Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was about to faint. He'd never fainted once in his life—the only time he’d briefly succumbed to unconsciousness was when he was viciously attacked by that oversized bird and almost lost an arm—but by his own standards, he'd never fainted. Yet here he was, the ripe age of twenty-two, and was sure his heart was ready to give out.
Even a lifetime of pureblood composure had its limits. A first date with Hermione Granger, it turned out, was one of them.
He knocked twice on her maroon door, ever the Gryffindor, he supposed, and immediately questioned whether twice was right. According to pureblood courting standards, once was too sparse, three times was impatient, and now, standing on her stoop in Islington, he was debating the entirety of door-knocking etiquette, which was not how he'd wanted this evening to begin.
Salazar, get yourself together.
The bouquet he’d spent hours agonizing over was in his left hand: pink peonies, hyacinths, camellias, jasmine, and one red tulip wrapped in brown paper, with the stems cut at the perfect angle. He'd wrapped them himself, and was proud of how they'd turned out—no thanks to the florist who’d offered cellophane and light blue hyacinths instead of the white he’d specifically requested. He'd remedied this with a very thorough one-way discussion on floriography and why he needed white, ”w-h-i-t-e”, hyacinths, not blue. The florist had gone very quiet and very polite, which at the Manor meant furious, so he'd taken the bouquet and left before either of them could escalate.
But they needed to be perfect. Tonight needed to be perfect.
His Aston Martin sat at the curb behind him, midnight blue, the one Theo encouraged him to buy, which really was just a convenient story because he'd wanted it from the moment he saw it.
He'd driven it here at a speed that should have concerned him in retrospect—both hands locked on the wheel, mirrors checked obsessively, the car handling beautifully while its owner catastrophized in complete silence—because Hermione Granger in his passenger seat had dismantled whatever part of his brain normally managed confident motoring, and she wasn't even in the car yet. She wasn't even at the door yet.
He could hear footsteps inside and his grip on the bouquet had tightened, slightly squeezing the life out of the stems. He'd been taught from the age of six that fidgeting was beneath him—a Malfoy kept his composure, always, without exception—and yet here he was, white-knuckling a bunch of flowers because of one witch. But gods, she was the witch.
He knew exactly when he'd felt it too. Two months ago in the UCL library, which, looking back, shouldn't have surprised him at all.
"Malfoy?" The last voice he'd expected to hear at a muggle university.
"Granger." He looked at the curly-haired witch, who had surrounded herself with textbooks three piles deep, though it was only the first week of school.
"W-what are you doing here?"
"I'm a student here. General medicine. You?"
"Neuropsychology," she said, and went straight back to her page.
He was very used to a silent dismissal after living with Lucius Malfoy all his life, but there was something about the way she chewed on the back of her pen that kept him rooted in place.
After a few moments, she lifted her eyes back to his. "Well, sit down if you're going to hover."
The library had become coffee, coffee had become studying together three times a week, and somewhere along the way she'd started saving him a seat in their lab and he brought her favorite candy bar. On a Tuesday, despite weeks of talking himself out of it, he'd run out of self-sabotaging reasons and asked for her number.
She looked up from her textbook. "You have a mobile?"
"Yes, Granger, I'm full of surprises."
She'd looked at him for a moment, a tiny lift to the corner of her mouth. "I'm starting to see that," she'd said, and typed her number into his phone.
He'd told himself he didn't deserve her. The war, the name, the years of being precisely the kind of person she'd had every reason to despise—any one of those was enough for any other bloke to turn the other way. But every time he'd convinced himself he shouldn't, the sunlight through the library windows would catch her hair and pull out every shade of amber he hadn't known was in there. She'd challenge him, make him laugh, make him want to be in that room for one more hour, and then another.
He was going to go barmy if he didn’t settle down, his breathing more audible than he was comfortable with.
The door opened before he was given the chance to settle himself and his stomach fell straight into his trousers.
“Je t’adore.”
“Did you just say shut the door?” She looked at him with a raised brow, a small lift to her lips. Lips that were the perfect shade of pink, just dusky enough to look natural, but with a little glimmer of gloss.
“Oh no, sorry. It’s nothing, I apologize.” His face blazed with embarrassment.
She laughed into her hand and turned to lock her door, with her keys, he noticed.
She wore a deep green dress, the color of the Manor's east garden in late summer. The sleeves flowed and cinched at her delicate wrists, but that was the last flowing thing about it. The rest looked like it was painted on, landing just about mid-thigh, and the way it spread tightly across her—
She spun around and luckily his eyes had lifted just in time to meet hers.
He thrust the bouquet toward her, hoping it didn't look as bunglesome as it felt. Every bit of composure he'd spent years building had clearly deserted him.
“These are for you, and I must say, you look beautiful, Granger.”
She took them with a wide smile. “Thank you Malfoy, they’re gorgeo—”. Her eyes roved over the arrangement and landed on the red tulip.
She couldn't know what they meant—could she? Floriography was a dying pureblood art form. There was no way, between the war and their NEWTs and her admittance to the UCL neuropsychology program, that she'd had a spare moment for the language of flowers.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes, sorry, must be the nerves. I’m perfectly alright.” She brought the flowers to her face and breathed them in.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Granger. It’s just us.”
She looked at the trembling hand he extended toward her and finally let out a loud, unguarded, laugh.
“Yes, you’re right. No nerves at all.”
She put her fingers in his and he tucked them into the curve of his arm as he led her toward his car.
Her dress had ridden up on her legs as she sat down, and with his height, he had perhaps too perfect of a vantage point—the hem having crept high enough that a sliver of her upper thigh caught the light before his gaze travelled up to admire the heart-shaped neckline that perfectly accentuated her brea—her necklace.
He'd looked for half a second longer than was strictly gentlemanly, before shutting the door and admonishing himself on his way to the driver's seat. She sat with her legs daintily crossed at the ankle, smoothing her hands on the leather seats, taking in the interior with quiet appreciation. When he finally looked over, a flush had started at her chest and was sitting in her cheeks by the time their eyes met. It took everything in him to keep his expression even, so he settled for a small bite on the corner of his lower lip and turned back to the road. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb before he could do something inadvisable.
As he drove, her eyes dropped to his hands every time he changed gear. Then his arms. Then back to his hands. He was going to have a very sudden, and very prominent problem if she kept that up, so he cleared his throat and asked about the neuroanatomy module before his body could get any more ideas. She had opinions, which he'd counted on, and strong ones, which he'd also counted on, and by the time she'd finished making her case about the demonstrator's methodology they were halfway to the restaurant and he could breathe again. They fell into easy conversation after that—irritating classmates, study plans for the exams they had coming up—until the conversation ran its course and didn't need filling.
She asked if she could put some music on about halfway into the drive. Though that was typically a no-no on the list of appropriate courting activities, he'd never deny this witch anything she wanted.
She'd found something with a slow beat and a woman's voice and settled back into her seat. Somewhere on the approach to Central London she'd started humming along under her breath with the occasional word surfacing when she knew the lyric—and he'd felt so embarrassingly enamored that he had to clear his throat and pretend to check his mirror, lest he declare his intentions on the spot. Even a bigger no-no on that list.
The list, unfortunately, was not an actual list. There was no laminated card he could consult in moments of crisis, though Merlin knew he could have used one tonight. It was years of quiet instruction from both parents, etched into his bones before he'd had any say in the matter: learn what she needs, pay attention to what she wants, speak with conviction, and never let her see you sweat.
Hermione Granger was already making a ruin of it and they hadn't even gotten to the restaurant yet.
Once they had pulled up outside, he had her door open before she'd reached for the handle. She gave him the same smile she did when he brought her tea to class—small, warm, the one that meant he'd done something right without being asked. He offered his arm without comment and placed his hand at the small of her back as he held the restaurant door, trying not to register how warm she was through the fabric of her dress.
The restaurant had been a calculated choice. French, intimate, the kind of place that required a reservation three weeks out, though the Malfoys had kept a standing table since their opening. His mother had been very clear on the matter of first impressions: you led with your best, always.
While the maître d' was leading them to the Malfoy table, Draco dashed ahead to pull out her chair before the man could reach it, which earned him another look and a tiny snort giggle from Hermione.
This part…being a gentleman…this was easy.
The dinner could not have gone any better.
She was brilliant, which he'd obviously known before, but seeing it in a library and classes and experiencing it over three courses were entirely different things. He'd tried to impress her by ordering entirely in French, but he'd been surprised when she did the same. It took him considerable effort to lift his jaw from the table. She handed the waiter her menu without so much as a glance in his direction, which was the kindest thing she could have done given the state of his face.
They'd spent the better part of the first course in a disagreement about the pharmacokinetics lecture from that week—he'd argued the model the professor used was outdated, she'd told him his alternative was theoretically sound and practically useless, and somewhere in the middle they'd arrived at a third position neither of them had started with.
By the time the main arrived, the conclusion was obvious.
They worked well together.
She'd actually said it first, a small pleased smile on her face, and he'd pressed his lips together and agreed, because the alternative was telling her he'd like them to work well together for the rest of his life, and he wasn't entirely sure how she’d take that on a first date.
He looked at her across the table—the candlelight finding the same amber in her hair the library windows always did—and said, without entirely meaning to, "You look divine, Granger."
She lifted her eyes from her glass. "I think you've mentioned something like that already."
"It bears repeating."
She smiled, the real one that made her cheeks brush her lower lashes, before she turned her sights back on him. "You don't look too bad yourself, Malfoy."
He had, in fact, spent forty-five minutes on the outfit. The shirt and waistcoat chosen with the knowledge that they made his eyes more steel blue than grey, the trousers chosen because Theo had once said they did very good things to his arse, which he was aware was vain and didn't particularly care about being aware of it. He'd hoped she'd notice. Apparently she had.
They'd ordered a bottle of wine after the appetizers were taken away, and the conversation had drifted from academics entirely—it occurred to them somewhere around the second glass that they'd spent years in the same classrooms and two months since reconnecting without ever establishing the basics. Favorite color, favorite childhood memory, the food they'd eat if they could only pick one for the rest of their lives.
She'd laughed when he admitted he'd never had a favorite color until he saw his car in midnight blue and decided that was it. He'd pointed out that her answer of "the library" to the question of best holiday destination was deeply unsurprising and she'd told him it was Tuscany, actually, and only slightly amended her answer to "a library in Tuscany."
He'd looked at her across the table and said, "I'd like to take you to one someday," which was forward enough that he'd felt it the moment it left his mouth.
She smiled into her wine glass. "I wouldn't say no to that."
To quell his urge to say "let's go right now", he spent the next thirty seconds staring at his soup.
Aside from his few moments of unadulterated anxiety, the evening was going exactly according to plan.
Then, somewhere between the soup and the main, she slipped her foot out of her heel and ran it slowly up the inside of his calf, watching him over the rim of her wine glass, the pristine picture of innocence. He'd set his fork down to grip the edge of the table for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. He said nothing, because what was there to say that wasn't "please dear gods, don't stop," which was certainly not gentlemanly behavior. She smiled into her wine and murmured something about the quality of the Burgundy.
He'd spent the rest of the main course in a state of focused containment. He recited the steps to suturing a wound, then did them again in French, then backwards, but nothing could stop the growing concern between his legs that was getting harder and harder to manage.
When the waiter arrived to clear the main, Draco felt the particular sadness of a man watching a perfect evening begin to close. Dessert meant the end of dinner, which meant driving her home, depositing her at her door like a gentleman—a small kiss on the cheek if he was lucky—and then going home to his flat to have a very thorough wank to every detail of tonight. He had made his peace with this idea.
He'd ordered the tarte tatin. She'd ordered the crème brûlée and eaten a few spoonfuls of it before leaning forward across the table, her neckline proving to be difficult to avoid, and said, "Can I try yours?"
She hadn't waited for an answer. Instead, she grabbed his wrist and pulled the spoon into her mouth slowly, holding his gaze as she did. The silver touched her tongue, her lashes dropped shut and she gave a soft, mewling sound of approval.
"Fuck." The word came out before he could stop it.
He set his wine glass down before he dropped it. The tension beneath his skin had nowhere to go — one wrong move, one breath held too long, and he'd be unconscious under the table from pure desire overload.
In all of his years of life, he had kissed exactly one person, and that had been Pansy Parkinson at fourteen in a coatroom after the Yule Ball and it hadn't lasted long before they'd both pulled back and grimaced. It felt like kissing his sister, not that he had one, but that was what he imagined it felt like.
Nothing in his life had felt anything like this.
He was completely, helplessly aware of how his body was reacting, and there was absolutely nothing on the courting list that covered this situation.
She set the spoon back on his plate and met his eyes, and whatever she saw there made the corner of her mouth lift. She knew. Of course she bloody knew.
"Delicious," she said, and reached for her wine.
He was bred for composure, for restraint, for never letting anyone see him affected.
And yet, she'd seen straight through every last bit of it.
He was going to snap the steering wheel off its column.
And he wasn’t being dramatic about it. He could feel the leather creaking under his grip, both hands locked at ten and two with the gritted focus of a man whose entire nervous system was currently engaged in a single-minded project: do not think about Hermione Granger's mouth around that spoon. Do not think about the sounds she made. Do not think about the strain in your trousers that followed you all the way out of the restaurant.
But to no surprise, he was thinking about all of it.
The city moved past the windows. He tried to breathe through his nose but found air was futile. He was going to die in this car. He was a Malfoy, he was supposed to be composed, he was supposed to be in control of this date and then her fucking hand landed high on his thigh.
He couldn’t help but let out a gasp. A full, audible, embarrassingly sincere gasp.
"Sorry—should I—" she started.
"God, please no. K-keep it there." The words were out before he'd finished the thought. He looked straight ahead at the road and swallowed, and then with a carefulness that surprised even himself, he lifted his hand off the wheel and placed it over hers. Pressed it down and kept it there.
Every single thing his mother had ever taught him about proper courtship quietly packed its bags and left. He watched it go without argument.
The traffic light ahead turned red and he eased to a stop. She turned to look at him, her feet curling beneath her, her gaze so steady he could feel it burning on the side of his face.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"You can ask me anything." Which was true and also irrational given that his hand was currently pinning hers to his thigh.
"Do you know what a safe word is?"
His jaw dropped. Of course, he did. He'd read and watched enough, given that he was a twenty-two year old man with a mobile phone and internet access. He wasn't completely ignorant, so he nodded, just once.
"Good." She kept her hand flat under his. "If I do something you don't like, or want me to stop, or just want to slow down and talk—say red. Okay? Just red."
"Red," he repeated, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre he hardly recognized, laced with the strain of holding himself together.
"Good," she murmured softly, her eyes flicking to the traffic light as it shifted to green. He eased the car forward, the engine's low hum vibrating through the seats. "And you know you can say it anytime, right? I mean it—no judgments."
"I know." He eased off the clutch. "But I'm not saying it now."
She turned her hand over beneath his, their palms pressing flush, warm and slightly damp with anticipation. She gave a gentle squeeze, before slipping her fingers free and settling them back on his thigh, the heat of her touch seeping through the cotton of his trousers.
“Tell me if this is too much.”
She began to move—slow, deliberate strokes, just an inch up and down, tracing the firm muscle of his inner thigh. Draco drew in a deep breath, forcing his gaze to stay locked on the road ahead, the dotted lines blurring slightly at the edges of his vision. The pressure built with each pass, her fingertips inching higher, brushing the metal of his zipper.
When her hand gripped the hardening length through the fabric, a low groan tore from his throat. "Merlin’s balls," he gasped.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles clenched as he fought the urge to shift his hips up into her hand. The car swerved a fraction before he corrected it, heart pounding in sync with the pulse throbbing under her touch.
Hermione's lips curved into a knowing smile. "You're doing so well, keeping us on the road. But I can feel how hard you're getting. Want me to ease up?"
"No," he growled, the word rough in his throat. "Press harder. I can take it."
She did as asked, squeezing harder, then rubbing in slow circles that made his balls tighten and his breath come in shallow bursts. The friction of his briefs against sensitive skin was maddening—teasing, insistent, stoking the fire low in his gut.
"Like this?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, thumb sweeping over the head where a damp spot bloomed.
"Fuck, yes, love." He didn't have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about the pet name slipping from his lips. "But I need to tell you something."
Her hand stilled. "Okay."
"I've never—" He paused, glancing quickly at her to gauge her comfort, but she remained fully focused on his face, her eyes earnest as ever. "I haven't done this before. Any of this. I've kissed someone and it was terrible, and that is the full extent of my—" He exhaled.
"Experience," she finished quietly.
“So I understand if you want to stop.”
"Draco." Her voice was soft and understanding, the same way she got in the library when he'd finally caught onto something she'd been trying to explain for far too long. "That’s not something to be ashamed about. It’s ok, we can go at your pace." She slid her hand back to his thigh. His cock cried into his briefs as she moved away.
"No!” He yelled. “Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't meant to shout, but no, I don't want my pace," he begged. "I want yours. I want—I want you to do whatever you want. I'll say red if I don’t."
She was quiet for a moment. "You're sure?"
"Yes, please love, I've been sure for months."
She laughed then—a full, genuine belly laugh that echoed in the confined space of the car, cracking something deep in his chest wide open. "Months? You hid it well in the library then. All those glares... were they really just foreplay?"
She moved her hand back to the bulge in his trousers, keeping the pace she’d set before.
He could have cried with relief that she wasn’t put off by his virginal qualities. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted to shag before, but with the war, a brief stint in Azkaban, a few good years of brooding and self-loathing just to finally run away to the muggle world, a boy—nay, a man—had other priorities on his mind than getting his rocks off with some random witch.
But Hermione was anything but random. She felt inevitable. She was also looking at him with her head tilted, which meant he spent too much time inner monologuing instead of answering her question.
"Maybe," he admitted, a smirk tugging at his lips.
That was apparently answer enough, because her free hand joined the first, deftly finding the zipper of his fly. She tugged it down tooth by tooth, the metallic rasp loud in the sudden quiet between them. She worked him free with a patience he was not sure he deserved, and then her hand was on him, actual skin, and he made a sound that would have horrified him under any other circumstances and currently horrified him only slightly.
"Still good?" she asked.
"Extremely." His voice had gone rough. "Very, very good."
She stroked him completely unhurried, killing him slowly with every pull. Her thumb traced circles at the head, gathering the bit of cum leaking from the top, and bringing it down, gliding smoother with each pass.
"Fuck," she said quietly, almost to herself. "You're so thick, Draco. You feel so good." A small pause. "Makes me wet just holding you."
His hips bucked involuntarily, the seat creaking under him. "Granger—" His voice came out strangled. "Slower, or I'll—"
"You'll what?" she challenged softly. "Come already? Or crash us?"
"Neither," he panted back, sweat beading on his forehead, the scent of arousal thick in the air—musky and intoxicating. "Just... keep talking. It helps me focus."
The red light caught them again and she took the opportunity to lean across the center console, her hair falling so close he could smell her shampoo, and pressed her lips to the side of his neck. His eyes closed before he could stop them.
She kissed down to his collar, open-mouthed, her tongue flicking out to taste his salty skin. Her hand was still moving when he tilted his head back against the headrest. If he’d actually died in Azkaban, and this was all an elaborate dream, please for the love of all that is good in the world, never ever wake up.
"Green," she murmured against his throat.
"Gods, yes," he breathed. "So fucking green —"
"Draco." There was a laugh in her voice. "The light’s green."
He lifted his head and the light was green. Her giggle was drowned out by the horn of the car behind them, loud and very insistent.
"Oh, fuck—" He quickly shifted into first and pulled forward. She was laughing properly now, her forehead dropping to his shoulder, her whole body shaking. He was laughing too despite his cock still weeping in her hand.
"Focus on the road," she said, stifling another laugh.
"I am focusing—"
"You really aren't."
He really was not.
He turned off the main road onto the quieter streets approaching Islington, the city thinning out to townhouses and terraces. She pressed another kiss to his jaw and then straightened back in her chair. For a split second, he was scared he'd royally fucked it up and she was done.
But she whipped off her seat belt, popped up onto her knees and bent over him. He understood what was happening approximately one second before it happened, which was not adequate time to prepare.
Her mouth closed over the tip and he felt like he was falling through his seat.
He made a sound, something like a dying kneazle crossed with an erumpent grunt, wretched out of the bottom of his soul, and as she took him deeper, his vision whited out.
Road, he thought. Road. Car. Driving. Fucking focus.
Her tongue swirled around the shaft, pressing flat against the underside as she bobbed her head. Saliva coated him, dripping down to her fist where she stroked what her mouth couldn't reach, the wet sounds obscene over the hum of the engine.
"You taste so good. Feel good?" she pulled off just enough to ask, her hand never stopping.
"Granger—I'm—you need to know that I'm —"
She dropped back down and hummed, the vibration rumbling straight through his cock, sending shockwaves to his core. It was too much. The suction, the swirl of her tongue, the curve of her arse he could see in the reflection of the window and so desperately wanted to grab.
"Come for me, Draco," her voice thick and breathless. "Let go."
His breathing came in heavy pants, whatever was left of his brain entirely beyond his reach. "Putain—t'es une déesse, je peux pas croire—bordel, je—je t'a—"
He lasted two more seconds, maybe three, before his hips stuttered and he came with a choked cry, spilling hot pulses down her throat.
"Fuck—Hermione!" Her name tore from him as she milked every drop with firm sucks until he was spent, shuddering in the driver's seat.
The post-orgasmic bliss hit him like an Impedimenta—every muscle in his body locked up at once and he couldn’t be sure he had actually survived his first blow job.
The curb appeared out of nowhere.
He yanked the wheel and the car lurched and missed the lamp post by a few inches.
"Fuck! Shit—fuck—"
Both hands slammed back onto the wheel, heart hammering in his ears, the car stopped at an angle that was technically still in the street and partially not. He sat there breathing like he'd run the length of Diagon Alley.
Hermione sat back in the passenger seat, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as he stared through the windscreen, chest still heaving.
"Hey." Her hand landed on his arm. "You alright?"
"I nearly killed us."
"You didn't." She squeezed once. "We're fine. The car's fine."
"I don't give a shit about the car." He whispered and turned to look at her. "I could've hurt you."
She held his gaze, steady as she'd been all evening. "I'm not sorry for what just happened," she said. "And I don't want you to be either."
He looked at her for a moment longer than he meant to, then dropped his forehead to the steering wheel with a dull thud.
That was apparently all she'd been waiting for, because the corner of her mouth started to go and then she was pressing her lips together and losing that battle entirely, tucking herself into his shoulder.
"Don't," he said.
She laughed anyway—the real one—her whole body shaking against him. He found, somewhat against his will, that he was laughing too. He didn't understand how something as simple as her laugh could dismantle every last bit of anxiety he felt when he was around her.
Outside, Islington carried on without them. His breathing started to slow. She was giving him space, letting him take his time, which he appreciated. Though, he would have appreciated considerably more if his softening cock wasn't still out of his zipper.
He was alive. She was fine. The car was intact. He was going to count that as a win.
“Makes for a hell of a first date story, don’t you think?”
“Gran—”
"Ah, ah," she said, her finger wagging in his face. "I distinctly remember you calling me something else just a second ago."
"Are you thinking of Hermione," he said, voice dropping low, "or love?"
It had exactly the effect he'd aimed for. A blush crept along her chest and rose into her cheeks, and she tucked an unruly curl behind her ear.
"Both are nice," she said. "You call me whichever you'd like."
“How about I surprise you?” He could feel the tension building in the air again, the way you feel a storm before it arrives, and there was nothing to do about it except put the car in gear and get them the fuck home.
After a few minutes, Hermione turned down the song playing on the radio. “You know it really does something to a girl’s ego to give an almost killer blow job.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at her own blasted joke which he found completely insufferable and also entirely attractive.
“Oh gods,” he said as he trailed one hand down his face. “It should. That was probably the most intense, almost spiritual experience I’ve ever had.”
“Only probably?”
They slowed to a stop in front of her townhouse. The night still felt so young—he was composing a list of reasons they should absolutely not call it a night yet. A nightcap—he could suggest a nightcap. Or a walk. It was a nice enough night for a walk. He was about to open his mouth when she interrupted whatever was happening in his head.
“We should try a few other things then, just to be sure.” She tilted her head and nodded in the direction of her front door.
“Would you like a house tour?”