Chapter Text
Hermione managed to transport them to the flat without any Splinching.
Malfoy set her down gently on the sofa and wordlessly knelt before her, slipping the offending shoes off her feet.
She hissed as both of them looked at the blisters that reddened her heels and toes.
“Let’s get you some Murtlap,” he said, rising from the floor and stepping into the kitchen.
Hermione flexed her feet as she watched him open the cupboards to find the jar of healing potion. The flat was dimly lit, with only a single lamp on a side table illuminating the room and casting diffused shadows. To her surprise, the clock on the mantle read quarter past eleven.
“It’s later than I thought,” she commented as Malfoy returned with the jar. He glanced at the clock face as he lowered himself to his knees again, uncorking the lid of the Murtlap.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he remarked drolly as he swiped two fingers along the insides of the jar, gathering the last remaining bits of the salve.
Hermione let out a quiet laugh to cover her breathlessness, watching with interest as he brushed the essence over her blisters. The Murtlap eased the sting on her feet considerably. Grateful for the gesture, she couldn’t bring herself to be self-conscious about Malfoy having touched her feet.
“Thank you,” she said quietly as he set the empty jar on the side table. He was still kneeling before her, his hands braced on the cushions on either side of her thighs.
“Of course,” he said. “Did that help?”
Hermione swallowed. He was so close to her, his arms, his hands, his face. She was trapped on the sofa, and she found she didn’t really mind it.
“Oh, yes, immensely.” She darted her tongue out to wet her lips, and his eyes followed the motion. “And, thank you for dinner.”
He tore his eyes away from her mouth and met her gaze. “You’re welcome. I hope it wasn’t too excessive,” his low voice rumbled, a secret for her ears alone.
“It wasn’t. The restaurant was lovely.” It was her turn, then, to have her eyes drawn to the way his lips moved as he sucked his teeth.
She could feel every part of her body acutely aware of his; the proximity made her nervous, on edge, bracing for something, but she didn’t know what.
“So are you.”
The room seemed to still as the words left his mouth. Dust motes hovered in the lamplight like they were eavesdropping on the couple, and the soft ticking of the clock matched the rapid beating of her heart. Her breath hitched as she looked into his deep grey eyes, wondering if she’d heard him right.
“Granger, Salazar.” He blew out a breath, eyes dropping as his right hand lifted to stroke the satin along her waist. “I’ve told you once, but it bears repeating that you look beautiful.”
Hermione’s body erupted with gooseflesh even as warmth flooded her beneath the weight of his touch. She wanted so badly to lean into him, bury her face in his chest and just breathe in his smell until she suffocated. He was just being polite, surely. A gentleman was obligated to compliment the lady he took to dinner.
She couldn’t be bothered to wonder why she wanted to be near him so suddenly, because there wasn’t enough willpower left in her to refuse it.
Hesitantly, Hermione’s hands flattened against his lapels, smoothing their way up to his shoulders. His body was so warm. Should she compliment him back? Tell him how exquisite his robes were, or how gentlemanly his manners that they made her into a puddle after only an evening?
“Thank you,” she said for the third time since coming home, her voice shaking more than she’d have liked as she squeezed her thighs together.
Malfoy’s throat bobbed, his eyes bouncing from her eyes to her mouth in a vicious cycle.
“So,” he breathed. “Happy birthday.” His hand shifted to wrap further around her side, nearer the small of her back.
Hermione very nearly whimpered at the feeling of his large hand splayed across her, the tiniest bit of pressure keeping her close. She couldn’t help but note his decision to remain so nearby now that his salve excuse was spent.
“And happy three months,” he said a little bitterly. “Though that one’s come and gone by now, I suppose.”
A nervous laugh escaped her lips at the reminder. “It feels like yesterday.”
Had they really been married for three months already? For how vexing the experience had been, it felt like time had moved around her, not with her. She hadn’t been able to catch a break since it’d happened. She was just trying to live day to day, to keep her head above water.
Malfoy’s tongue ran along the side of his teeth as he stayed kneeled before her.
An interesting concept, she mused, to have Malfoy on his knees for anyone.
“Does it? To me, you’ve been a constant, dependable thorn in my side.” He said it without malice, and Hermione felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
Energy and magic buzzed under her skin as desire pooled warm in her gut.
They sat there for several excruciating heartbeats, neither moving. Hermione let her eyes wander around his features, unable to maintain eye contact with him for more than a second. She had to bite her tongue to keep her physical awareness above her navel, though the two halves of her body warred for control. It wouldn’t be wise to succumb to the frivolous demands of her pulsing core. This was only a vague dissuasion, however. Hermione clenched her thighs together again to quell the overwhelming ache.
Was there a reason that she needed to quash this? She thought there might have been, but she couldn’t bother with thinking hard enough to find it.
Malfoy’s eyelashes were longer than she’d realized. They fanned out against his brow bone as he looked up at her, growing fair and blond near the ends where they were almost invisible unless you were close enough to see.
His eyes. She hadn’t realized the depth in them. They were the coldest, iciest grey she’d ever seen, ringed by a silvery blue.
Malfoy shifted his jaw as the tip of his tongue wet his lower lip, drawing Hermione’s eyes down to the motion with a slight hitch of her breath. His lips were full, freshly moistened, and twitching as the corners of his mouth ticked up.
He was so ethereally, unfairly handsome that it almost made her upset. Every feature was well proportioned, he was ridiculously tall and fit, and he had the absolute audacity to be well kept and well dressed. She’d be a fool not to acknowledge that he was a catch physically. As far as Ministry-mandated husbands went, he might just be someone that she could stomach looking at for the rest of her life.
Her hands still rested over his collarbones, and the position felt suddenly awkward, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove them. Instead, she slowly swept her thumbs across the fabric over his broad shoulders, just to be able to do something with her hands. The muscle beneath her fingers shifted as he rolled his shoulders.
There was a tension hovering between them; Hermione couldn’t ignore it now.
She’d tried to pass it off as the wine, but she’d been tipsy enough in the past to know that this feeling was different. It felt like her magic was crackling out of her skin, seeking him, wanting desperately for him to reach out too and meet her in the middle.
Hermione could suddenly picture it vividly. Their faces would draw slowly together, urged on by the magnetic pull of their magic. Her hands would perfectly fit under the angle of his sharp jaw, like her palms were made to rest there. His nose would brush hers, and she would be able to smell the herby notes of his lingering aftershave right before he’d press his lips to hers.
It was unbearable. Hermione blinked rapidly as she came back to herself and remembered that Malfoy was still very much in front of her, and very much watching her face intently. An embarrassed, heady heat rushed to her cheeks as Malfoy’s gaze met hers once again.
She tried to figure out what he was thinking. He was still kneeling on the rug in front of her. He hadn’t yet pulled his hands from her waist, nor moved to stand.
Why on Earth was he just sitting there, kneeling close enough for her to feel his breath on her skin, and not doing anything about it?
Was he rethinking his proximity? Trying to come up with a polite way to withdraw after having gotten so awkwardly close to her?
The thought of him retreating sent a surprisingly terrified jolt through her. She didn’t want him to go anywhere. Merlin give her strength, she wanted to kiss him. So badly she wanted to kiss him. The realization was so strange that she almost ignored it, but before she could anticipate the potential consequences, the words had already slipped out.
“Are you going to stay there looking stupid, or are you going to bloody kiss me already?” Hermione meant for it to sound a bit bossier, attempting a nonchalant and comedic quip to spur him into action, but it came out far breathier and more desperate as her voice broke on the last words.
He froze. She could feel his chest stop expanding with breath under her hands as his eyes flicked between hers, as if trying to make sure he’d heard her correctly. Then he swallowed, tensing his jaw and making his Adam's apple bob in front of her. Their hands tightened on each other in unison, her fingers contracted involuntarily as she tried to keep him from leaving, and he was likely just twitching against her sides in surprise at her words.
Malfoy’s jaw tensed along with his hands, and he withdrew slightly as he looked her up and down. Hermione waited, buzzing with desire and what she desperately hoped wouldn’t devolve into humiliation.
Then he relaxed. His shoulders dropped.
Malfoy’s eyebrows knit together infinitesimally, and he released a short, tight laugh under his breath. “If you’d like.”
He removed a hand from her hip and drew her head towards him gently with a hand around the back of her neck, buried under her curls. Hermione’s hands held his shoulders as she shifted forward on the sofa cushion to be closer, parting her knees to make room for him. His thumb brushed her cheek with a barely there touch as his mouth softly met hers.
It was better than what she’d imagined minutes before.
Sparks buzzed under her skin as he kissed her, lips slotting and moulding against each other like they were made for it. He was slow and so gentle with her. Too gentle.
She wanted more.
Hermione kissed him back, harder, wanting to catalogue every part of the moment, every detail of his kiss that she had missed the first time. The way he cradled the back of her neck was directly reminiscent of their wedding day, but she had been too distracted to notice anything about him then.
Godric, his lips were soft and warm and wet. One of her hands found the nape of his neck, and her fingers began to card through the fine blond strands.
Malfoy’s lips parted with a shuddered sigh at her touch, and she didn’t hesitate to explore this new space with her tongue. She could taste the sugar from dessert, traces of the panna cotta he’d insisted she get to celebrate turning twenty-nine.
All thoughts of the dinner fled Hermione’s brain the instant that his mouth moved to her jaw, kissing beneath her ear and down her neck.
“Oh,” she keened, tilting her head back and digging her fingertips into his bicep.
“She likes that,” he said, voice deep with a note of humor. “Good to know.”
Hermione let out a strained laugh as he returned his attention to the love bite forming on her throat. She let him continue for as long as she could stand, but it was impossible to distract herself from the heady heat gathering low in her stomach.
“Come back here,” she panted, pulling his mouth from her neck with a pop and maneuvering his lips back to hers. She wanted him, Godric; he was everywhere, overwhelming her senses, and it still wasn’t enough.
He let her guide him back to her face as his hands fell to her sides, circling her waist and hips over the thin satin of her dress in a way that had her stomach tightening, sparks of want shooting down her legs and making her toes curl.
She opened her eyes as he pulled away with a deep groan, ready to pout or retreat in embarrassment as he withdrew. But he did not withdraw, instead rising from his knees and pivoting to sit on the sofa. He pulled her with him, moving her like a ragdoll, her, boneless with desperation, as she settled, straddling his thighs.
Hermione gasped, not necessarily at the sudden change in orientation, but at the distinct swell beneath the placket of his trousers that pressed against her core.
“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy groaned, pupils blowing wide, his hips instinctively rolling up to meet hers as he held her waist with his hands. Hermione swallowed a moan, making a strangled noise in her throat as her hands flew to his chest.
The fabric of her dress bunched and gathered around her hips, and the slit allowed a wider range of motion as she shifted closer to his warmth.
Their mouths met again, frantically kissing, tasting, licking, biting. She couldn’t get over his body, his smell, he was so warm under her hands. Too warm, she thought as she fumbled to divest him of his jacket and waistcoat.
Sweat beaded at Hermione’s nape and down her back as she rocked against him, their mouths never parting for more than a second to catch their breath.
How long had she wanted this? Hours, days, weeks? She didn’t think she could place the moment she had stopped seeing Malfoy as the bane of her existence, but she was certain he was quite the opposite, now.
“I want you,” she whispered in the space between their parted lips. Her hands tightened on the thin fabric of his shirt, having only managed to undo three of the buttons before giving up and cradling his jaw again.
“Sit up.” His eyes darkened with desire as he lifted her hips, encouraging her to support herself on her knees. She did so without protest, her core clenching as she threaded her fingers into the base of his scalp. It made his neck twitch with a shiver that reverberated throughout the length of his body.
The knowledge that she had done this to him had her stomach fluttering in pride.
She watched as his palms grazed the outsides of her thighs, slipping up beneath the fabric of her skirt.
“May I?” he asked gruffly as his movement paused. Hermione’s chest heaved.
“Please.” She tilted her pelvis to try and get closer to his hand.
Desire burned hot in her, swirling like wildfire and destroying every thought that wasn’t of him.
Malfoy released a breath, and one of his hands retreated, pressing at the small of her back as the other skillfully slid a finger under the edge of her knickers. She barely had time to register what was happening when she felt him at her entrance. Hermione gasped.
His head fell back onto the sofa, adam’s apple bared to her, and he groaned, looking up with hooded eyes. “Granger, you’re soaked.”
“Sorry,” was all she managed to squeak out before the finger migrated up. She felt his silent laugh vibrate from his chest against her own.
“Don’t be,” he said thickly as he applied firmer pressure in his touch. He certainly knew what he was doing, a singular brain cell told her, for him to have no hesitation between her legs.
Hermione’s mouth hung lax, panting into his shoulder as he worked her higher, alternating sweeps of his thumb across her heated skin as his third and fourth fingers curled up inside.
She tried to say something, anything, but it only came out as an unintelligible mewl.
“That’s it,” he groaned in response to her stifled grunt, her fingernails beginning to dig into his shoulder in her attempt to stay aloft, her knees pressed into the cushions.
Her thighs were burning in the effort to hover above his lap, swaying against his hand.
“Don’t–don’t stop anything, I’m–Merlin,” she choked out, feeling the crest approaching rapidly, heat flooding between her legs.
“Come on, Granger,” he whispered, mouthing at the juncture between her throat and jaw.
The added stimulation and relentless assault on her nerves shattered her. She came hard and fast, clenching around his fingers as every part of her mind zeroed in on the waves of pleasure that shook her body. He was saying something, repeating the same words, but she couldn’t make it out over the blood roaring in her ears.
Malfoy’s hand only retreated when her legs gave out, guiding her to sit again.
He kissed her again, slow and languid, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she relented and let him in.
Her breath was still choppy as she came down from her climax.
It was wonderful, she mused as she kissed from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, how one’s whole world could narrow into a single moment, one shared breath, two pounding hearts and wandering hands.
Malfoy’s pulse fluttered under her lips, and she could hear the raggedness of his breath, the tension lingering in the grip he had on her waist.
He was still hard beneath her, she felt as she settled shakily on his lap.
Hermione pulled back, letting her palms skim down his chest. His shirt was dreadfully wrinkled, and she realized with a furious blush, that she was likely actively making a mess on his trousers.
Her lips tingled from use; she hadn’t kissed anyone like that in… well, months at least. They were delightfully beestung, and her tongue darted out to redistribute some of their exchanged moisture, causing Malfoy’s breath to catch. He’d been studying her.
“Malfoy,” she said breathlessly, questioningly, fingertips brushing down his clothed abdomen and feeling the muscles beneath tense.
“Granger,” he answered, his fingers twitching at her sides.
Hermione bit her tingling lip and brushed her touch across the straining closure along the seam of his trousers. She was strung, worked up, and desperate to feel him inside her.
Malfoy’s relaxed slouch stiffened in an instant and he moved so quickly it startled her, grabbing her wrist in an unrelenting grip and pulling it away from his lap.
“Stop,” he said firmly, clearing the hoarseness in his throat.
Hermione leaned back in surprise, her hand still trapped in his.
“Wh–Why?” she stammered. Her foggy brain made a valiant attempt to clear the lust-filled haze and decipher why he was stopping her, heart thudding wildly with alarm.
She had thought he wanted her. He was turned on, there was absolutely no denying that, and interested to some degree, considering the dampness of her arousal that still coated his fingers.
How had she misread him so badly?
The distance between them was instantly awkward, and Hermione was all too aware of her still fluttering core pressed against his legs. She wasn’t sated, far from it, but she’d never force his affections.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Malfoy said, though it seemed an effort to get the words out, the apple of his throat dipped with a heavy swallow. “This is not what I–” He exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath that shook the rogue strands of platinum hair hanging damp across his brow. “Leave it. Please.”
Hermione didn’t hesitate to slide off his lap and straighten her dress as she stood in front of him on the sofa in embarrassed confusion.
How dare he? What was all of that then?
She looked down at him in irritation, a stark change in demeanor from minutes earlier when she’d been sighing into his mouth. The dim lamplight allowed her to take in his flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and… Godric, the obvious damp patch directly beneath where she’d just been sitting. Not to mention the very. prominent. bulge. What was he on about, pushing her away? Why didn’t he want her like that?
Hermione scoffed at him, hurt coloring her words despite how she tried to mask it with annoyance. “Oh, wonderful, what was all of this then? Some sort of stupid game to see how fast Hermione Granger can fold under pressure?” She swiped her shoes from the floor and dragged the back of her hand over her mouth, trying to rid herself of his taste and willing herself not to succumb to the feeling of humiliation.
She’d been a shameless, simpering idiot for him. He’d heard every pathetic noise she made as she came, and now that he’d seen it, he was done with her.
“What?” he panted as his brows knit in confusion at her anger. “No.”
“Then I don’t know what you want, Malfoy, but I won't have you making a fool of me,” she snapped as she stormed to her bedroom door, breathing through the sudden tightness in her chest.
She wouldn’t give him power over her like this.
It didn’t mean anything, she’d just wanted to get off, and he’d been there, a quick release and she’d move on.
Hermione hadn’t heard him get up from the sofa, too engrossed was she in waddling to her door. The combination of still sore feet and cold, uncomfortable dampness made her walk funny, something she decided she was not responsible for.
“Granger, what do you think I meant?” His warm hand wrapped firmly around her upper arm, tugging her back to where he now stood behind her, keeping her from her door.
She set her jaw, slowly lifting her eyes to his in annoyance. “I don’t even know, but I don’t care either way,” she said, stumbling gracelessly over her words. Stress tended to evoke that sort of reaction in her.
She wanted to slap the stupid look of dubiety off of his agonizingly handsome face.
“If you don’t want me, then don’t touch me,” she hissed as her eyes began to burn. “Now let go.”
Malfoy’s hand dropped the second her voice broke on the command, and Hermione wrenched her bedroom door open.
“Granger,” he said with exasperated desperation, his hand following her before it dropped to his side. “Don’t run away, I don’t understand what you–”
“It’s not ‘running’ if I was pushed,” She flung her shoes beside her bed and they landed in a graceless heap. They probably should’ve been handled more gently than that, but she didn’t care then.
Malfoy made an understanding scoff from behind her in the hall. “I wasn’t pushing you, Granger, I just needed you to know that you had no obligation to reciprocate. I obviously don’t know your preferences, so I– fuck,” he groaned, resting his forehead on the arm he braced against her doorframe.
She met his eyes and blew a sharp breath from her nose. “Explain.”
“I didn’t want you to get up.”
Hermione crossed her arms, not yet convinced. “You told me to stop.” She twinged with embarrassment as she ran through the memory. That was a sure way to make sure she was never confident intimately again.
“Believe me, that’s the last thing I wanted you to do, Granger.” Malfoy dropped his arm from the doorway with a tight, humorless laugh.
“You’re insufferable.”
“This is surprising to you?”
Hermione shuffled and tapped a foot impatiently. “Why did you stop me, then?”
Malfoy took a breath and looked towards the ceiling. Hermione used time to appraise his degree of dishevelment.
His shirt was partially unbuttoned and tugged halfway out of his waistband, hanging limp. Her eyes, though, were fixed on the new glimpse of a tattoo peeking from his left pectoral.
“I didn’t want to rush you. I realized… midway through, that perhaps I'd come on too strong too quickly. I had intended to take my time, and was already cocking it up so…”
“So you pumped the brakes,” she supplied. He scratched at his throat.
“Sure,” he agreed, not at all understanding the Muggle terminology.
This reassured her somewhat, to know that he had actually wanted to continue, and that he’d considered how fast he’d wanted things to go. Had she been the one to ruin his timeline then, by begging for more?
“Stop thinking about it so hard.” His voice interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry to have ruined your night,” he sighed with a tired blink, taking a miniscule step back.
“You didn’t,” she admitted. “It was… a good night. Dinner, and… the rest.” She glanced away, brushing her fingertips over her lips, still able to feel the memory of his tongue in her mouth. Merlin she’d be drenched in minutes if she didn’t wrangle her thoughts together. “So, thank you.”
“Anytime.” He promptly shut his eyes and pressed his lips together, likely wishing he could go back and rephrase his response.
Hermione surprised both of them by laughing. It felt good to ease the tension that had seeped between them. Perhaps they hadn’t lost all of their ground then. She needed space though, time and solitude to dissect what had happened tonight.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said as her laughter waned.
“Goodnight, Granger. Sleep well.” His shoulders visibly relaxed, and he raked a hand through his untidy hair. A real pity that the once immaculately gelled quiff had been debauched so.
“Sleep well,” she returned as she slowly closed the door between them, watching as Malfoy retreated to gather his discarded clothing from the sitting room floor.
The latch clicked softly into place, and Hermione pressed her forehead against the door.
There was no going back to the way things had been before, not when she knew how he tasted, how he felt under her hands.
Sure, they’d been intimate before, but that was in the Deluminator’s darkness. There was no touching there, no whispered praise, no desire.
Hermione swallowed thickly, distancing herself from the door and shedding her dress, wondering what she wouldn’t give to try that again properly.