Archive of Our Own

Olive branches are hardly ever shaped like a branch at all. 

Draco Malfoy, tall and proud, slid an alarmingly pink box with a matching ribbon on top of Hermione’s desk.

“For you, Granger,” he said, making excellent eye contact with her shoulder. His jaw was set like he was trying not to regurgitate something particularly acidic. “I hope you’ll find it useful.”

Her classmate-turned-reluctant-coworker in the Muggle Liaison Department swept out of her office as quickly as he’d entered it.

Fingers quick with curiosity, Hermione slid off the ribbon and lifted the lid. What laid nestled in the box left her in complete stupefaction.

A hot pink hand, smooth and made of silicone. At its base there was a suction cup, and printed neatly on the bottom of the lid was “Belladonna’s Magic Hand.”

She slammed the lid back down, head lashing to the door to make sure it was closed. 

What in Merlin’s name?

It had to be a mistake. Or a joke. Was it a joke? They didn’t have that kind of relationship. Even though it had improved over the past two years that he’d been forced to work in her department, she’d only just gotten used to his lack of sneering whenever she spoke up in meetings. 

Hermione glanced at the door once more and then lifted the lid like it contained an unbuckled copy of The Monster Book of Monsters. 

That is unequivocally a dildo.

Not a phallic one, but the hand was clearly posed for an act that made Hermione’s cheeks burn hot. Along the wrist, there were three buttons for different vibrational settings.

A prank. Certainly. 

Indignation and complete bafflement took turns whipping her from one predilection to the next: she could laugh. She could rage. The memory of Malfoy’s haunted, wary face kept her from doing either.

Discomfort propelled her to action. Snapping her jaw shut and straightening her shoulders, she dipped her wand in a J-shape, floating a yellow missive to land in front of her. Her quill hand shook.

Malfoy,

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond. Perhaps you can walk me through your thought process before I change my mind and file a complaint for harassment.

Regards,

Hermione Granger, Head Coordinator of the Muggle Liaison Office

Setting the quill back in its inkpot, another flick of her wand had the paper folding into an aeroplane and zooming out her door. She slumped in her chair and rolled her neck, wincing at the ever-present tension there.

Following the War, Malfoy had been quiet. His disdain for his job and everyone around him had sputtered out from scowls and haughty smiles to total neutrality in the short span of six months. Following that, he’d been resigned.

The Malfoy who declined countless invitations for post-work drinks and went out of his way to avoid working with Hermione directly would never make such a scandalous overture.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it. Hermione was swamped in research for a new personal project. In a cruel twist of fate, the subject was of a sexual nature, and the dildo on the corner of her desk proved to be a horrible distraction. She was supposed to be listing wizards that might be an ideal fit for her erotic audio broadcast, but the incongruence of Malfoy’s wary face and his absurd gift monopolised her thoughts instead. She’d barely managed to focus when there was an urgent knock at her door.

“Come in,” she called distractedly, looking down at the pitiable amount of work she’d accomplished in the past hour. Why had she included Cormac McLaggen’s name? All he was capable of during sex was grunting like a bicorn in heat.

“Granger.”

Focus shattered like a hot potion being poured into a cool beaker. She’d shoved the box to the left-most corner of her desk, where Malfoy’s eyes darted between it and her face. His cautious gaze was at odds with the lazy way he leaned against her door, one ankle crossed in front of the other.

“You requested my presence?”

There was a script for this sort of situation at the Ministry. It was intended for bribery, but she had practiced it in case of sexual harassment, too—memorised it her first week there, determined to feel equipped for whatever situation might befall her in a sinister political world.

“Why did you gift me this?” she asked instead, nudging the box in his direction with a poke of her wand. 

He scowled.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back,” he said, pushing off the wall to reach out for the box.

Hermione’s hand fell on top of it, holding him off. 

“I want to know why,” she said. Her curiosity was an entity within her, demanding answers, hungry to uncover the undoubtedly cruel intentions he thought to hide. 

Straightening the cuff of his dark blue Muggle suit—the prat had made fun of them for months before Harry convinced Theo who convinced Draco to toss his wizarding robes for something more modern—Malfoy shrugged.

“Your neck is always hurting,” he said. Like his concern was simple, a given.

Hermione’s hand had just been on its way to squeeze her neck for relief. She rerouted and brushed a curl from her vision instead. Had he been watching her so closely? She’d never said a word about it. 

“So you gave me this,” she said slowly, lifting the lid and sliding the dildo in his direction with an arched brow.

Malfoy paled as his eyes fell upon the brand name scrawled across the underside of the lid.

“Is that what’s convinced you this was harassment? Because of Bella? The thought had entered my mind but I didn’t want to assume—”

That wild urge to laugh could no longer be suppressed. It came out strangled and high-pitched; a foreign sound Hermione immediately wanted to distance herself from.

“I don’t care about that,” she said, clearing her throat with a hand on her sternum. “I want to know what you expect me to do with this.”

Nonplussed, Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed before he seemed to come back into his body. Drawing himself up with the ghost of an arrogant smile, he looked between her and the box.

“You of all people should understand what to do with the Muggle contraption, Granger. Do you need me to demonstrate how it works?”

It was like she was back in Eighth Year, passive-aggressively arguing with him about the proper way to flay a newt liver for their Draught of Peace when Slughorn paired them together. She’d won that particular round and had a feeling she’d win this one, too.

“Go on, then,” she said, urging him to lift it. She crossed her arms and sat back in her seat. 

Sharp eyes narrowed, he assessed Hermione’s face for any hint of mockery. She didn’t know what he found there, but his long fingers extracted the abomination from the box.

“The salesperson said you could stick it here,” he said, jamming the dildo onto the wall until its suctioned base held on with a scandalous slurp! “and turn on the vibrations for a massage.” 

Gesturing for her to stand, smugness radiated from his posture as he stood aside. She backed into the buzzing silicone hand, feeling its hot pink fingers jab into her deltoid. The effect was borderline uncomfortable but that didn’t matter. Hermione was too busy being emotionally knocked flat on her arse. Helplessly and totally bowled over by how charming she found him at this moment.

“That’s—quite nice, Malfoy,” she said. He frowned at the strangled quality in her tone. Neither of them knew what to make of her reaction.

Eventually, Malfoy’s shoulders inched up in a stiff shrug.

“It’s nothing,” he said. 

Somehow she knew if he found out what he’d really gifted her, he’d stop showing up for work. Move departments, possibly countries. Now that she knew it wasn’t a prank or something meant to embarrass her, the gesture was—well, it was lovely, wasn’t it? 

Malfoy paused at the door.

“We’ve worked together for two years now,” he said, voice quiet. “And I’ve never apologised.”

She hadn’t expected him to.

Torn between pointing out that he still technically hadn’t and reassuring him his changed behavior was enough, Hermione was left alone in her office once the door clicked shut behind him.

She was weighing the potential benefits against the certain humiliation of asking Seamus Finnegan if he might participate in her broadcast when Malfoy extended his next olive branch. It was a completely average bowl of French onion soup.

Hermione was sitting alone at a table in the canteen, frowning at her salad. She’d only eaten two bites and already knew she’d end up tossing it when a figure walked past her, halted, then returned a few moments later.

“Did that salad insult your kneazle?” Malfoy asked, drawing out a chair to sit across from her. “You look mortally offended.”

He pulled a container of soup from his sleek black bag with an air of nonchalance that belied his bouncing leg, transfiguring the pen in his pocket into an elegant metal spoon. 

“There’s not enough vinaigrette,” she mourned. 

Malfoy looked at her like she’d told him she enjoyed recreationally milking bubotubers.

“The greens are the best part,” he said, mouth twisted with disgust. “Salad doesn’t need vinaigrette to bog it down.”

An involuntary gasp escaped her.

“You’re taking the piss,” she said, wiping her chin with a napkin. “Greens are a vehicle for literally everything else. Nobody eats salad because it tastes like spinach.” 

Malfoy hesitated, then pushed his soup toward her.

“I can’t watch you waste that,” he said, snatching the picked-through salad from her grasp. She’d already eaten the tomatoes, croutons, and cucumbers.

“I’ve got my clementine, thank you,” she said, giving his soup a baleful look.

He lifted a brow in silent judgment.

“If it’s good enough for Narcissa Malfoy, surely you’ll find it to your standards?”

“What kind is it?” she asked, less leery of it than she probably ought to be.

“French onion,” he said. Then, digging into his bag once more, he pulled out a baguette that was still warm once it landed in Hermione’s hands. “The bread was made this morning but the soup is leftover from this weekend. Do you mind?”

She’d meant to answer but all she could do was stare with parted lips. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“I’ve perfected this recipe, Granger. Contrary to popular belief, I no longer live at the Manor and as such, I’ve been learning to cook.”

Hermione had never imagined Malfoy partaking of leftovers.

“Gods, some of the leaves are practically dripping,” he said, stabbing Hermione’s fork into the greenery. “Do me a favor, yeah? Next time we trade lunches, leave off the dressing.”

Despite his presumptuous declaration, Malfoy didn’t grace her table the next week. In fact, there wasn’t any discernible change in his behavior at all. Some small part of her had assumed that he’d sit next to her in meetings, take more of an initiative to chime in about her ideas, or, at the very least, make eye contact. The longer he continued to pretend he hadn’t gifted her a goddamn dildo, the angrier she grew.

Hermione liked patterns. She liked predictability and proved hypotheses. Draco Malfoy was supposed to be one of the blessed few uncomplicated people in her life: someone whose motivations she’d made peace with and understood. 

Then he’d gifted her something to fist herself with and nothing was the same.

“Your apology was abysmal,” she told him as soon as he stepped out of the Floo and into the Ministry Atrium on a sunny Wednesday. Her gaze made a reluctant trip over the neat press of his dark gray checked Muggle suit and the black turtleneck beneath it. When she made it to the slight lift at the corners of his lips, she knew her perusal hadn’t passed unnoticed.

“My apology?” he said, only glancing down at her briefly before moving forward. Away from her, in the direction of the lifts.

Hermione’s fingers curled into her palms. 

“The most valuable apology is changed behavior,” she said, hurrying after him. His long strides personally offended her. “If you truly sought my forgiveness, you would treat me like a person.”

He halted so suddenly that she nearly face-planted into his back.

“You don’t think I treat you like a person?” he asked, looking to the side.

Hearing the words come out of his mouth, they struck her as ridiculous. Petty. Hermione frowned.

“You don’t acknowledge me.” Merlin! That’s worse. “Have you still got a problem with who my parents are?”

Malfoy snorted, abruptly brought out of his stupor. He continued walking. 

“Don’t be asinine,” he said. “Do you think I’d still be working in our department if that was the case?”

“Oh,” she said, boosting her speed just enough to make it to the lifts before he did to press the button. “You haven’t been avoiding me?”

Malfoy’s penetrative gaze finally landed on hers. His brows drew together.

“Would it matter to you either way?”

Well she certainly couldn’t admit to it now, not when he stood there looking for the slightest hint of feeling.

“No,” she said as the grates creaked open and they both stepped inside. Grabbing hold of a handle before the compartment lurched, now she was the one avoiding eye contact. “It wouldn’t.”

They parted ways once they reached their floor without so much as a goodbye, but two hours later, a parchment aeroplane flew through the slot in her office door and came to rest just before her fingertips. She unfolded it.

What’s your favourite food? 

No sign-off, no explanation.

Hermione toyed with the idea of answering with something ridiculous like duck pâté en croûte. Let Draco fumble through the process of grinding meat and setting gelatin if he was so determined to earn forgiveness through food. 

In the end, though, she didn’t lie. Scribbling down the truth—spicy tuna sushi—Hermione sent it flying out the door.

Perhaps it was immature, but she took lunch in her office for the next two days. She wasn’t hiding from him, and she certainly wasn’t expecting him to seek her out. On the contrary, this was fine. Hermione enjoyed her cozy office with its lack of windows. Less drafty that way, wasn’t it? She peeled her clementines in a not-at-all-stuffy office and did not secretly wish for cross ventilation as she scanned the list in front of her. 

Oliver Wood had stopped by that morning to obtain her signature on renovations for a Quidditch pitch a few kilometers from a Muggle secondary school. She didn’t remember the particulars of their conversation because the whole time she was trying to discreetly determine whether or not he would be a good fit for her project.

They’d been on one date before, but that was so soon after she’d broken up with Ron and he’d split with Alicia Spinnet that it was more a dinner between friends. Besides, if memory served, he required little more than a quaffle in a wig for company.

And anyway, his voice wasn’t the problem. It was more his imagination that she was skeptical of, that she couldn’t picture him vocalizing with any great aplomb. 

A knock startled her from her thoughts.

“Granger,” Malfoy said, sweeping in like he owned the place. “Help me with this, would you?”

He handed her a deceptively small leather bag. There must have been an extension charm on it because when she reached inside, she pulled out a tray of beautifully plated sushi.

“What’s this?” she asked. One of those questions cloaked in a trench coat that was just why? three times stacked on top of each other.

“A hostile take-over,” he said, pulling out the chair across from her desk and taking a seat.

When she failed to respond, he levitated her mostly-untouched salad to his lap.

“Gods, you’re a sadist,” he said, taking a tortured bite of withered greens that she’d drenched in vinaigrette. 

“I maintain that you are the twisted one in this matter,” she said. “What unhinged declaration is next? Your favourite fruit being apricots?”

Malfoy blinked.

“A close second. It’s plums, actually.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, sushi forgotten.

“You’re provoking me,” she said.

His mouth broke into a broad grin, eyes crinkled and all. 

“Do you know what I appreciate about you, Granger?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and observing her with humour-lit eyes. “Your passion. That you react with the same degree of feeling when hearing I happen to favor plums as you do when something seriously inconvenient befalls you.”

His compliment reached inside her chest cavity and knocked about, turning entire organs upside-down.

“Nobody’s favourite fruit is a plum. I refuse to believe it.”

“What, you don’t think I’m capable of such deviant behavior?” 

“A plum, when peaches exist? No. You mock me.”

“I learned my lesson on that front years ago,” he said, a high flush painting a flattering contour across his cheekbones. Something electric and highly conductive existed in the space between them, setting off invisible sparks of alarm and intrigue. Malfoy nodded at the sushi. “Eat.”

What was happening? Was there any other way to interpret the spread before her than Malfoy attempting to correct his treatment of her with yet another non-apology?

Hermione reached for the roll that was clearly spicy tuna—her favourite—while Malfoy was elbow-deep into his leather bag. With a smirk, he pulled out a plum.

“Would you look at that?” he said smugly.

“You conjured it,” she said, Gamp’s First Law be damned. Popping the sushi into her mouth, she was about to continue her accusations when the flavour registered.

Malfoy must have seen it on her face because his smile dropped.

“What?” he asked. “Have you got a toothache?”

Covering her mouth with her hand, Hermione couldn’t control her facial contortions. There were indisputably bones still in the tuna, and the rice had formed a sticky paste on the roof of her mouth, robbing her of speech. Could she spit it into a napkin without him noticing?

Bad food had a magic all its own. It could slow down time, heighten every slide of slimy rice against the tongue; every sickening snap of bone between the teeth. Malfoy watched her suffer, unaware of the mighty battle being fought against the urge to retch. Only Hermione’s experience with Polyjuice potion was enough to turn the tide in her favor.

“Well,” she said once she’d finally swallowed, managing to keep her eye from twitching as she lifted her glass of water. “Thank you, Malfoy. That was very thoughtful of you.”

He frowned, his confusion so earnest she actually felt bad.

“You hated it,” he said, then narrowed his eyes. “How can you hate it? I followed the recipe exactly. Even Theo said it was delicious.”

She wouldn’t lie to him. They didn’t have a friendship she was desperate enough to maintain.

“You forgot to take out the bones,” she said, using the edge of her nail to dislodge one that had stuck between her teeth. “And the rice was overcooked.”

Malfoy was still looking at her like he was the one who’d been forced to eat that abomination. 

“Did you try it yourself?” she asked.

He scoffed. 

“Didn’t need to. I followed the instructions perfectly, Granger. Perhaps you’ve got an underdeveloped palate.”

Hermione was once again struck by the absurd desire to laugh.

“Cooking isn’t Potions,” she said, nudging the tray closer to him. “Give it a try. I’d love to see the sophistication of a developed palate at work.”

Without hesitation, Malfoy took a bite. 

And immediately spit it back out, decorum shot to hell.

“What the fuck?”

Hermione lost track of the number and shape of olive branches from there. There was the thoughtless offer she extended to take him for real sushi, the subsequent and more successful iterations of his homemade version, and the cementing of her role as his only honest critic in his quest to become a competent cook. 

They slipped into something like friendship quite by accident.

“He called it your honey pot.”

“You’re one to talk. The last witch you shagged called you your father’s name in the throes of orgasm.”

“That was confided to you under duress.” A pause. “Damn. Too much yeast?”

Hermione’s baguette crackled.

“Yes. I’ll owl you the other brand—I’ve heard it’s more forgiving.”

“I don’t need forgiving yeast, Granger. I need to hear that you ran to the nearest Floo after he called your cunt—”

“Unfortunately he had talented fingers.”

Malfoy sat with his face in his hands, silvery blonde hair uncharacteristically tousled from disbelief.

“I’ve heard worse, actually,” Hermione said, dipping the bread into her minestrone with the noodles he’d obtained from Italy. Her breath would smell like garlic now that he’d doubled the amount but it was worth it. “Pillow talk isn’t exactly a virtue many wizards possess.”

“Wizards specifically or men in general?”

The pitying look she gave him was all the answer he needed.

Malfoy balked, spearing a tomato with particular zeal.

“Based on experience,” he said with a lilt of skepticism.

“Mine and others’. I have a theory, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“It’s only been forty years since the invention of the clitoral location spell and despite the side-effect of it feeling like an ice cube is lodged between your labia majora—”

“My labia majora?”

“—it’s widely used. While it’s not a bucket of slugs on every witch’s arousal, I’ve never heard it described as pleasant. Anyway, my conjecture is this: wizards have become too reliant on the physical stimulation of the clit and their success at arousing a witch’s mind has fallen by the wayside.”

“That’s quite a claim, Granger.”

“I’m more qualified than most to make it.” Hermione leaned in, glancing around at the mostly empty tables around them. “You know how I feel about the draconian state of resources the Ministry offers for sexual health.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at her word choice.

“Is there a pamphlet of yours I’ve not memorised by now?”

“Your notes have been singular, Malfoy. Honestly, if you don’t want to be my editor—”

“Your pamphlets are bloody brilliant,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Get to the point.”

Hermione’s hands twisted beneath the table. It was an intimate thing, to share a product before it’s been finalised, but she supposed talking about their sex lives so openly was a sign she could tell him this, too.

“I’m in the process of creating a broadcast of sorts for magic folk who’d appreciate some auditory stimulation.”

“Auditory stimulation,” he repeated, sliding a silver ring up and down his finger. It caught on a knuckle.

“Immersive stories of the erotic variation,” she clarified, spooning another mouthful of the best minestrone she’d ever had the privilege of tasting. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find the right voice, and that’s not even taking into account the right mind.”

Malfoy’s back straightened like he’d caught sight of a golden snitch.

“Hang on, you’re scouting for talent that can tell a dirty story?”

“It’s more than a dirty story,” she insisted. “It’s the ability to paint a picture; to set the scene and make a witch wet without even touching her.”

Before he could interject, Hermione set down her spoon.

“His breath has got to feel like it’s caressing my neck,” she said, voice going deliberately throaty as she moved her hair aside to expose the line of tendon there. “I’ve got to know that he’s hard without being able to see him—to know it was me who made him that way even though it’s a general broadcast.”

The fork in Malfoy’s hand slipped through his fingers.

“Anyway,” she said over the clatter, “that’s how every witch should feel when she listens. It’s a more difficult task than you’d think.” 

Malfoy recovered with a slow grin. He took the napkin from his lap and folded it neatly against the side of his plate.

“Do you know the secret to a good Occlumens, Granger?”

Hermione considered it seriously. 

“An ability to compartmentalise?”

“That’s what you’d think, isn’t it? But no, the answer,” he said, pale grey eyes sparkling with mischief, "is a healthy imagination.”

Draco Malfoy had always been attractive, she supposed. But mostly, he’d been irrelevant. Even their growing friendship hadn’t enticed Hermione to look closer, to pay attention to the trim fit of his clothing or how the veins in his forearms flexed like tiny rivers whenever he rolled his sleeves.

She was looking now.

“Close your eyes,” he said, leaning forward onto the aforementioned forearms. Hermione did as she was told, begrudging anticipation rising up her spine. “I’d like to nudge your knees apart. Is that okay?”

It wasn’t like he’d dropped his voice an octave or added some gravel to his tone where there wasn’t any before. He just spoke softer; let the air in his lungs leave in a conscious gust. It made Hermione horribly aware of her posture.

“Er, yes, that’s fine,” she said.

The low rumble of a laugh made her scalp tingle and her cheeks hot. 

“This is a broadcast, Granger, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

She could have died. Hermione’s legs snapped shut forcefully enough that her knees knocked together. He couldn’t even reach her from where he sat across the table. What had she been thinking?

Every excuse that made it to the tip of her tongue withered away, leaving her mouth dry.

“That’s it,” Malfoy continued, the humour in his voice gone. In the most remote part of her brain, she’d imagined what it might be like to receive his attentions. They were blurry scenarios with even blurrier origins, but she expected that he might like to take charge, to establish the kind of power dynamics that left her at his mercy. 

Malfoy’s exhales grew more labored, like he was looking at something that stole his composure. He took his time, perusing at his leisure. She kept her eyes shut tight but couldn’t help what she saw in her mind: the subtle heave of his chest, the flex of his thumbs against her thighs. 

“Fuck,” he said. He obviously wasn’t smiling but inexplicably, Hermione knew he was pleased. “Wider, love. Want your cunt to take my tongue as deep as you can.”

Their table was tucked into the right corner of the canteen, but as Hermione’s entire body lit up with the blaze of his audacity, she wondered what they might look like. Her, with her hands knit together in her lap, knuckles white and face aflame. And him, ostensibly watching her with those brilliant grey eyes, cataloguing every time she shifted in her seat. She was glad they always cast a noise-canceling spell before their lunches, both of them preferring privacy. 

Hermione could admit to herself that she was wet. There was something silken to the intimacy of hearing him speak this quietly, something that made her feel terribly special. 

“Go ahead,” he was saying. “Drape those thighs around my shoulders.” 

Malfoy breathed in, long and slow. 

“Gods, look at you,” he said, exhaling in a gust, “your honeypot is glistening.”

It shouldn’t have taken Hermione literal seconds to gather herself and realise he was teasing. The whole exercise was a joke. 

For some reason she didn’t find it funny.

They stared at each other.

“An interesting approach,” she said.

Malfoy tilted his head to the side, and Hermione had the peculiar sensation she wasn’t doing as good a job of hiding her shock as she’d thought.

“Well,” he said, finally shrugging. “You’re the one with the honeypot kink. I was simply catering to my audience.”

He navigated them back to safe ground, where they spent the last ten minutes of their lunch debating the upside of hand-me-down wands.

“Don’t call them that. It’s an heirloom wand, not some ratty, stretched-out jumper.” he said.

Hermione slipped the last of the cutlery onto the conveyor belt that led to the kitchen and absentmindedly agreed with him.

“Come now, it’s not sporting to let me win so easily,” he said, opening the door for her as they made their way back to the lifts.

It was probably ill-advised. Malfoy was a friend—one she’d begun to depend upon and, surprisingly, one whose company she would be loathe to forfeit. 

But she also knew his mind. He was sharp, funny, with the kind of wit that inspired her creativity. 

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

“You were decent,” she said, clearing her throat. “Earlier.”

Malfoy held the grate open for her and stepped aside so she could enter the lift, curiously quiet.

“Was I?” he said, leaning heavily against the wall and planting his feet so as not to be jostled when the lift lurched backward.

How much to give away? That was the question she often returned to when it came to Malfoy. Something about him unraveled what she desperately tried to keep wound up.

“I admired how you jumped in with both feet,” she said, fingers aching from her grip on the lift handle. She would have continued if five other people from the Department of Magical Transportation hadn’t crowded in once the doors groaned open. Polite nods were exchanged all around and Hermione resisted tapping her foot impatiently. Brave words required momentum. 

“Would you be interested in contributing to the project I briefed you on, Malfoy?”

Five pairs of eyes glanced at her from the side, a feeble attempt at pretending to mind their own business. No matter. The only ones she focused on were Malfoy’s as he met her gaze from over the head of one particularly stout wizard. They were unreadable, of course.

The lift creaked as it jolted to the left and then plummeted down, floors whipping past in rapid flashes of light and people. He didn’t speak even when they came to a stop, the cheery ding! and an even-toned woman announcing that they’d made it to the floor the Muggle Liaison Office was on. 

Nudging her way past a witch with a lovely curved nose, Hermione trailed out of the lift behind Draco, then walked side by side with him until they reached the spot where they usually parted ways for their offices.

“Thank you for lunch, Malfoy,” she said, giving him a nod. She was quite pleased that she refrained from adding a salute. 

He grinned, rolling his eyes as he kept walking. In the wrong direction. Was he going to her office?

“After you,” he said, stopping at her door. Hermione accidentally dropped her wand when she reached to unlock it.

Malfoy followed her inside, his eyes on her as she rounded her desk. 

“A few questions before I agree to this,” he said, shutting the door with one hand and casting muffliato with the other. 

Hermione’s spine straightened.

“Of course,” she said, her pulse taking off in a mad dash.

Malfoy balanced his wand on the back of his knuckles, tilting his head in apparent fascination with the wood grain before he spoke.

“Or demands, more like,” he said, flicking his wrist to send the wand into the air. He caught it in the same hand, his eyes now on her. “Since I know you must be desperate if you’ve stooped to asking me for help.”

She wouldn’t agree, actually, but Hermione was more comfortable with him thinking he was her last resort than she was with the truth.

“Name them,” she said.

“First, you’ll call me Draco from now on. If you can stomach listening to me pretend to have sex, you can stomach my first name.”

It wasn’t what she expected, but Hermione’s shoulders relaxed.

“That’s fair,” she said. Twisting her fingers together, she added, “You’ll call me Hermione.”

Malfoy—Draco—nodded once.

“Now tell me what you expect of me, Hermione.”

Why, these demands were turning out to be quite reasonable! She’d already drawn up a contract for the voice talent, each bullet outlining what the job entailed and the sort of creative liberty to which they were entitled.

She reached into the filing cabinet behind her desk and withdrew one of the contracts.

“It’s all stated here,” she said, handing him the neatly printed parchment. Draco scanned it for a moment before shaking his head.

“You misunderstand. I’m asking what sort of scenario you expect from me, specifically.”

A distant relative of panic churned slightly in her stomach. 

“I’m not sure I follow,” she said, fingers twitching at her side. 

Draco pushed off from the door, gesturing for her to take a seat behind her desk, then sunk into the mahogany chair across from her.

“I want to know what sort of scenario you imagine I’ll choose,” he said. There was something undeniably feline to the manner in which he watched her that it reminded Hermione of the way Crookshanks would swish his tail when he eyed a mouse.

This was a challenge.

“Are you asking me to do your job for you?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Draco grinned.

“You tend to enjoy being caught off guard,” he said, tapping his wand against his thigh. Hermione’s eyes were drawn there, trapped by the unwilling realisation that it was admirable in its width and muscle. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

Her knuckles protested from how tightly she held her fingers beneath her desk. Drawing her shoulders back once more, Hermione lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.

“It’s my approval you crave, is it?” 

Checkmate. Draco Malfoy would rather take a broom to the groin than admit—

“Desperately,” he answered. 

She scanned his face for a hint of levity but all he did was swallow.

“Well,” she said, fascinated by the silver crescent cufflink on his wrist and not at all mortified by the way her voice cracked, “then you’ll make sure it’s a scenario you’ll enjoy, too.”

The office was quiet. She couldn’t look at him for a very good reason, which was that she didn’t want to.

“Alright,” Draco said. In her periphery, he straightened his chair. “Then one last request.”

Hermione busied herself by pretending to search for the phoenix quill she only used on special occasions as he spoke.

“You’ll tell me the truth about how my story made you feel once you’ve listened to it,” he said, leaning forward. “We’ll make an Unbreakable Vow.”

She laughed, but one look at his face told her this was no joke.

“What on earth would we need to do that for? That’s a serious bit of magic, Mal—Draco.” 

He stood and walked to her side of the desk, leaving little space between them.

“Do you plan on lying to me, Hermione?”

It was that voice again. She wanted to make fun of it, to make him feel ridiculous for trying to sound seductive, but that was the problem. It seemed natural, like he’d just rolled over in bed, still adorably groggy.

“No,” she said, but she wasn’t sure if that was true. It came out just as small and wobbly as her resolve.

“Then what’s the harm? It’s not an easy spell, but I think we can handle it, don’t you?” he said, shuffling closer.

Hermione could smell his cologne; expensive in a way she didn’t have words for. Perhaps a hint of tobacco and citrus? It was a stupid thing to focus on when his hand was outstretched in front of her, waiting to clasp with her own.

Mind racing, she attempted an appeal to logic.

“It’s rare magic for a reason, and you’d like to use it for something so—so ridiculous?”

“On the contrary, I’m taking this quite seriously.”

“You don’t say.”

Malfoy backed away, letting her breathe for what felt like the first time in minutes. 

“I’ve no interest in forcing you to do something you’re not comfortable with,” he said, beginning to pocket his wand. “But as I hope you can understand that I don’t trust your commitment to be honest with me, I withdraw myself from consideration.”

Hermione balked.

“For Godric’s sake,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him back. “There’s nothing quite like the Malfoy flair for the dramatic.”

He grinned. 

“Only rivaled by your own commitment to pedantry.”

His fingers tightened around the back of Hermione’s hand and he exhaled slowly, focus going soft as he spoke the incantation. Ropes of red magic wrapped themselves around their bound hands, giving off sparks that looked like they ought to light their clothes on fire. They coiled and twisted, tightening until Hermione would have sworn she could feel the burn against her wrist.

“Will you, Hermione Jean Granger, be honest about your reaction to the recording I submit to you and agree to answer any follow-up questions I might have with total transparency?”

As an individual ring of sparking red encircled their wrists, the reality of having to tell Draco Malfoy that he had managed to arouse her hit her full force, sending in a barrage of doubts.

“Hang on, why can’t we just use Veritaserum?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asked, straining to keep his focus channeled on the spell. When she didn’t protest further, he repeated the question slowly, carefully.

She’d be listening to an erotic story. A yarn spun specifically to elicit a reaction from her body. Statistically speaking, she’d have to be an anomaly if she wasn’t affected by it.

“I will,” she said.

A second fiery ring blazed into existence.

“Will you come to me as soon as you are able after listening to it to share your thoughts?” he asked.

A bead of sweat trickled down her sternum.

“I will,” she croaked.

The rope sparked brighter, burning blue before fading away completely. Hermione and Draco were left clutching onto each other, the afterglow branded on the back of their eyelids and the thrumming of a bond between them.

It was Saturday. Hermione’s fingernails were faintly yellow from peeling clementines and her hair was pulled into two separate but not entirely identical buns on the top of her head. Three books rested on her bed and her eyes jumped between them every few sentences or so, unable to concentrate.

It didn’t help matters that Draco had sent his submission to her via owl three days prior.

She wasn’t avoiding listening to it, exactly. It was more that she was very much avoiding listening to it. 

Yawning into her elbow, Hermione blew a curl out of her face only for it to fall in the exact same spot, tickling her nose. She was supposed to be focused on leading a sexual revolution, not avoiding eye contact with an inanimate object.  

In the meantime, Draco still met her every day for lunch. She advised him to use less salt in his mushroom risotto, introduced him to the many virtues of ginger. They discussed dirigible plums and planning meals according to which vegetables were in season and the peculiar experience of eating an under-ripe persimmon, but they never brought up the little black tape recorder that Hermione had lent him or that it was currently tucked in her nightstand, awaiting her review. 

It wasn’t like her to procrastinate. With a heaving sigh, Hermione gathered the books into haphazard stacks and tossed the withered clementine peels in the trash. She grabbed the tape recorder from the drawer, got into a comfortable seated position against her headboard, and pushed “play.”

No self-deprecating message awaited her. Immediately, the muffled sound of shuffling papers came through.

“We’ve only got a few moments before the bell, but I’ll remind you that while it may have been acceptable at Hogwarts to place your potions under stasis spells, this is University. I expect you to make time”—a bell rang in the distance— “in your schedules to tend to your Amortentia, lest it spoils. I’ll see you all on Monday.”

Somehow, the scraping of chairs and the low murmur of voices surrounded her. It wasn’t a real class but she found herself itching to know how her potion would have been faring. 

“Yes, that’s fine, Johnson. Leave it on my desk and I’ll take a look over the weekend.”

Hermione found herself imagining Malfoy as a Potions professor, leaning against his desk with one ankle crossed over the other, just as he tended to do when in his own office at the Ministry, conducting meetings that felt more like casual collaborations. He’d always excelled at Potions, so being a professor would suit him perfectly.

As the sound of footsteps and shuffling dwindled, Draco cleared his throat.

“Remind me of your name, Ms…?” A pause, in which Hermione did not think her own name. “Ah, yes. My new student. What can I do for you?” 

The classroom was quiet now, and she heard Malfoy set something down. A stack of parchment? The class attendance sheet?

“You’ve not brewed it before? Well, let’s take a look.”

Hermione recognized the expensive click of Draco’s dragonhide wingtip boots as he crossed the classroom. She startled herself with the knowledge that he never wore them with a suit; that he was probably wearing one of his fitted black jumpers. 

The slow roil of a bubbling cauldron grew louder and Hermione’s eyes shot open. She could have sworn she felt the steam wrapping around her face, frizzing her curls. Instead, she was sitting, entire body taut like she was expecting an attack in her bedroom. When he spoke, she forced her eyelids closed again.

“What can you tell me about pearl harvesting, Ms. Granger?”

Hermione’s lips parted. Had he misunderstood the assignment? He was supposed to keep it vague, applicable to anyone listening. Why had he said her name? 

He waited a few beats for an answer. She had one, of course. 

“Clams open naturally to a mermaid’s song, which is much less invasive than the Muggle method,” she murmured, as if saying it under her breath would negate how ridiculous it was to speak to an empty room. “Trauma is a sort of magic, too, and the less it taints the pearl, the more potent the potion will be. The only issue with this gentler method is finding a mermaid willing to do it for a reasonable price.”

“Ah, the mermaid method. Yes, it does have its complications, but I can tell you’ve been reading from The Modernne Brew,” Malfoy said, tutting faintly. “Would you believe his theory of trauma magic is incorrect?”

She scoffed, halfway through her retort before she remembered this wasn’t real.

“The Modernne Brew is a perfectly acceptable resource—”

“Its author suffered from the delusion that purity meant a pearl went untouched, unjostled,” he continued, pausing to breathe in. “But as you well know, that has nothing to do with it.”

Goosepimples erupted across Hermione’s arms.

“Look into your cauldron,” he said, his voice going softer. He was standing right over her shoulder. “Careful with that hair of yours. Here—I’ll hold it back. What do you see?” 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She thought of slender fingers and heat seeping through her back.

“It’s iridescent,” she breathed. “Or it ought to be.”

“And what do you smell?” he asked.

It was stupid, but she inhaled deeply. This time she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

He chuckled, a dark sound.

“Mm, perhaps it’s because I’m standing so close. Ask me to move, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione knew what Draco smelled like. That was an issue. An inconvenience. He smelled like tobacco, but not the smoky kind. It was earthy, rich, and tinged with citrus. 

Entirely too delectable.

“You can feel that, can you?” he asked, a smile in his voice. “I’d say that’s an excellent observation but you know what you’re doing, grinding that tight little arse against my cock.”

She shivered, and then:

The barely discernible sound of lips pressing against skin.

Shifting fabric.

A sharp inhale.

Hermione’s nipples pebbled. She was hot between her legs, her knickers growing wet as she sunk down into her blankets.

“Would you like to know what I smell, Ms. Granger?” he asked, more shifting fabric and the shuffle of shoes coming through. “Parchment and your leather bookbag with the extension charm you seem to think isn’t noticeable and—”

Other noises floated across the scene, filling the space around her. The rough drag of metal, like the teeth of a zipper separating, followed by the light sound of gathered slickness. Like fingers stroking through folds, she could almost feel it between her thighs. 

“—clementines,” he said. 

The sounds coming through the recorder were obscene and Hermione only wondered for a second how he was making them without an actual cunt on hand before she was pulled back into her body, hips beginning to rock against her pillow. When had she wedged it between her legs?

It kept happening as he murmured filthy encouragement in her ear, this division of attention. Part of her wanted to give in and the other part was watching from a distance, puzzling over Malfoy’s decision to actually describe her. 

She smelled of parchment.

She wore that leather bookbag to the Ministry every day.

Her hands always smelled of clementines.

But then he’d groan and she’d forget it all over again.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Too much?” he said.

“Gods, you look good bent over this desk.”

Hermione forced herself to stop moving against the pillow, clenching her cunt around nothing. Before she gave herself permission, her hand drifted across her breasts. She took one nipple between her fingers and pinched just enough for it to sting, letting out a gasp. She threw her head back in frustration, unwilling to take it further when she knew she’d probably have to admit it to Draco if she finished herself.

He ate her out—well, not her, but the idea of her—and the wet noises made her entire body want to melt.

“Yes, rock your hips,” he said, licking and sucking and groaning enough that Hermione could practically feel the vibrations against her clit. She gritted her teeth and sat on her hands, enduring what felt like pure torture. “That’s a good girl. Let me—show you—how this—cunt—ought to be worshipped.”

Pretense was a luxury she’d already signed away, so before Hermione Floo’d to Draco’s, she didn’t bother changing knickers. She stepped into a living room with high ceilings and saw Draco shoot off of a black leather chaise.

“Hermione,” he said. He looked disheveled for once in his life, wearing matching grey joggers and a pullover. His eyes darted to the side before returning to her face, cheeks pinkening. She followed the line of his gaze.

Cocks.

Cocks of every shape and size.

They were suctioned to the black and white tile of the fireplace, protruding from the wall like cursed, colourful taxidermy. One was a tentacle, suction cups neon green and likely venomous.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” Draco said, moving closer so as to eclipse her view of the dicks. Expression neutral, shoulders relaxed, he beckoned to her. “But do come in.”

He kept his back to the bizarre fireplace display as he tried leading her out of the sitting room, but Hermione had never been one to deny her curiosity. 

“That’s a lot of…personal massagers,” she said, planting her feet. Malfoy’s fingertips were outstretched, despair stark in his grey eyes as she brushed past him, facing the cock collection.

Turning back to see where Draco had frozen, his lips were pursed. 

“It is,” he finally said.

She ran a tentative finger over the rubber of one particularly girthy fellow, impressed by its flesh-like texture.

“They’re attached to your fireplace.” Another one of those trenchcoat questions. Why, why, why?

The urge to flick the tip of the long, curved dick closest to her proved too overwhelming. They watched it bob together in silence.

“I might’ve pulled a muscle in my back,” Draco said, gesturing to his spine.

“Ah.”

“I bought a Belladonna’s Magic Hand of my own but it wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped.”

His hand swept in the direction of the fireplace, accidentally slapping a veiny, rainbow cock. It spun like a lazy propeller.

“This is all research.”

Oh gods. Could he still not know?

“Most of them are penises,” she said, wincing at the clinical term.

“I won’t pretend to understand Muggle culture,” he said, reaching out to still the helicockter. 

Hermione peeled the tentacle off, struck by its relative floppiness. 

“What was it you were hoping to accomplish with this one?” she asked. 

Draco fixed his gaze on one of the many tasteful paintings on his walls, a near-perfect attempt at boredom.

“Wasn’t sure if the suction cups worked or not,” he said. “They nearly melted when I tried to enchant them.” 

If she could find him adorable in this circumstance, Hermione worried there might not be much hope for her. 

“Draco,” she said, softening her voice like she was speaking to a distressed pygmy puff. “These are dildos.”

His handsome face told her she might as well have been speaking Mermish: blank and innocent as the day he was born. 

“They’re sex toys,” she said, “meant to be penetrative.”

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Draco’s expression went through it all while his eyes stayed firmly on the flaccid tentacle in her hand.

“That’s not possible,” he said, coming full circle in the stages of grief. “I specifically asked for a massager. Something to release tension in my muscles.”

“Technically, these fit the bill.”

Draco sank both hands into his hair, walking away to pace. He was muttering under his breath, something repetitive like no, no, no, no, no.

He came to an abrupt halt before he’d made it ten paces.

“Fucking hell, Granger,” he said, turning to face her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.

“Would you believe I found it endearing?”

He pointed his bare feet toward her, eyes calculating as if a trap were woven into her words.

“I’d say I’m rarely so lucky,” he said, existential crisis stalled for the moment.

They stood ten feet from each other, Hermione’s back brushing against multiple erections. She’d come to his flat with a knot in her throat and somehow the past five minutes had detangled it. 

“I listened to your submission,” she said.

“Did you?”

“The duration was thirty-two minutes, seventeen seconds. From the amount of viscous bubbling I could hear in the background, it was clear the potion was ruined by the end,” she said, twisting the tentacle around her finger. “I didn’t like that.”

Draco took his time walking to her.

“I wondered if that might frustrate you.”

“It did. I was,” she said. Swallowed. “Frustrated, that is.”

Sunlight filtered through sheer white curtains, bathing the whole sitting room in the kind of lazy golden light Crookshanks practically worshipped. It fell across his chest like some godly sash.

“You weren’t supposed to make it so personal,” she said.

“I know.”

And then he was in front of her, too tall and intense to be anything but overwhelming.

“Tell me, Hermione. Did my voice wind you up?”

Her knickers clung to her uncomfortably.

“Yes,” she said, less begrudging than she’d meant to be.

“Who did you imagine touching you?” he asked. 

Hermione quelled a shiver. 

“A coworker,” she managed.

His laugh was rough as he slid a hand up the nape of her neck, fingers anchored in her hair.

“Bet he’s insufferable.”

“He is,” she said. “Except when he isn’t.”

Draco grinned, the sectumsempra scar on his bottom lip whitening.

“Though I’ve recently discovered he’s a bit depraved,” she added. Another sectumsempra scar bisected the eyebrow he lifted.

“Oh?”

“Yes. He gifted me something to fist myself with before he’d even taken me out to dinner.”

“What a knob.”

“He has several of those. An alarming amount, actually.”

“Talented fellow, then?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Each thought felt strapped to a Firebolt, racing through her head in anticipation as he closed the gap between them.

Soft lips. The gentle tug of teeth. Bumping noses. 

It was a heady give and take, two people learning the unmapped topography of what could be, what was becoming. Hermione wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck to pull herself flush, letting the tentacle drop to the ground. 

He hoisted her in the air, hands gripping her arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Oh,” she said, less out of pleasure and more because three different dicks dug into her back. When Draco intuitively shifted her to a more comfortable position she thought, wait, if he can divine my needs so easily—

His lips found her throat and her train of thought was obliterated by sensation. She existed solely at those points of contact between them, a neck to be kissed, a chin to be cradled. Hermione whimpered.

The quickest study, the most exceptional student, Draco charted a path of kisses up to her ear, seemingly guided by the anomalies in her breathing.

“Did you touch yourself, Hermione? When you were picturing me between your thighs?”

“No,” she said. Her stomach gave a violent lurch: a warning from the Vow. “I, er, there was a pillow…”

Hermione still had all her clothes on, but the Vow had stripped away the ability to lie to herself and she’d never felt more naked. 

“You pinched my nipples,” she said, “in my—how I imagined it.” It was a meager offering but Draco groaned, his hands squeezing her arse as if she’d said something much smoother. There was more she wanted to share, but it was too embarrassing. The one time she’d divulged her most desperate desires with Ron, he’d asked if he could do more research before committing to it, then never brought it up again.

“Gods, you can’t possibly know,” he panted, moving them to a wall with fewer protrusions, “what hearing you say that does to me.”

But she did. With every heave of her breasts, every squeeze of her thighs, she felt her effect on Draco. He’d grown hard beneath her and his hands shook when he touched her.

“The thought of you as my professor,” she said, cautiously embracing the smokiness of her voice. “I would have been your best student. I would be so good.”

His next kiss was almost punishing. 

“Granger,” he gasped. “Hermione.”

“I wanted to feel you against my back,” she spoke the words upon his lips, voice shaky as his hands. “Wanted you to push up my skirt and—and touch me.”

Draco groaned, supporting her completely with his arms as he pulled back and drove his clothed cock against her core. Delicious friction had her holding on tightly, fingers digging into his shoulders as more and more hair fell to his forehead with each thrust. 

“Have you got a bit of a teacher’s pet kink?” he panted, not letting up for a single moment.

A blush spread from her chest to her cheeks.

“I might,” she said, then gasped when something twisted dangerously behind her breastbone. “Yes! I mean yes.”

Hermione was rewarded with a smirk. 

“Didn’t need the Vow to tell me that,” he said. 

And he didn’t. At some point, she’d stopped explaining herself to him and he’d just learned.

The relief of finally being known coursed through her. If he didn’t get her to a horizontal surface soon, she would be tempted to weaponize a dildo.

“What else gets you off, Granger? Intellectual debate?” he asked, slowing down just as the tension inside her had begun to skyrocket. “Shall we argue about The Modernne Brew?”

She nearly growled. His first question couldn’t go unanswered: the Vow pressed against her insides.

“Yes,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, “at some point, I would enjoy that. But I’ve got—there’s other—I’m interested in being filled. Completely.”

Gods, she couldn’t look at him. Draco had ceased his slow torture, holding her perfectly sandwiched between the solid surfaces of his body and the wall as he breathed hard.

“You want me inside you?” he asked, a bit too disbelieving for someone who’d just been kissing her within an inch of her life. 

She nodded, face so hot she could make a cauldron boil.

“In my mouth, in my cunt,” she said, holding her breath, “everywhere.”

The veins of Draco’s neck were strained as his chest heaved up and down.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck.”

The next second she was standing on her own and he’d taken two great paces back.

“Take your pick,” he said, waving one hand at the fireplace while he adjusted himself with the other. “You said they’re toys, right? Choose which ones you want me to fuck you with.”

Hermione’s knees were wobbly. She pressed her palms against the wall for support, almost painfully aroused.

“You’re okay with it?” she asked. “You…want to?”

Draco palmed his erection, its large outline drawing Hermione’s gaze. When she looked back up, it wasn’t a smirk she saw: it was need, stark and urgent as her own.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Whatever you ask, Hermione, the answer is yes.”

She didn’t waste time.

Grabbing the thick-veined rainbow dildo and one that was thinner, she held them out. Draco unpocketed his wand and floated them to his bedroom, then picked her up by the thighs and hauled her over his shoulder.

Hermione let out a startled laugh.

“Draco!”

He walked them to the edge of his massive bed and laid her down gently, hand lingering on her bottom.

“I might’ve failed to mention it,” he said, standing above her and thumbing his lip, “but you’ve got a fantastic arse.”

She sat up on her elbows, biting her inner cheek. 

“You’re one to talk. I’ve seen you in a Quidditch uniform.”

“Another kink?”

She collapsed back on the bed, lifting her hips so Draco could remove her jeans.

“Yes,” she said, throwing a hand over her eyes. If Ron and Harry found out, she’d never have an excuse to miss another match again.

“Merlin fuck, Granger,” Draco said, tossing her pants to the side. “You’re my favourite person.”

Her knickers were red. Nothing too fancy. She hadn’t shaved in a few days and there was a snitch-sized bruise on her thigh from bumping into her desk. When she sat up and discarded her shirt, exposing it all, Draco’s hands flexed at his sides. 

He wanted her.

“Come here,” she said.

He set his wand on the mattress and took off his joggers. Hermione slipped his shirt over his head when he kneeled on the bed, her fingers brushing the smooth skin of his pectorals.

His chest was broad, a canvas of silky scars, and his nipples were flat, dark pink. Hermione leaned forward and swirled her tongue around one of them.

“Shit,” he breathed. 

Draco’s hand bunched at the back of her bra, working the clasp free while she switched nipples, laving the other with attention. The tip of his cock glistened from the waistband of his boxers and Hermione wanted to free it completely.

“Hermione,” he groaned, reaching for his wand to vanish them. They disappeared, along with her knickers, displaying the evidence of Draco’s arousal as he knelt before her.

“It’s perfect,” she said, soothing her palm up his thick length. Having slept with enough men to know that monster dicks weren’t as much fun as they were rumoured to be, Hermione meant every word. It was exactly the right size for her pleasure. “So smooth.”

A choked sound escaped his throat.

“Fuck,” he said, palming her breasts. “Didn’t think I could get any harder.”

The ache in Hermione sharpened, an emptiness she’d never quite managed to fill. She followed her instincts, licking over his length before taking him fully in her mouth. 

They both groaned when his cockhead hit the back of her throat. She slid up and down, relaxing her muscles and letting herself take him as deep as she’d been craving, over and over again.

“Granger,” Draco said tightly. “The rest of you needs to be filled, doesn’t it?”

She moaned around him, picking up the pace in answer. She wanted the synergy of giving and taking so badly she could cry.

Of course he chose that moment to pull away. 

“Turn around,” he said, guiding her hips. “Face the wall on your knees.”

Pushed closer to the headboard, Hermione obeyed, legs sliding against the luxurious white sheets. A rainbow streaked from the nightstand to Draco’s waiting hand behind her, and then his whole body was warm against her back. Fingers grasped her jaw.

“Open up, love.”

She opened her mouth and he slid the dildo between her lips. Draco held her so tight she felt his arousal press against her arse. 

Hermione moaned.

Draco’s chuckle was dark, amused. 

“Greedy witch,” he said, watching the dildo emerge wet and glistening from her mouth before he pushed it so far in that the tips of his fingers touched her lips. “Is there anything this mouth of yours can’t do?”

Letting go of her chin, he charmed the dildo to keep pace and pressed his hand to her back.

“On your hands,” he instructed.

Currents of electricity sparked and danced across her nerves. It felt the same as untrained magic, the kind that had flowed through her before she’d learned to control it with a wand.

Draco’s fingers cupped her center, giving it a possessive squeeze. 

“Do you need me inside you?” 

She moaned around the dildo, arching her back to give him easier access. Lining himself up, Draco’s cock bottomed out inside her without resistance. They both cursed.

“Shit,” he hissed, drawing out slowly and thrusting in time with the dildo. “How can you be real?”

The pads of his fingers dug into her arse as he rocked into her, thumbs spreading her cheeks. Something like suspense made her teeth clench.

Reaching around to gather moisture from her slit, Draco’s finger prodded gently at her arse. Hermione cried out around the dildo, pushing her hips back for more.

“You going to be good for me, Hermione?” he asked, his pace slowing just slightly. Whimpering, she couldn’t see him when he cast the lubrication charm, but she knew from the warmth flooding her arse. A lemony smell accompanied it: he’d cleansed her, too.

A moment later, his finger was back at her rear entrance, tracing slick circles.

“We’ll go slow, yeah?” he said, barely pressing inside. The sensation was at once too much and not enough. Draco’s cock and the dildo were bottoming out at the same time, expelling the air from her lungs and so, so close to being enough.

Craving complete fullness, she pushed back against his finger until he was knuckle-deep, the coolness of his ring against her hot skin enough to make her cunt spasm. Her busy brain was so overwhelmed with sensation that she didn’t have time for shame. For once, this body of hers wasn’t an extension of her intellect. It just was.

At his mercy, everything seemed to build inside her, like waves that froze as soon as they touched the sand, stacking on top of each other. 

He carefully added another finger and Hermione stretched around him, crying out as she was taken by the undertow of orgasm. It turned everything upside-down, wrung her out completely. 

“So good, Hermione,” he panted, thrusting as she fluttered around his cock. “Look at you taking everything so well. Couldn’t be—more gorgeous—if you tried.”

All of it felt so good, so wicked. She was filled to the brim, taking each thrust of his fingers, his cock, and the dildo with deep breaths through her nose. Draco’s pace began to stutter.

“Fuck, fuck!” 

Slamming her hips down to meet his and letting go of the dildo with a pop, Hermione dropped to her chest as he pulled out his finger and his cock, splaying her arms in front of her. Draco painted her back with his come.

“Gods,” he said hoarsely, giving her arse an affectionate slap. “You have to be good at everything, don’t you?”

Hermione beamed at him from over her shoulder.

Teacher’s pet, indeed.

She shifted her legs to get off the bed, but he shook his head.

“We’re not finished yet,” Draco said, grabbing her by the ankle to stop her progress while simultaneously vanishing the mess he’d made. 

Hermione laughed disbelievingly, the sound catching in her throat as he rearranged her on her hands and knees again.

“My arms are shaking,” she growled.

“Courage, Granger. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Huffing to blow a curl from her eyes, Hermione settled back onto all fours, excited despite her feigned reticence.

“Your freckles make a constellation just here,” he said, kissing high on the back of her thigh. She looked back to find him squinting. “Looks like a plum.”

Her laugh was muffled by the sheets as she let her arms collapse beneath her.

“Has anybody ever kissed you here, Hermione?” he asked, softly brushing his nose along her arse. 

She shook her head, self-consciousness creeping in.

“Mm,” he said, pressing on her lower back so her arse would lift. “That’s a shame.”

Indignation rose up, an old safeguard against this man who used to be a pointy little boy with shitty opinions.

His tongue delved into the folds of her cunt but she clung to concentration.

“Has anybody kissed you there?” she asked.

He nodded, his aquiline nose bumping against her and sending tingles all the way to her scalp.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t know it was a good time.”

The gravel in his voice curled her toes. Fingers grasping his hawthorne wand from where he’d tossed it, Hermione cleared her throat, using her swottiest tone while looking back at him.

“Lift your arse, Draco.”

He nipped and licked a maddening circle around her core, avoiding her clit while his eyes narrowed.

“What have you got planned?” he asked, pausing his methodic rhythm to pull away from her center.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” she said, casting all the preparatory spells, plus one more before she returned the wand. He groaned.

“You’re going to kill me, Granger.” he said, following her order anyway. In an impressive show of control, Hermione levitated the longer, thinner dildo to his opening. Draco’s entire body shivered when it made contact, his fingers digging into her thighs. He set his mouth into her cunt with the pace of a man possessed.

Pressure built at the base of her spine. Her thighs shook. When she looked back at Draco and saw his hips rocking frantically as the dildo—spelled to be whatever size was needed to best prepare him for full penetration—pressed into his arse incrementally. She couldn’t see how big it was but Draco’s desperation gave her a good idea.

He lost patience quickly. With the dildo still pounding into his arse, he gave hers a stinging slap. Every inch of Hermione jolted pleasantly.

“Fuck, you’re so ready for me,” he groaned, dipping his tongue inside her arse. It was a different sensation than his fingers, hot and wet. She writhed against his face, grasping a pillow and jamming it beneath her hips. The extra support allowed her elbows to rest, but it also pressed deliciously against her clit.

“Draco,” she panted. “Please.”

“One more,” he grunted, holding to that maddening pace. “Just give me one more, love.”

It was a bit like Transfiguration, wasn’t it? One moment, she was a human clenching sheets of a preposterous thread count, and the next she was floating, a mote of dust caught in a sunbeam. Everything was light.

“Hermione,” Draco said. The brush of his tongue grew erratic as he climaxed, hot come spilling across the backs of her thighs. 

They both collapsed, Draco vanishing the mess they’d made before pulling her close. Hermione slowly returned to her body: first to her heart, with its wild beating in her temples, and then to her hands. They twined together with Draco’s.

“You know,” he said after a comfortable silence during which Hermione imagined herself as a tiny skier on the slope of his nose, “that was by far the most elaborate plan a witch has ever concocted to bed me. I’m feeling properly pursued, Granger.”

She cracked his thumb, a trick Ginny had taught her to keep Ron in line. Draco yelped. 

“When I asked you to help me with the broadcast?” she asked. “Which you didn’t technically do?”

He sat up on his elbow, jaw resting in his palm as he considered her. 

“Do you really think I’d be brazen enough not to do my homework for Ms. Granger?”

She reached up and smoothed a thumb over his scarred eyebrow, liking that scenario more than she dared admit. 

“Brazen? You gifted your coworker a dildo.” It was, apparently, close enough to an answer that the Vow only twinged slightly.

“I did accomplish what you asked me to, you know. Just used a bit of spellwork to assure the listener would hear me say the name they most desired.” 

“A bit of spellwork,” she repeated dubiously. 

He squeezed her side. 

“It’s more complicated than that but yes, I documented the whole process and it’s already sitting on your desk at the Ministry. For now,” he said, reaching over to yank out the loosely tied buns in her hair, “let me bask in the glow of one third of the Golden Trio.”

Hermione fluffed her curls to their full lion’s mane potential. “Go on, make your quips.”

But Draco was staring down at her with his lips parted, brows drawn together like her suggestion was ridiculous. His hand went to her hair, unable to run through it for all its tangles but he sunk his fingers to her scalp anyway.

“I’ve always fixated on it, haven’t I?” he said, kneading gently at the bottom of her skull. The negligible tension that had built up from his attention on her hair melted away. “Imagine using a time-turner to tell my First Year self that one day I’d be able to admit how beautiful I find it. The little shit’s head would explode.”

She hummed in amusement, eyes drifting closed as she savoured his tenderness.

“One last question,” he said, shifting closer so his lips moved against her forehead, “and I’ll consider the terms of our Vow fulfilled.”

She gave a hoarse laugh.

“Alright.”

“I’m not known for my luck in gambling, but what are the odds, Granger? You think I could make you happy?”

There hadn’t been much thinking between pressing play and Flooing to his flat, but the insinuation that this was more than sex didn’t strike her as odd. It was as natural as following one of his recipes, one step blending into the next.

“You want to?” she asked.

He scoffed. “Don’t be daft.”

Hermione spluttered a laugh.

“I’m not! You’ve never mentioned a word about seeing me that way.”

“Merlin, I forgot how literal Gryffindors can be. What did you think the lunches were?”

“An olive branch?” she said, exasperated, “Or, I don’t know, lunch?”

She could practically feel him rolling his eyes.

“That’s courting, Granger. Read a book.”

She would have laughed but a twinge in her neck had her gasping as his fingers wandered, kneading at the source of her tension.

“Sore?” he asked.

Hermione grimaced.

“Belladonna’s Magic Hand hasn’t been much help, if you can believe it.”

Sitting up, Draco encouraged her to roll over. The sheets rustled and the night was quiet as she complied. Peaceful.

“Right here?” he asked, pressing hard with his thumb. Her muscles screamed in protest but it was exactly what she needed. 

Draco kissed her shoulder blade, moved her hair to the side. 

His thumb demanded the knot at the base of her neck to relinquish its grasp on her. She’d spent her whole life poring over books, hunched for hours without realising it. The pain had become a fact of life, something she carried with her: just another sacrifice for being who she was, who she couldn’t help being. It was all tightly bound, but Draco seemed to have found a thread and pulled.

“Ugh,” she said. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Was that your answer?” he asked smugly.

Hermione snorted into her pillow, reaching back weakly to swat at him.

The Vow was quiet inside her, no longer demanding honesty with its brief, agonising twists. When she spoke, Hermione’s courage was her own.

“Yes, you monumental prat,” she said. “My answer is yes.”