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Draco was three pages into a particularly dense article on advanced Antidote brewing when someone knocked on his study door.
Sharp, insistent rapping that he knew instantly could only be Filch.
He sighed and glanced up at the clock. It was gone two in the morning. "Come in."
The door creaked open and Filch's haggard scowling face appeared. "Mr. Malfoy, sir. Students out of bed. Caught wind of them in the west wing, then I heard giggling near the Great hall.”
Draco stood, slowly reaching for his robes, sighing. “Alright Filch, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Filch looked positively jubilant at the prospect of catching students. "Meet at the entrance to the Great hall!”
Draco had no idea how the ancient bastard was still going.
He must have been the oldest living person in the castle by a good twenty years but McGonagall had insisted on keeping him on, and who was Draco to argue with Minerva McGonagall.
Filch shuffled off, ancient bones creaking as he went, muttering about "filthy little rule-breakers."
Draco heaved another sigh as he fastened his robes and closed his study door with a soft click. He was grateful he'd already been awake—he'd never quite shaken his insomniac habits from the war years. Teaching helped, oddly enough. It gave him something productive to obsess over in those late or early hours when sleep failed him.
The dungeons were eerily silent, the yellow lights flickering against the ancient stone as he took the stairs two at a time. The castle was particularly quiet during Christmas break. Most of the staff had gone home. He'd stayed, as he did most years.
His mother was holidaying in France and there was simply no one else to go home for. He enjoyed the castle at this time of year, it was picturesque, peaceful. The undisturbed sunbeams cutting across silent corridors, the pristine snow flurries un-trampled by the usual hoards of students hurrying for here to there. It was a few weeks of quiet in an otherwise busy year.
At the top of the stairs Filch came into view, waiting at the entrance to the Great hall, Mrs. Norris weaving impatiently between his legs.
“Professor Malfoy. The other professor should be along any moment—"
Soft footsteps echoed from around a corner, and then—
Professor Granger appeared, and Draco's stomach did an entirely inappropriate flip.
She was wrapped in an over-large burgundy dressing gown, hastily belted at the waist, the fabric reaching mid-calf. Below that, pale, bare legs disappeared into slippers. Her hair was piled in a messy knot on top of her head, wild curls escaping everywhere, and she looked bleary-eyed and rumpled and deeply annoyed. His eyes tracked over her and snagged at her feet.
The slippers were so at odds with the castle setting.
Draco smothered a grin.
Sand coloured sheepskin booties, fluffy and absurd, padding softly against the stone.
His eyes tracked up from slippers and he tried very hard not to stare at those shapely bare legs.
Professional. Be professional. She's a colleague. A cute colleague. An irritably cute—
"This better be good, Filch," she said, her voice still rough with sleep. Then her eyes landed on Draco. She blinked. "Oh. Professor Malfoy."
“Professor Granger." He kept his voice carefully neutral as he struggled to keep his eyes on her face. “Perfect attire for an evening stroll.”
She shot him a look that would've been withering if she hadn't been wearing those ridiculous booties.
"I was asleep." She crossed her arms, the movement making her dressing gown pull tight. "What's happened?"
Filch launched into his explanation. “Students out of bed—heard them giggling around here. I’m sure its that Davies boy and he’s with the Sharpe girl. They scattered when they heard me comin’, but they can't have gone far."
Hermione frowned, clearly waking up properly now. "You're certain it was them?"
“Clertain, Professor. That Davies boy's voice carries." Filch looked between them. “If you catch them, I want them scrubbing cauldrons for a month—"
"We'll handle the discipline, thank you, Mr Filch," Hermione said firmly. "You can return to your quarters, “we’ll take it from here.”
Mumbling his grievances Filch stalked off. They watched him go.
Draco let out a sign of relief, he never could shake the uncomfortable feeling he got around the man. Filch was creepy, he’d alway been creepy.
He turned back and found Granger looking at him. Not a just a casual glance. A proper assessing look.
Her eyes moved over him slowly over his face, the open collar of his robes where his t-shirt sat beneath, down to his joggers and back up again. Her lips were slightly parted, her expression unguarded.
His eyes had snagged on her legs again—bare below the mid-calf hem—then tracked upward to where her dressing gown had fallen slightly open at the neck to reveal the baggy neckline of a t-shirt beneath. The fabric was old and soft-looking and he found himself wondering what was underneath the dressing gown and then immediately telling himself very firmly to stop that.
He took a step closer without quite deciding to.
She blinked, pulled from whatever she'd been thinking, and straightened.
"I'll take the dungeons." She pulled her dressing gown tight. "I know where the spots are down there."
"So do I."
“Are you sure?”
“Not only do I live down there now, I was also an unsupervised teenager with a lot of free time and poor decision making skills." He raised an eyebrow. "I know every dark corner of that dungeon, Granger."
“You do the ground floor," she said firmly. "I'll handle the dungeons.”
He had the strange impression she didn't trust him. Which was silly. They were standing closer than strictly necessary now, facing each other in the empty corridor. He could see a sleep creases still faintly visible on her cheek.
What did she look like all curled up in bed? He could practically—no stop.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Just for a fraction of a second. Then back up.
Hers did the same. Down, up. A quick flick she probably thought he didn't catch.
"Fine," he said, his voice sounded odd. “The Dungeons yours."
Neither of them moved.
His heart was hammering so loudly in his chest he was amazed she couldn't hear it.
They stood there in the empty corridor, looking at each other, and Draco had the sudden absurd thought that she was about to walk into his arms. That she was going to close the remaining distance between them and just—
At the last second she moved—past him, to his left, in the direction of the stairs. Her dressing gown brushing his arm as she went.
He stood very still, staring at the empty space where she'd been.
"I'll just—" He gestured vaguely at the ground floor corridor.
Then, he cleared his throat, turned, and walked away, heart still loud and ridiculous in his chest.
Draco checked the Great Hall, then empty classrooms on the ground floor, his mind unhelpfully replaying the image of Granger's bare legs, the way her hair had been falling out of that knot, the soft fabric of her dressing gown. She’d been asleep, all curled up in her four poster dreaming of…of what he wondered.
Stop it.
But his brain didn't stop. It kept circling back to her—the way she'd looked startled to see him, the rasp in her sleep-rough voice, the fact that she'd stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays too.
He wondered why. Wondered if—
Focus. Find the students.
Fifteen minutes later —after searching the entire ground floor—Draco had found nothing. He began his descent to the dungeons where he imagined Granger was pulling back tapestries and opening classroom doors with dramatic flare only to discover, nothing.
He was beginning to think the students had made it back to their dormitories unnoticed when he heard Grangers voice, sharp and reprimanding, coming from the direction of the Kitchens.
He followed the sound and rounded the corner to find—
She had found them in an alcove. Her voice, crisp and authoritative was totally at odds with the adorable slippers and robe.
The two sixth years, Davies and Sharpe were inside, the former looking thoroughly mortified the latter smug. Both dishevelled, lips swollen, clothes rumpled, all the telltale signs of having been caught mid-snog.
Hermione was in full professor mode—hands on hips, chin raised, looking eerily reminiscent of McGonagall in her prime, as she held the tapestry back. He smiled to himself, he always enjoyed her rants.
"Absolutely unacceptable," she was saying. "Not only are you breaking curfew, but you're canoodling in a public corridor where anyone could—"
Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Canoodling. Merlin, she even sounded like McGonagall.
"Professor Granger," Davies stammered, “I just wanted a snack from the kitchen. We weren't—we didn’t mean—“
“What? Didn't mean to break the rules, Mr. Davies? Didn't mean to sneak out after hours?"
Draco stepped into view. “Professor Granger. I see you've found Hogwarts very own Romeo and Juliet."
She glanced at back him, exasperated.
Draco regarded them with mock severity, crossing his arms.
Davies opened his mouth, clearly preparing some elaborate excuse. "Professor Malfoy, I can explain—"
"Don't give me that shite, Davies. You always were an appalling liar." Draco crossed his arms. "Twenty points from Gryffindor. Get back to your dormitory before I add a week of detention to the punishment. Now. Bed!”
Davies looked for a moment like he might argue.
Don’t do it kid, don’t argue with me. It’s Christmas. I don’t want to babysit your annoying horny ass all week.
Davis clenched and unclenched a fist, huffed and then strode towards the staircases.
Draco turned to his attention to Greta Sharpe, who looked irritatingly defiant, arms crossed, expression thunderous.
“Sharpe.” He growled.
“Sir.” She challenged back with a scathing look.
Draco sighed.
“I’m disappointed, I expected more stealth from a seeker. Next time try a less obvious location, I’ve heard the alcove behind the statue of Wilbur the Worthy is particularly discreet. Twenty points from Slytherin. Now, Go."
Hermione's eyebrow shot up dangerously. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Sharpe let out an exasperated huff and stormed off in the direction of the Slytherin common room.
The moment she disappeared, Hermione whirled on him.
"Seriously? You just gave her advice on stealth?”
“Teacher’s are supposed to give advice.” Draco replied cooly.
"You're supposed to be discouraging them, not—not optimising their rule-breaking!"
"They're sixteen, Granger. They're going to do it anyway. We may as well keep them out of Filch's path."
"That is not the point—"
"Oh, come on." He grinned. "You're really going to stand there and tell me you and Weasley never snuck around after curfew?"
Her mouth opened. Closed. "We were prefects!”
“True! So you didn't need to sneak—you had free rein to patrol the castle whenever you wanted." He took a step closer, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed. "I bet you took full advantage of that."
She open her mouth to argue back, seemed to think better of it and closed it again. The air between them shifted slightly, something unspoken hovering in the silence.
Draco looked over her head, at the alcove properly for the first time—the shadowed space behind the tapestry, the stone walls, the way it was tucked just out of sight of the main corridor.
“I don’t remember this one, it’s not a bad spot though. Ever get frisky back here, Professor?” He teased, eyebrows waggling.
Hermione had gone very still. She was chewing on her bottom lip—a nervous tell he absolutely should not have catalogued. He appeared to have crossed a line.
He cleared his throat. "Come on. I'll walk you back to your quarters."
“That’s alright Professor,” she said briskly, but she didn't move, nor did she look away. “I’m awake now, I’m going to get a snack from the kitchens.”
Say something. Don't sound eager.
"Why didn't you say so?" The words came out too quickly, too enthused. "I could do with something to eat."
She looked at him for a long moment —something unreadable flickered across her face— before she schooled it into a small polite smile.
They walked toward the fruit bowl portrait. As they went, she glanced up at him. "What were you working on so late?"
“I was reading an article on advanced Antidote theory in brewing.”
"Oh, I think I read a piece on that last month—was it Mattovich’s piece in The Advanced Potioneer?”
“The very same. Complete rubbish, though. His conclusion about the use of bezzoars was fatally flawed."
"I disagree. I think he makes a valid point about—"
And just like that, like always, they were off. Debating potion theory as Hermione tickled the pear and the fruit transformed into a large green handle. As they gathered biscuits and asked the sleepy, but very attentive, house elves for two mugs of hot cocoa. As their shadows and voices spilled back out into the corridor once more.
The conversation was all-consuming. Twice he had to remind himself to hold back on his enthusiasm, his words always tumbled out too fast, too excited.
Hermione made her arguments, brandishing the mug of coco at him in an animated fashion —its content sloshing wildly inside— as her dressing gown sleeve slipped down her forearm. Draco found himself watching the movement, distracted by the elegant line of her wrist and the way she delicately sipped from the mug.
Gods, she makes me nervous.
The realisation hit him like a stunning spell. Here he was, thirty-two years old, an ex-convict, a decorated professor, and of all the things in the world it was Hermione Jean Granger in her dressing gown and fluffy slippers that made his palms sweat.
They'd somehow ended up sitting on a stone bench in the corridor—the alcove directly in their line of sight across the hall. The conversation had shifted from Potion making to teaching methods and back to the students they’d caught not half an hour earlier.
“Sharpe and Davies—I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.” Draco laughed.
Greta Sharpe was, he had to admit, one of his favourite students. Sharpe was whip smart and star Seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team, she had the kind of focused intelligence that reminded him uncomfortably of the witch sat next to him.
Davies, by contrast, was a class clown with a habit of turning up places he had no business being. A good kid who tried hard, even if he was hands-down the worst Potions student Draco had ever seen. In Draco’s mind they were somewhat of an unlikely pair.
Hermione smiled into her mug, and something warm unfurled in Draco's chest.
"What?" Draco asked.
"Oh, it's not that strange when you think about it." Her smile faded slightly, something sad flickering across her face. "Come to think of it, that's probably why they were making out in that alcove. I'm sure he's not welcome in the Slytherin common room, and I know she's not welcome in the Gryffindor one."
The observation landed heavily between them.
Draco looked down at his cocoa. She was right, of course. Some prejudices died hard, even among the students who'd grown up after the war. A Gryffindor boy dating a Slytherin girl would still face whispers, still get cold shoulders from their own Houses.
He cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, it is a great spot for making out. I feel like I missed an opportunity back then."
"No, you didn't."
Draco blinked, confused. "What?"
Hermione's cheeks were getting pinker. And pinker. She set her cocoa mug down carefully on the bench beside her, not meeting his eyes.
"I caught you here. Sixth year."
His stomach dropped. "What? Really?”
She nodded.
"Must've been me and Pansy," he said finally.
"No." Hermione's cheeks were a deep shade of fuchsia now. "It was Greengrass. You and Daphne Greengrass. Beginning of sixth year." Her voice was matter-of-fact, but her burning face told a different story. "I was doing prefect rounds."
Draco tried to remember. Sixth year was a blur—Dark Marks and impossible tasks and frantic attempts to feel something other than terror. "I... honestly don't remember."
"No, you wouldn't." She still wasn't looking at him. "You didn't say anything to me. Just glared with this anger, this… intensity. Greengrass ran off. You stood there watching me, and I watched you back. Then you looked me up and down, smirked, and walked away. Left me standing there like an idiot."
Fuck.
The air felt thick. Draco knew he should say something—apologise, acknowledge what a complete tosser he'd been—but his brain had latched onto something else entirely.
She remembered. She remembered the exact details. She'd been thinking about it.
“Merlin I was such little prick," he said finally.
"You were." She laughed heartily, his heart flipped.
"Though..." He couldn't help himself. A grin tugged at his mouth. “From the level of detail you can recall it sounds like maybe you wished it had been you instead of Daphne.”
Her head whipped around, eyes wide. "I did not—you absolute—"
She kicked out at him, her slipper-clad foot aiming for his shin, but she was laughing.
He caught her leg easily, laughing too. “Damn! Easy there, Granger. Just joking—"
His hand —warmed from the mug of cocoa— wrapped around her bare ankle, fingers gently closing on soft flesh.
They both froze.
Draco stopped breathing.
He let go like he’d been burned.
She pulled her leg back but he could still feel the ghost of it in his hand. He flexed his fingers around his mug and tried very hard not to think about how soft her bare skin had been.
They finished their cocoa in charged silence. Draco vanished the mugs with a flick of his wand and stood. "Come on. I'll walk you back now."
"Yeah. It's late." Hermione’s voice sounded odd as she rose.
The alcove loomed as they walked passed it.
"You know,“ Draco said, then stopped, looking back at the tapestry.
What are you doing? Stop. Stop talking.
"What?"
"I just—that alcove. I mean, not that it—it's just that I’m—I want—” He was stumbling over his words like a fucking forth-year.
“Fuck.” He pressed his hand to his face.
"Draco—"
He couldn’t look at her, if he looked at her he’d never get through this. “I might not remember what happened but I know I wanted you in that alcove when I was sixteen. But I was too fucked up to know what to do with how I felt except to be cruel to you. And now I'm thirty-two and I still want you, except now I know exactly what it means and it's so much worse."
"Why is it worse?" Her voice was so quiet, so unsure.
"Because now I know what I missed. What I threw away. What I—"
Hermione was so still. She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't read—pink-cheeked, nervous, but there was something else. A determination settling over her features. That particular Gryffindor look that meant she'd made a decision.
Her face screwed up with resolve.
Then she marched forward, grabbed him by the lapels of his robes, and pulled him down into a kiss.
Draco's brain stopped working the instant her lips claimed his.
Her mouth was soft and insistent and tasted like chocolate, and for one endless second he was too shocked to respond. Then his hands came up to her waist, pulling her closer, kissing her back with everything he'd been holding in for years.
She made a small sound against his mouth and something in him ignited.
He backed her toward the alcove, never breaking their kiss, his hands sliding down to her thighs. She gasped and he lifted her with ease carrying her the last few steps until her back hit the stone wall of the alcove.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. His hands were everywhere, sliding up her calves, her thighs, pushing the dressing gown open—
He froze.
No shorts. Just an oversized cotton t-shirt and knickers.
"I didn't have time to change properly," she mumbled against his mouth, embarrassed. "Filch's summons—I just grabbed the robe—"
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand sliding up under the t-shirt to find—
No bra.
Fuck.
His palm cupped her breast and she arched into him with a gasp. He could feel her nipple hardening against his hand, could feel her trembling.
“Draco—”
She was pulling at his robes, shoving them off his shoulders. They fell to the ground. Her hands found his t-shirt, slid underneath, nails scraping lightly over his stomach.
"You're wearing joggers," she said, almost accusatory. "That's not fair."
"Life's not fair, Granger." He grinned against her throat. "Though I should mention—I'm commando under these."
Her eyes went wide, then sparked with something dark and wanting. “Are you?!”
"Mmm." He hummed and kissed her again, slowly and teasing. "Want to find out?"
She groaned and pulled him closer, and he moaned when she rolled her hips against him.
"Draco—"
He kissed down her throat, biting gently at her pulse point. His other hand slid higher, fingers teasing the edge of her knickers. Their kisses turned slow and filthy, his tongue moving with the same deliberate skill as his fingers as they gently hooked round her knickers and slid them to the side.
"Draco—" she gasps, her words breathy and laboured as he gently brushed his hand against her. "We're professors—we’re not supposed to—oh—oh god—“
"Such a fucking Gryffindor," he muttered biting down gently, his fingers traced the along her entrance teasingly. "Always so worried about the damn rules.”
"This is—we can’t—fuck—“ She tried to sound stern but it came out as a whimper.
"Can't what?" He circled her clit with maddening slowness. "Go on, Professor Granger. Tell me off. Use that voice you use in staff meetings."
Her eyes went wide. "What?!”
"You heard me." He slid one finger inside her, making her gasp. "Tell me how inappropriate this is."
Her breath hitched. When she spoke, her voice carried an edge of authority that made him groan. "This is —highly— inappropriate, Professor Malfoy."
"Fuck. Yes it is." He added a second finger and she cried out. "Tell me —Tell me what a bad professor I am.”
"Detention," she managed, her professor voice cracking but still there. "A week of detention for—for—being—so, so— so naughty—”
He groaned against her throat. "That's it. Merlin. Hermione, do you have any idea what you do to me when you talk like that?"
"We shouldn’t—oh god—we should be setting an example—" His thumb found her clit and her hips rolled against his hand despite her words.
"Keep going," he urged, working her slow, “That’s it. Tell me I'm breaking the rules."
"But we might get caught," she panted, and he couldn't tell anymore if she was genuinely worried or playing along, but either way it was driving him mad.
He worked her with focused intent, his other hand slid up under her shirt again, thumb brushing over her nipple through the thin cotton. "Quiet, Granger. Unless you actually want someone to catch us—”
Then. Singing.
Chaotic, off-key singing echoing down the corridor.
Peeves.
“Oh no—” Hermione breathed.
Draco's hand clamped over her mouth immediately. His other hand stilled but stayed exactly where it was—fingers deep inside her, her body clenching around him.
They both froze.
Peeves floated closer, singing something obscene about professors and broomsticks. "—and the Charms teacher with his in a knot—"
Hermione's eyes were wide above Draco's hand. Her chest was heaving, trying to breathe quietly. She was trembling, still wound tight and desperate on his fingers.
The urge to move them, to finish what he'd started, was almost overwhelming.
Peeves paused nearby. "Oooh, what's this? Someone lurking?"
Draco pressed closer to Hermione, using his body to shield her further into the shadows. She was panting against his palm, hot little breaths that were driving him insane.
She glared at him in the darkness. He smirked and moved his fingers.
Her eyes went wide. She shook her head frantically. He raised an eyebrow as if to say what are you going to do about it? and kept going.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her whole body went slack. She's shaking, so close, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking her eyes.
"Boring!!!” Peeves declared. "Nothing but dust and shadows!" He zoomed off, singing fading down the corridor.
Draco kept his hand over Hermione's mouth for another ten seconds. Twenty. Making sure Peeves was really gone.
Then he moved his fingers again. Her eyes went wide —half scandalised, half absolutely undone. She clutchED his shoulders, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
He could see her nipples clearly through the thin cotton t-shirt, hard peaks that made his mouth water. The long line of her throat as she arched and gasped against his palm. The way her eyes fluttered closed, the flush spreading down her chest.
He finally released her mouth from his hand. He thought she’d yell at him but instead she just crashed her mouth back into his, kissing him desperately.
She was close—he could feel it in the way she clenched around his fingers, the way her breathing had gone even more ragged and desperate in between their kisses.
She came hard, biting down on his shoulder as her whole body trembled and bucked against him. The feel of her clenching on his hand nearly made him come in his joggers like a sodding teenager.
He worked her through it the rest of it, kissing her tenderly and watching her face as she came down from her high—the flutter of her eyelashes, the softening of her expression, the way she slowly came back to herself.
When she finally opened her eyes, they were dark and satisfied, and yet, still hungry.
"Your quarters," she said, voice wrecked. "Right now."
"Yes. Fuck, yes—" He was already carefully withdrawing his hand, feeling the loss. His mind was racing, his cock straining against his joggers. Would he be able to make it back to his quarters?
"Although, there's actually another excellent spot just past the—"
"Draco." Her voice was firm despite being thoroughly debauched. "Get us to your room. Now. Before I come to my senses."
That snapped him into action.
Draco threw the tapestry back with such force the nails securing it to the wall creaked and tiny flecks of dust sprayed over them.
"Right. Yes. Room. This way—" He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the alcove, practically dragging her down the corridor.
She stumbled after him in those ridiculous fluffy slippers, trying to tie her dressing gown with her free hand.
He could still taste her on his tongue, could still feel the ghost of her clenching around his fingers, and if they didn't get to his quarters in the next thirty seconds he could not be held responsible for his actions.
They made it maybe ten steps down the corridor before—
"WELL!" A portrait of a scandalised looking witch clutched her literal painted pearls. "In MY day, professors had DECORUM!"
Another portrait, an old wizard, chuckles. "Oh let them have their fun, Edna. We were young once."
"They were behind a TAPESTRY! Like a couple of randy youths!”
Hermione's face had gone deep scarlet. Draco grabbed her hand and pulled her faster down the corridor.
"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen…Edna, you miserable old wench.” he said smoothly without stopping.
"SHAMEFUL!" the witch called after them.
They round the corner and moments later Draco is dragging her down the stairs. Hermione yelped as she tripped on her dressing gown, then dissolved into horrified laughter. "Oh my god! That portrait is going to tell everyone—"
"Let her." Draco laughed as he backs her against his door. "I don't care. Inside. Now."
She didn’t argue.
His hands were everywhere—pushing the dressing gown off her shoulders, sliding up under her t-shirt, pulling her closer. He walked her backward into the room, never breaking the kiss, his mouth moving to her jaw, her throat—
"Wait—" she breathed.
He froze immediately, pulling back. "What? Are you ok?”
“Yes, I just—" She was looking around, distracted, her eyes scanning his quarters. "I've never been in here before."
Draco stared at her. "You're thinking about my interior design choices right now?"
"No, it's just— is that a first edition of Practical Potions?" She was craning her neck to see past him to his bookshelf, even as his hands were still on her waist. "I thought there were only three copies in Britain—"
"Hermione." He grabbed her face with an exasperated laugh, forcing her to look at him. "I will give you a complete tour of my quarters tomorrow. I will let you re-catalogue my entire library. But right now—right now—I need you to stop looking at the books and look at me."
She bit her lip, eyes dancing. “Ok.”
“Ok?”
"Yes, ok!” Her hands went to the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion. She let out a little gasp at the sight of his bare chest and he tried his best not to preen.
He reached for her t-shirt. She raised her arms and he pulled it off, leaving her topless in the middle of his study.
"Fuck," he breathed, staring. "This is even better than I imagined it would be."
She raised an eyebrow, lips curving. "You've imagined this?"
"Yes.” He said, running his hands down her back and over the curve of her arse, “But only like every night for the past four years."
She laughed tilting her head back, and the sound went straight through him. "Four years?"
"Give or take." His hands spanned her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. "Maybe longer. I think it was somewhere around the first time you told me off for eating the last of the good biscuits in the staff room.”
"That got you going?" She was grinning now, wicked and delighted.
"Everything about you gets me going." He backed her toward the sofa, his hands everywhere—her waist, her breasts, sliding down to cup her arse through the thin cotton of her knickers.
She stumbled backward and he twisted them at the last second, falling onto the sofa and dragging her down with him. She landed straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest, hair falling around them like a curtain.
"This is absolutely insane," he muttered, looking up at her.
She smirked—that same knowing, wicked smirk that had been driving him mad for years—and leaned down to kiss him. Slow and deep and filthy, her hips rolling against his erection in a way that made him nearly blackout.
His hands gripped her hips, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but then she was sliding off him, sinking to her knees between his legs.
"Hermione—" His voice came out strangled.
She looked up at him, eyes dark and hungry, and hooked her fingers into the waistband of his joggers.
She pulled them down slowly, freeing his cock, and as the ghost of her breath hit him he had to grip the sofa cushions to keep from embarrassing himself right then and there.
"Fuck," he breathed, watching her. She was on her knees in his study, topless, her hair a wild mess, lips swollen from his kisses. She looked absolutely beautiful.
“Commando.” She muttered in confirmation. Then she leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
It was hot and perfect, her tongue doing things that made his brain shut down, he was trying desperately to hold on, to make this last, because if he came in the first thirty seconds like some inexperienced teenager she'd never let him live it down.
She pulled off abruptly and stood, looking down at him with eyes so dark and hungry it took his breath away.
In the next moment she was standing, licking her lips and grinning down at him and his cock twitched painfully.
She didn't say anything. Just reached down and stripped off her knickers in one smooth motion, then climbed back onto the sofa, straddling him.
His hands flew to her hips, gripping hard, trying to hold on to some shred of control. But she was already moving, rolling her hips in a rhythm that made his vision blur.
Her hands were all over him, sliding through his hair, gripping his shoulders, tracing down his chest. She kissed his mouth desperately, then his jaw, his throat, biting down on his collarbone hard enough to mark.
"God, you're so fucking hot," she breathed against his neck, and he nearly came right then. “Your face. Your body—fuck, Draco—"
He couldn't form words. Could barely breathe. She was all over him—kissing, touching, moaning against his skin—and it was pure intoxication, even better than anything he'd ever imagined.
"So sexy," she murmured, pulling his hair hard enough to make him groan. "I can't believe—"
This is the best day of my life, he thought wildly as she rode him harder. Her skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, hair completely destroyed, making sounds that would probably get them noise complaints if they weren’t in a dungeon with metre thick walls.
She was laughing, bright and breathy as she gripped the back of the sofa, moving harder, faster—but the sound caught in her throat and turned to little moans as she shifted, found a deeper angle, her focus narrowing to nothing but the sensation.
He pulled her to him with every upward thrust, arms banded around her back, one hand tangled in her hair, capturing each gasp from her lips like he was starving for them.
"So fucking sexy—" She pulled his hair hard and he saw stars. "Can't believe I get to—"
He snapped. With a growl he grabbed her hips and flipped them, pressing her down into the sofa. She clamped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, nails raking down his back.
"Yes—harder Draco—“ she gasped.
She arched up meeting him thrust for thrust, completely shameless, telling him how good he felt, how hot he looked.
“Hermione—I’m—fuck!” He could not hold on much longer, the pressure was building higher and higher, he was going to snap.
In the moment she broke arching into him, he came with a groan beforecollapsing on top of her, both of them panting and wrecked.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled together on his sofa, trying to remember how to breathe.
Her hair was an absolute disaster, lips swollen, a mark blooming on her collarbone. She'd never looked more beautiful.
His brain was still not functioning at capacity.
“Wow. That was a good time.” He said dumbly.
Merlin, why was he always such a fucking idiot around her.
She laughed.
“Yes it was,” she said kissing his chest.
Minutes later she spoke again.
"What happens now?"
He mulled it over.
The question of all questions. Is it too soon to suggest she move into my quarters? To buy her a ring? Probably.
"Now?" He tucked a wild curl behind her ear. "Now I fix us some tea, we have that library tour you wanted, and then I take you to my actual bed and do this properly."
"Properly?" She pulled back, raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't proper?"
"That was four years of pent-up frustration on a sofa." He grinned. "Give me a real bed and several hours, and I'll show you what properly looks like."
"Several hours?” she repeated.
"Minimum."
She grinned wickedly.
"How very improper of you, Professor Malfoy."
"You're a terrible influence on me, Professor Granger. I never used to break this many rules."