he sucked on her neck, his tongue soothing the places where he bit her.

She clung to him, hearing his deep, guttural growl of pleasure. Her nails were cutting into his skin—she was sure he was bleeding.

“Fuck,” he whispered in her ear. “So tight and wet, Granger. You were made to be fucked hard.”

She gasped louder, on the verge of screaming like she’d heard those other girls do.

He grabbed her legs, pressing them together and holding them against his chest, forcing her hands off his back.

“Godric, D-Draco…” she stammered when she realized how this new angle made his thrusts faster, deeper, harsher. She could feel them in her stomach, waves of scalding pleasure crashing through her.

She arched, head thrown back, throat dry from moaning under the ferocity of his pace.

She liked it.

She’d never experienced this kind of raw intensity before—and for a second, she thought she saw stars.

“Scream,” he commanded. “I want to hear how much you love my cock.”

Hermione moaned louder, licking her lips as he kept thrusting wildly.

Everything blurred. She clawed at his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto as she felt herself falling again—the rope snapping in a final, explosive scream. Her juices poured down her thighs as he kept thrusting through her climax, a smug smile on his lips.

“Two,” he counted with satisfaction as Hermione shattered under the wave of pleasure. “How do you feel, Granger? Next time, promise me you’ll scream my name.”

Before she could catch her breath, he pulled out, grabbed her hip, and flipped her roughly.

“Let’s move to the advanced level,” he said, amused. “On your knees. Hands on the couch.”

She obeyed.

She’d asked him not to think—and now Draco Malfoy was the only thing occupying her brain. Every neuron was short-circuiting under the rising pleasure.

Draco ran a hand down her back, making her shiver. He pushed her gently, arching her spine and opening her for him.

“Look at me,” he ordered again.

She turned her head and met his eyes.

Draco looked feral—his fringe disheveled across his forehead, skin lightly glistening with sweat, eyes black with lust.

He looked at her over her shoulder, stroking her ass with a grin before parting her cheeks.

Hermione moved impatiently. She needed him inside again—needed him to break her now that she understood that sex could be catharsis and rapture.

“Mmh,” Draco smiled. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give you everything.”

Hermione blushed, her eyes roaming his sensual, beautiful body.

“Fuck me, Draco… please,” she begged, not recognizing her own voice.

He grinned and thrust into her in one deep, powerful stroke that made her arch even more.

In this position, she could feel every inch of him, almost to her soul. She was full, ruined, and happy.

He paused, savoring how her walls clenched around him, then started thrusting again—rough, rhythmic, the sound of their bodies meeting wet and filthy.

Draco grabbed her hair hard, yanking her back, then kissed the nape of her neck as he pounded deeper.

Hermione came again, his grip in her curls tightening as she rode another crashing wave.

“Three,” Draco panted, his voice dripping with desire.

He was still hard inside her, and Hermione wondered how that was even possible. That man had absolute control over his body.

“Want another, sweetheart?” he whispered in her ear, voice devilish. “We’re just getting started. Don’t be greedy.”

“Draco… please…” she didn’t even know why she was begging, but she did.

She rolled her hips, fucking herself on his cock.

He chuckled low. “So beautiful and so insatiable—you were made to be fucked by me.”

His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as her legs trembled.

“Merlin, Draco… harder. Please, harder—”

She screamed his name, and that sent Draco into pure euphoria. He fucked her harder, harder still, breaking her all over again. His fingers found her clit, making her cry out as he pushed her to the edge—dragging her down with him.

With a low growl, he came inside her, his thrusts erratic and deep as he spilled into her like a flood.

Hermione felt his release dripping down her thighs as he pulled out, breathlessly whispering, “Four.”

She curled her legs up, noticing how she’d soaked Draco’s expensive couch. She blushed fiercely, glancing at him.

Draco was brushing his hair back, his eyes slowly clearing, falling on her—wide, like he was seeing her for the first time.

“Granger… fuck,” he muttered, staring as if he didn’t even know who she was. “You… you’re incredible in bed.”

He said it like it was the most shocking revelation of his life. “You mean… Weasley never—?”

She shook her head, a small, pleased smile on her lips. She’d always liked flattery.

She shook her head, a small smile of pleasure curling on her lips. She had always liked flattery.

“Well… in that case,” Draco smirked mischievously, standing up from the couch. He scooped her into his arms and lifted her over his shoulder. “I’m keeping you up all night, Granger. Just give me ten minutes.”

Hermione laughed, her body still buzzing and relaxed from pleasure.
“Oh, I thought you had more stamina, Draco. What a disappointment,” she teased playfully as he started up the stairs to the second floor of his penthouse.

“What—” he glanced back at her, his eyes once again dark and dripping with lust. “You won’t be walking out of here, I swear on Salazar Slytherin.”

“Show me. I can’t wait.”

And he did—three more times that night.

*

The light was filtering through the tall windows when she blinked, annoyed by a single ray that had chosen to strike her right in the eyes.
She frowned slightly as reality began to resurface, emerging slowly from the fog Morpheus had wrapped her in, regaining control of her body.

A dull ache pulsed between her thighs and along the muscles of her legs and abdomen. A general sense of relaxation spread through her limbs, making her stretch almost like a cat in search of affection.
An arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, reminding her that she was not alone in that enormous bed with its white silk sheets.

The room was massive, with sleek black walls streaked—on the side where the bed stood—with delicate geometric designs in thin gold. One entire wall was made of glass, revealing the skyline of a London slowly waking up.

The bed was huge, larger than any standard size, framed in soft padded black leather and fitted with the most comfortable mattress she had ever laid on. A vast, dark gray rug covered the floor made of precious dark walnut wood.

And she was naked in that bed, wrapped in sheets so expensive that, when she realized what she had done on them just a few hours before, she almost felt ashamed.

That was when she fully registered that the naked body pressed against hers belonged to Draco Malfoy.

She had sex with Draco Malfoy.

Spectacular, wildly intense, and incredibly satisfying sex with Draco Malfoy.
The best sex of her life.
He had fucked her until she begged for mercy, until she had become too sensitive to take the force of him inside her, until her orgasms blurred into something almost painful, until she had collapsed into Morpheus’s arms—his arms.

It had been cathartic.

She had never known her body was capable of experiencing so much pleasure. Never imagined her mind could melt into a hazy, jelly-like mess of endorphins the way it had that night—when Hermione Granger had turned into something flirtatious, starving, out of control, addicted to the hormonal storm that man had stirred inside her.

She blushed.

She had shown Draco Malfoy a part of herself even she didn’t know existed—and that was not okay.

Carefully, she slipped his arm from around her waist and slid silently out of bed. The room smelled of sex and sweat and skin—making the madness of the night before all the more real.

Draco stirred, and she froze.

She watched him roll over and turn his back to her.
And then she nearly gasped.

Deep, red scratches ran along the pale skin of his back—long, raw lines. Some had begun to crust, dark streaks of blood dried where her nails had raked him open.

“Merlin,” she breathed under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief, and tiptoed quietly out of the room.

Draco’s penthouse was spread over two floors, like a glass box seemingly added after the rest of the building had already been constructed—and it probably had. Shades of black, grey, and wood dominated the space, giving it a warm yet masculine feel. It was exactly how she had imagined the home of Draco Lucius Malfoy—successful lawyer and notorious womanizer.

Two of the living room walls were made of glass, covering an entire corner of the penthouse and overlooking the large terrace. The living room itself was more of an open-plan space, with massive designer black leather sofas and large black-and-grey rugs. Her clothes were scattered across the luxurious wooden floor.

She walked down the golden floating staircase, trailing her hand along the crystal railing, her bare feet sinking into the warm wood as she began collecting the scattered pieces of clothing—her sweater, her bra, her skirt. She hurriedly put them all back on.

Her attention was caught by the large wall-mounted TV behind her. She couldn’t picture Malfoy owning one. Yet there it was: huge, clearly expensive, complete with a state-of-the-art sound system and a flat screen.

The bookshelf beside it was full of DVDs, VHS tapes, and CDs.

Draco Malfoy listened to Muse?

That unsettled her more than she expected.

It was one thing to hear him talk about his work with Muggles—it was another to realize he lived in a space where the magical and non-magical worlds blended perfectly. And this was the home of the first person who had ever called her “Mudblood.”

It was almost disturbing.

She gathered the last of her things and slipped out of the apartment as quickly as possible, hurrying down to her own flat and feeling like a thief escaping in the night.

But she was shaken.

She’d never been with anyone other than Ron Weasley. Until just a few months ago, she hadn’t even imagined having sex with anyone else.

And now she had.

And it had blown every fantasy she’d ever had out of the water.

And it was all Draco Fucking Malfoy’s fault.

The fact that she’d started finding him tolerable was already absurd—but the fact that she had enjoyed it that much, let go like that… that was even more so.

Once home, she ran to her room, grabbed her wand and cleaned off as much of the remaining fluids from her body as she could. She pulled on clean underwear, some blue jeans, and a loose sky-blue jumper before throwing herself into the fireplace and shouting, “Grimmauld Place!”

She emerged in what had once been the dreadful old drawing room of the Noble House of Black—now transformed into a riot of colour and warmth. Ginny and Harry had spent years cleansing it to turn it into their love nest, and it showed. The place radiated love and life.

Ginny appeared almost immediately, probably alerted by the wards. She was holding a dishcloth, one eyebrow arched and her brown eyes already glittering with mischief.

“Hermione…”

“First of all, Ginevra Molly Weasley,” Hermione began, pointing an accusing finger at her friend, “What in Merlin’s name made you think telling Theodore Nott about the list was a good idea?!”

Ginny chuckled quietly, crossing her arms under her small chest.

“In what universe did that seem like a good plan?” Hermione pressed on. “It was private.”

“And—”

“And for the love of Merlin, Ginny, is there anything to eat? I have to be at work in two hours and if I don’t get some carbs in me I’m going to pass out.”

Ginny laughed and gestured for her to follow her downstairs.

Hermione did, and once they reached the kitchen, Ginny slid a mug of coffee and a plate of muffins across the counter to her.

The smell was divine, and Hermione’s stomach growled, aching both from hunger and the aftershocks of the previous night’s sex.

“Well?” Ginny prompted, sitting across from her with a steaming mug. “How many?”

“How many what?”

Ginny tilted her head. “Hermione. Orgasms.”

Hermione’s mouth clamped shut, and she sighed. “I think I counted six.”

“Wait—six?!” Ginny’s eyes turned into saucers, shock plastered across her face. “And what do you mean ‘I think’?”

“I mean I’m sure I came six times before I lost count,” Hermione blushed deeply. “He counted four, and I counted two, then… everything got sort of… blurry.”

“Morgana, Merlin and the four founders—how are you even still standing?”

Ginny looked at her like she was some fascinating scientific experiment, and Hermione blushed even harder under her gaze.

“Honestly, I don’t know, Ginny. Everything hurts. He’s not exactly gentle,” she muttered, rubbing her shoulder uncomfortably. “In the best way,” she added quickly. “It’s completely unfair.”

Ginny frowned. “What is?”

“That Draco Malfoy is basically everything a woman could possibly want in bed—and yet he’s Malfoy,” she tried to explain. “Why does he have to be like this?”

“You mean a sex god with the face of a Vogue cover model?” Ginny tilted her head, studying her. “What’s threatening your moral compass, Hermione?”

Hermione paused.

Had she enjoyed herself last night?

Yes. It had been the first sexual experience where she’d felt seen.

Draco had really looked at her. He had put her pleasure before his own—multiple times. It was like watching her come was more satisfying for him than getting off himself. He had been meticulous in a way that was almost terrifying.

Hermione had always had a fragile ego when it came to her femininity. She was considered brainy rather than sexy, invisible by conventional standards. She didn’t go to the hairdresser every week, didn’t wear designer clothes or lingerie, didn’t care if her underwear matched. She wore comfortable clothes to work. Rarely wore makeup. Only wore heels when absolutely necessary.

She never felt like she had to look a certain way—people only saw her intellect.

But Draco… Draco had wanted her.

In the way he touched her, commanded her, voiced her hidden thoughts—she knew he found her beautiful. Desirable.

It had been selfishly satisfying.

“I don’t know,” she said at last, realising she’d said that a lot lately. “I’m just not used to—”

“—having a man who takes pleasure in giving you pleasure?” Ginny finished for her, shifting in her seat. “Putting yourself and your needs first instead of everyone else’s?”

Hermione let her head fall onto the table, burying it in her arms with a groan. “Gin, I’m not used to any man who isn’t Ron,” she began. “And this… probably wasn’t the right way to start a new chapter in my sex life.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s crude, bossy, tireless, and I’m pretty sure he mocked me at least twice while he was—” she lowered her voice as Ginny slid her an enormous mug of coffee.

“Drink up, my friend,” Ginny grinned. “Because the premise of this story is fantastic, and I want every detail. Crude, bossy, tireless, and capable of making you lose count of your orgasms—do you mind if I take notes?”

*

It was 11:00 when he finally opened his eyes.

The familiar ache in his muscles made him smile as his pale lashes fluttered and the world came into focus.

Last night had been… interesting.

Definitely not planned, but extremely interesting.

Having Hermione Granger show up at his door in a too-short skirt, asking him to make her forget the outside world—that was an unexpected turn in his life.

Flirting with her, provoking her, watching her eyes go wild with exhaustion and curiosity—that was one thing.

Fucking her—four times in a row—was another.

He stretched lazily and reached for the spot on the bed where he knew Granger had fallen asleep.

They had slept together, and strangely, it didn’t bother him. Maybe because he’d known Hermione Granger for seventeen years. Like it or not, they’d shared a certain kind of intimacy since school.

In fact…

He wanted to wake her up by burying his head between those perfect thighs.

The sounds she made when she came had done something strange to his cock. It had almost exploded—and still didn’t want to settle down.

If she hadn’t begged him for mercy, Draco would’ve kept going until sunrise.

Bloody witch.

But when his hand found the empty space beside him, all those fantasies of making her moan in the morning light shattered.

Of course she’d left.

He expected nothing less from Hermione Granger. The most measured—and simultaneously impulsive—woman he’d ever met.

It didn’t bother him. Draco knew just showing up at his door had likely sparked a war between morality and curiosity in the good doctor’s head.

Hermione Granger overthought everything, acted the same way, and then overthought some more.

And this had been her first sexual experience that didn’t involve Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Which, Draco admitted, could’ve been quite the shock. Going from someone who probably wore socks in bed to him might be a little overwhelming—especially for a mind like Granger’s.

He sighed, rising from the bed and feeling an itch along his back.

A feral grin spread across his lips as he padded lazily toward his bathroom.

The black marble welcomed him in its luxurious embrace as he turned toward the wide mirror above the sink and checked his back, grinning even wider at the sight of long, red, jagged scratches.

The kitten had claws.

And he liked it. A lot.

He was going to spend the whole day walking around with those marks like they were medals—proof of a well-earned victory.

After all, he had managed to shut off Hermione Jean Granger’s massive brain.

They should study him for that alone—being the first man to drive the brightest witch of their age into total madness.

He headed to the shower to wash off the sweat and all the fluids Hermione had left on him. She had come so many times she’d soaked him to the soul.
A rather enticing thought.

He doubted one night would be enough.

He stepped under the hot water, letting it soothe his tense muscles and rinse the blood from his back. He cleaned the scratches but chose not to heal them with magic.
Afterwards, he pulled on the pants of his pajama set and, barefoot, made his way down to the kitchen.

Draco still had his house-elf, but he had grown more independent since discovering the coffee machine — easily the most useful Muggle invention he’d seen in the last five years.

Tik, his elf, would tidy the flat when Draco was out and leave meals ready for him unless he was dining out or at some appointment.

He’d grown up — the nonsense his father used to say had long faded from his mind — but he was still a spoiled only child, raised with a silver spoon in his mouth… strictly forged by Goblins.

He took the last few steps while checking his phone for missed messages and calls — first from his visit to his mother, then from his time with Hermione — and headed toward the kitchen island when something at his feet made his smile widen even more.

The kitten had forgotten something.

He bent down and picked up a small, torn piece of white lace.

In her escape, Hermione Granger — the most powerful witch he had ever met, as brilliant as she was beautiful — had forgotten her pretty knickers on the floor of his living room, not far from where they’d had their first round the night before.

He smirked.

That damn woman was practically begging for more. And he was far too polite not to oblige.

Chapter Text

That day, working was impossible.

She walked into the Janus Thickey Ward, as she often had since the trial phase of her research had begun.

She had grown familiar with the space, and with those who lived within it.

Sometimes it was harrowing—other times, when the results were positive, when someone who hadn’t spoken in years said her name or even just a word—it was exhilarating, a rush of pure adrenaline.

But that day, Hermione couldn’t focus.

She kept getting distracted by the mental image of moon-colored hair and a dizzying body—naked on top of her, beneath her, behind her.

Silver eyes, darkened by lust, staring up at her while he feasted between her soaking folds.

She lost herself in those thoughts whenever she was alone for even a moment.

She kept thinking about how she’d fallen asleep in the arms of her childhood bully—how quickly it had happened, as if that were the safest place in the world.

Of course, she’d fallen asleep because he’d destroyed her, not because she trusted him.

She bit a nail, nervously, as a nurse handed her a file.

“Room 3B, Granger. The Longbottoms are waiting.”

Hermione nodded, gave a faint smile, accepted the file with professional grace and turned to walk down the corridor.

Every step was measured, deliberate. Her Healer shoes clicked rhythmically against the polished floor.

She was trying to center herself. Trying not to let her mind spiral back to the reality that she’d had sex with Draco Malfoy.

The little Hermione Granger inside her head was judging her, horrified at the weakness.

But little Hermione Granger hadn’t spent the past ten years fantasizing about finally being satisfied—only to discover that the one man capable of delivering that satisfaction was that infuriating, pompous ferret with jelly in place of brain cells.

Inside her head, it was pure chaos.

“You’re insatiable, Granger. I’ll fuck you ‘til you pass out.”

Bastard, she thought, trying to chase away the echo of that raspy voice still ringing in her ears.

The same voice that had made her forget her name, her last name, and most definitely, her dignity the night before.

She didn’t even know how he still had a voice left.

She had clawed his back. Torn that ivory skin apart.

She—Hermione Granger—had done that. With her own nails.

Like some damned feral creature, starving and driven by her basest instincts.

She inhaled deeply, leaning against the wall of the empty corridor for just a second.

She needed control. Just a few seconds.

A single breath.

But as soon as she closed her eyes, she was there again.

His body over hers, his mouth whispering filth into her ear, his large hands gripping her ass as he lifted her like it was nothing.

And his tongue.

Merlin curse that tongue.

“Your pussy is gold. I want to lick your soul out of you.”

“Hermione?”

Padma’s voice made her jump.

She straightened at once, pretending to study the file she’d been holding for five minutes without reading a word, while trying to push out the image of those lust-blackened eyes.

If only she were any good at Occlumency.

“You okay?” her friend asked, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Want it so deep you’ll feel it in your throat? Just say the word, Granger.”

Hermione cleared her throat, a bit too high-pitched. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Padma studied her closely, then leaned in slightly.

“You’re anxious. Want something to help you sleep?”

“No, I’m fine, Padma. Really.”

Hermione gave her a warm, reassuring smile.

Or tried to, at least.

Padma didn’t look convinced. The former Ravenclaw was observing her like she was trying to read her mind.

Hermione had never been a good liar. Her face was too expressive; anyone could tell what she was thinking.

She was clearly panicking.

She sighed in relief when Padma let it go and allowed her to enter the Longbottoms’ room.

She froze on the threshold at the sight of Neville sitting on his mother’s bed.

Neville had changed a lot over the years. He was no longer the awkward, stammering boy she remembered.

The war had given him a quiet confidence, which blended perfectly with his natural kindness.

His blond hair was as unruly as ever, and a soft beard roughened his jaw.

His blue eyes followed his mother as she pointed at something he was holding in his hand.

Hermione smiled.

Finally, something to anchor her—to silence the sinful voice in her head.

She was here to work. To make a difference.

“Good morning,” she said, announcing herself as she closed the door, finally ready to take an actual look at the file she had yet to read.

Neville gave her a warm smile as he stood up, still holding his mother’s hands.

“Mum, say hi to Healer Granger,” he said gently.

The woman beamed at her with childlike joy and waved enthusiastically.

Hermione returned the smile, jotting something down in the file.

“Responsive to external stimuli…” she scribbled quickly with her ballpoint pen. “We’re making huge strides!”

Neville nodded. “Yeah, this morning she pointed at my parents’ wedding photo and said ‘Frank.’ First time I’ve ever heard her say it.”

His excitement made her smile even wider.

“I really don’t know how to thank you, Hermione.”

“Neville, don’t even say that. And especially not yet—we still don’t know how this will end.”

She gently scolded him, then moved toward his mother, guiding her back to the bed with care.

“Let’s do a checkup now. I’ll cast the cerebral stimulation spell, and in two hours we’ll see if there’s any progress before taking her to your dad for regeneration treatment.”

With a flick of her wand, she cast a diagnostic spell, then jotted down more notes, smiling as she did.

“There’s improvement. The part of her brain shut down by the Cruciatus seems to be reactivating. It’s just a flicker—not permanent yet—but the brain is beginning to process the stimuli.”

Neville nodded, watching the little lights blink in and out in front of him.

With another flick of her wand, Hermione cast the stimulation spell and murmured the complicated incantation over the woman’s head, whose eyelids fluttered as she gently closed her eyes.

When she was done, the woman fell asleep.

Hermione gently guided her to the bed and pulled the covers up around her.

Neville watched the whole scene carefully, just like he did every Saturday.

"How’s Hogwarts?" the woman asked, finishing up something on her clipboard.

“Hmm... let’s just say being on the professors’ side isn’t quite as idyllic as I thought,” he chuckled. “But I’m getting used to it.”

Hermione gave him a warm smile, appreciating the calm he always managed to bring — even while watching his parents struggle with brain damage that had robbed him of a normal life.

“I’ve got some first-years who must’ve made a pact with a banshee demon… I don’t remember ever being that much trouble.”

Hermione laughed, loudly. “Neville, in our first year, I did worse than just scream a little,” she smiled, a touch nostalgic.

“Oh, right.” He nodded with a grin. “What do you say we plan a proper reunion one of these weekends? It’s been a while since the old Gryffindor gang got together.”

“I’d love that! I’ll tell Harry and Ginny too!” she replied, excited.

“I’ll send you an owl with a date as soon as I’m back at the castle.”

With a smile still on her lips, she returned to work — pushing out of her mind, just for a moment, the memory of that damn Slytherin who had ruined her with his magical cock.

Only when she left the room, alone in the hallway, did her mind betray her again.

His hands gripping her hips tightly.

His hot breath against her ear.

His voice, ragged with want, whispering:

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like this. You’re even better than my fantasies.”

Hermione sighed.

And the worst part was… she hadn’t imagined it either.

But now, it was all she could think about.

All she wanted.

*

You little slut, you haven’t even had the decency to bring your ass over and tell me what the hell happened last night – though the screaming we heard was a bit of a clue. I’ll be expecting you for breakfast tomorrow. And no, you don’t get to say no.

– Theo.

Hermione shook her head, amused.

Of course, she’d expected Theo to reach out. He was the one who had pushed her, teased her, goaded her straight into the arms of his devilish best friend.

She still wondered why he hadn’t made a move himself—why he’d gone out of his way to throw her at Draco instead of trying for her himself. Once again, she found herself attempting to untangle Theo’s motives, getting lost in mental gymnastics far too convoluted for her taste. She’d never dealt with complicated male minds before—Harry and Ron were relatively easy to read. But Draco and Theo were in a league of their own.

They had more synapses firing than a pregnant woman on a hormone rampage, far too complicated to share the same biological wiring as Ron or Harry.

Not to mention Draco had confessed, multiple times last night, that he’d fantasized about shagging her since Hogwarts—which, considering how much he’d appeared to despise her back then, seemed absolutely insane.

Hermione could admit now that she had found Draco vaguely attractive during their school years. He was so different from the boys in her dorm: tall, refined, with that aristocratic posture and pale blond hair always plastered neatly to his head. He was always impeccably groomed, sharp even in his dry, cutting sense of humour—almost as sharp as his cheekbones. She’d found his tailored robes slightly attractive too, especially the way they hugged his legs during Quidditch matches.

She sighed.

Maybe she’d had the tiniest crush on that messed-up head of his. Like half the stupid girls at Hogwarts.

She reached the sage-green door just as the sun shyly tucked itself behind a cloud on that oddly quiet Saturday evening.

She bolted through the entrance like a lightning bolt, hoping to avoid Theo’s door entirely, and started climbing the stairs.

With each landing, she felt increasingly exhausted—and increasingly ashamed to admit her body was still utterly relaxed from whatever Draco Malfoy had done to it. She needed to lock herself in and forget all about the way she’d been fucked—like that—for the first and probably last time in her life.

She tied up her hair as she reached the final landing before her door and froze on the last three steps.

Draco Malfoy was sitting on the floor outside her flat.

His back was leaned against the wall opposite her door, legs bent, head lowered over what looked like a heavy legal textbook. He was flipping through it lazily, the expensive cover resting on his knees—knees covered by what looked like obscenely expensive, obscenely tight black jeans. A soft black sweater kept him warm in the mild hallway chill.

God, he’s so sexy. It’s unfair.

His hair was styled the usual way, that platinum fringe falling over his forehead. She couldn’t see his eyes from there, but she knew just how dark they turned when he was turned on.

He turned a page slowly, then lifted his silver gaze to hers, lips curling into a slanted smirk.

“Granger,” he said.

His voice was low, warm, sensual—like a siren’s song. It sent a shiver right through her.

“W-What are you doing here?” she asked, stammering as she climbed the final steps, watching him calmly close the book and slide a hand into his jeans pocket.

Whatever he pulled out, Hermione already knew she was doomed.

Draco stretched out his hand and dangled between his elegant fingers a microscopic scrap of white lace: her panties.

Even from that distance, she could see just how ruined they were from the night before.

“I thought you might want these back,” he said quietly, rising to his full—and very considerable—height. “You left them in my living room.”

Hermione blushed furiously and snatched them from his fingers, trying to ignore the way he grinned with increasing smugness.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, doing her best not to match Ginny’s hair colour.

Draco dusted off his designer jeans and looked her over slowly, from head to toe.

“You know, I always thought you brave Gryffindors didn’t shy away from awkward conversations,” he said, serenely. “And yet, I woke up alone this morning without even a note.”

Hermione bit her tongue as he stepped closer, towering over her.

“I had work,” she offered weakly, even to her own ears.

“Alright,” he said, stepping even closer. “Well, we can talk now, I suppose.”

“Uh…”

She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to lock herself in and drown in self-loathing over the fact that she’d fallen for Ginny’s dumb provocation and thrown herself at Draco like a desperate woman begging to be ruined.

And he had ruined her. Spectacularly.

“After the way you clawed up my back, Granger,” he said, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur, “you at least owe me a glass of wine, don’t you?”

Before she could respond, Draco snatched the key to her flat out of her hand and opened the door without so much as a word. Hermione watched him walk into her small apartment like he owned the place. He turned back toward her and, with a theatrical wave of his hand, gestured for her to follow him.

Into her home.

The audacity made her furious—and, for some absurd reason... aroused.

As she sighed and tilted her head back, following him inside, she couldn’t stop her eyes from sliding down to his jeans, which hugged his ass like sin.

Damn sexy bastard. It should be illegal to look like that and be that insufferable.

Draco stepped into her living room and waited for Hermione to shut the door behind her, tossing her bag toward the catchall by the entrance. He could hear her huffing and knew she was quietly laughing at herself for being played like this.

Don’t have casual sex—mind-blowing casual sex—with your infuriatingly hot neighbor. He’ll always find a way to haunt you, she mentally noted.

“Would you like to sit?” Hermione asked, forcing herself to sound polite, though discomfort was bubbling under her skin, and all she wanted was to bolt.

Draco smelled just as he always did, and her apartment was far too small to escape the heady mix of sex and cigarettes radiating off him. She’d fantasized about him since the day they met—but now that she’d actually slept with him, she couldn’t even look him in the eye without recalling how his irises turned black when he fucked her like he was trying to exorcise something.

He didn’t wait for an invitation and flopped onto her couch, legs spreading in a way that was both nonchalant and annoyingly confident. He gave her a subtle nod.

“White or red?” she asked again, twisting her hands together, desperate for any excuse to put some distance between them.

“Granger, you’re nervous again. I’ll take tea,” Draco laughed, watching her with a mocking grin. “I rattle you that much, huh?”

With an irritated growl, she marched off to the kitchen.

In hindsight, she should’ve known that getting close to that damn snake would lead her straight to the edge of a cliff.

The clatter from the kitchen only made Draco chuckle more. He stood, graceful as ever, and began taking in his surroundings. The space screamed Hermione Granger—from the brightly colored crochet throws on the sofa to the flowers, the scented incense, and the ridiculously large bookshelf bursting with books.

He walked over and bent down slightly to scan the titles, his long fingers brushing against a few spines before pulling out one: The Winter’s Tale.

He smiled.

Of course it was here. It was so obvious. He’d learned where her name came from back at Oxford, when one of the first Muggle girls he’d slept with had lent him the play.

It had been an oddly delightful experience—thinking about Hermione Granger while fucking someone else. Even more delightful had been reading the actual text and imagining that defiant witch as the heroine.

He smirked to himself—until a folded paper slipped out of the book and landed at his feet.

Raising an eyebrow, he bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it.

Have sex at a concert or club, loud music, hands everywhere.

Be taken against a wall, fully clothed.

Anal sex.

Sex in the rain, with all our clothes on.

BDSM.

Use a sex toy during a fancy dinner… without anyone noticing.

Draco’s eyes widened as he skimmed the list. It was the filthiest, most fascinating, and utterly unexpected thing he’d ever read.

Hermione’s handwriting had compiled what could only be described as her most hidden fantasies—the ones she hadn’t fulfilled, the ones she wanted to explore.

And the more he read, the tighter his pants felt.

Surprise sex at work.

Mirror sex. Watch everything.

Roleplay: he’s a strict teacher, I wear my Hogwarts uniform.

Sex in the bathroom while people are in the house.

Taken from behind while reading—and keep reading aloud.

Sex in water—maybe a pool or a spa.

Oral sex on a terrace with a view.

Let myself be dominated. Completely. No words. Just actions.

Under the influence of an aphrodisiac potion—don’t fight it.

The more he read, the more a wicked grin spread across his face. His imagination began running wild with scenarios. Each line was like a personal invitation.

Silently, he made his way to the kitchen.

She was preparing tea like she was at war with the kettle, slamming utensils and muttering under her breath. Her wild curls looked ready to bite someone, and she moved with the sharp, erratic energy of a woman on the verge of a meltdown.

Even in jeans, she was sinfully sexy—hair pulled into a messy ponytail, the V-neck of her jumper dipping just low enough to hint at the softness of her breasts.

To him, Hermione Granger was one of the most sensual women he’d ever seen. And after the night before, he knew she was one of the most passionate.

Maybe, just maybe, he could teach her how to truly let go.

“Mmm...” he murmured, holding up the paper again. “Anal sex, Granger? Didn’t peg you for a backdoor girl.”

She jumped like she’d been struck by lightning, spinning around as if she’d just seen a Boggart materialize behind her.

“Excuse me?”

Draco turned the paper toward her, completely unfazed. “It’s all here—along with your desire to be completely dominated. No escape. No talking. Just... gestures.” He tilted his head. “Oh, and the roleplay bit? I’d love to fuck you in your Hogwarts uniform. I think I’ve actually gotten off a few times imagining you in that little skirt.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’ve got quite the imagination for someone who’s only ever been missionary’d before me,” he added, clearly enjoying himself.

Hermione stormed over, snatched the paper from his hand and crumpled it, her cheeks flushed with what looked like a cocktail of embarrassment and fury.

Hermione stormed over with heavy steps and snatched the crumpled sheet from his hands, her cheeks flushed with what seemed like a mix of embarrassment and fury.

“You Slytherins really don’t know the meaning of legal privacy, do you?” she snapped.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, widening his smirk.

“Granger, we had sex last night. I went down on you at least six times, you fell asleep drooling on my chest, and now you're talking to me about privacy?”

“Don’t try to twist snooping through my things into anything other than sticking your nose where it doesn't belong.”

Draco tilted his head.

Hermione looked even hotter when she was angry—something he hadn’t thought possible. He leaned in slightly, just enough to give her a better view of his trademark smirk.

“It was something worth reading, honestly.”

“It was private!” she croaked, fists clenched. “You had no right—”

“What right didn’t I have?” he cut her off, taking a step forward. “Trying to figure out what goes through that pretty little brain of yours before it short-circuits? You showed up at my door last night and practically jumped me, and this morning I wake up—alone—not even a bloody note.” He shrugged mockingly. “I felt like a whore, you know? Seduced and abandoned.”

“Oh, give me a break!” Hermione all but screeched. “Now you know what it feels like to be fucked and left behind!”

“Ouch, that one stings,” Draco said, pressing a hand to his heart. “The little lioness is showing her claws. I like it.”

“Malfoy—”

“Oh, we’re back to Malfoy, are we? Funny, I’m pretty sure I heard you moaning my real name quite a few times last night.” He leaned in even closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Back to formalities, then?”

“You’re impossible,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head. “And last night was… satisfying, but—”

“Satisfying?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. Satisfying.” Absolutely unbelievable. “But clearly a mistake. One I won’t—”

Draco pressed a hand to her mouth, cutting her off mid-sentence. Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief at the sheer audacity of being silenced physically.

“Why don’t you shut up for once and listen to what I have to say?” he said with an authoritative tone. “Considering how rude you just were about my only satisfying performance, you owe me that much.”

She tried to speak again, but he shook his head. His usually smug expression was now deadly serious—and something told her not to challenge the man who’d made a career out of dissecting people's lies.

“Nod if you understand.”

And she did—her amber eyes sparking with rage.

“I’m going to help you work through every single item on that list,” he said with a wicked smile. “Every one of them. From anal sex to aphrodisiac potions—I’m making it all happen.”

Her eyes flew wide. “What?”

“You’re a smart girl, Granger. Don’t make me repeat myself.” He stepped forward; she instinctively stepped back. “I’ve dreamed of fucking you since Hogwarts. Third year, even. Did you know that?”

She shook her head.

“No? It was obvious, really. The moment you slapped me, you sparked an obsession I carried with me until last night.” His face was now so close, his breath brushed her lips. “You’ve always been one of my fantasies, and last night you gave me everything I ever wanted—served on a silver platter.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Now I want more.”

Hermione tried to push him away, stretching out an arm, but somehow her fingers curled into his sweater instead—without even realizing it.

“And if you’ve got a list of fantasies,” he whispered into her ear, licking the tender spot just beneath it, “I plan to fulfill them one by one. I like lists.”

His breath was hot against her skin. “How’s that for a proposal?”

“I…”

“Think about it, Granger,” he murmured. “You like fucking me. I like watching you come. Why not indulge each other?”

Her eyes locked onto his face—so close. That scent of tobacco and leather made her sway all over again, and the heat kept rising between her thighs.

He still wanted her.

As crazy as it sounded, Draco Malfoy still wanted her.

And maybe… he always had.

“Who says I enjoy fucking you?” she asked, trying not to sound as pathetic as she felt, melting like butter in the sun.

Draco licked her neck in one slow, deliberate motion. “You did, Granger. While you were begging me to fuck you harder,” he said, biting her skin, “while you came on my tongue, on my cock, and on my fingers.”

Hermione shivered.

Once again, she thought she should be offended by the way he spoke to her. Instead, her body arched into him, a moan slipping from her lips before she could stop it.

Draco slowly pushed her toward the wall, pinning her in place with one hand beside her head.

“It wasn’t just satisfying. I blew your mind, didn’t I?”

“You’re always so full of yourself,” Hermione muttered, leaning her head back against the wall.

Draco smirked. “I’m not full of myself, Granger. I speak in facts,” he replied. “One glance at the scratches on my back will give you a clear picture of just how much you enjoyed it.”

His lips were close now, his breath stirring the stray hairs on her face. He leaned in, his free hand sliding down to her waist.

“Think about it. We could have a lot of fun, you and I,” he murmured. “No strings attached. You just got out of a long relationship, and I’m not exactly boyfriend material.”

With a swift movement, he picked her up. Hermione instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the kitchen wall like she weighed nothing at all.

“Let’s just enjoy it,” he whispered, his hand splaying over her ass, stroking her with torturously slow confidence. “What do you say?”

Before she could answer, he kissed her.

The explosion was immediate—just like the realization that her plan to keep her distance from him had officially gone to hell.

One arm wrapped around his shoulders; her other hand tangled in his blond hair, pulling him closer as Draco’s tongue pushed into her mouth.

She parted her lips, letting his tongue brush against her palate and clash with hers in a hungry, desperate rhythm. She rocked her hips against his stomach, trying to soothe the heat building between her thighs.

It was obvious—he knew exactly how to turn her on.

Maybe she liked his filthy mouth. His confidence. His steady grip. The way he was completely comfortable with his body—and hers. He wasn’t awkward. He wasn’t ashamed. He didn’t hold back.

It both thrilled and terrified her.

How do you control a man like that?

He was devouring her lips with that maddeningly slow, precise, sensual rhythm that made her stomach clench and her underwear dampen all over again.

She rubbed against him, desperate for relief, while he held her firmly, gripping her ass with open hands.

“How about I check off the first item on that list by fucking you right here in the kitchen?” he murmured against her lips. “Call it a hands-on demonstration.”

Hermione looked at his face—his erection rubbing against her thigh, his lips red and glistening, his eyes dark with lust once more.

He was so goddamn beautiful, and he tasted like fire.

His voice was like a slow, venomous whisper—low, dragging, and dangerous. It made her tremble.

She was so fucking weak.

“Yes. Please…” she whispered, hating herself instantly.

Draco’s smile turned predatory as he leaned down again.

“As the lady commands…”