Chapter Text
“Poke him.”
“Shut up, Theo.”
“Go on, no one’s looking, Granger. Poke him. I bet his arm feels like one of those squishy water tubes that muggle children play with.”
“Water snakes?” Hermione asked, trying to hide her grin.
“What the fuck is a water snake?” Draco hissed, slapping Theo’s hand away as he tentatively reached out to touch the cold shriveled body before them.
“He looks like a parsnip,” Hermione said quietly.
“A rotten parsnip,” Theo agreed.
“For the last time you two, will you shut up. We’re supposed to be paying tribute.” Draco flashed a warning look to them both and dipped his head at the recently passed Voldemort, laying in a highly ornate open casket like a skeleton with skin vacuum sealed to his bones.
Hermione observed the body coolly. There was no one she hated more. She had longed to kill him herself one day. And yet, here he was. Dead. Quite pathetic actually. Perhaps she would poke him, just to prove she could. All the pain he had caused, all the lives he had taken, the totalitarian rule, the big brother notions, the hierarchy, the poverty, the racism, the lack of pity. And here he was. A dead man in a hall full of dry eyes.
Well, almost. Bellatrix Lestrange had not stopped wailing upon her entry. They were preparing for a speech.
Seeing this, Malfoy pushed Hermione subtly by the small of her back, walking her carefully to the end row with Theo close to her heels. Once sat, Draco looked to the front. His father happened to glance behind at the great mass of people and catch his son's eyes. He motioned him to sit closer.
Draco observed Hermione and Theo glumly. It was clear he didn’t want to leave them. Despite his highly trusted position in Voldemort’s new government, aptly nicknamed: The Senate (who knew you know who had such an affinity for ancient Greece and Rome), Draco had separated himself from their idealisms. Hermione never thought there would be a day where she was thankful for a Malfoy, yet, here she was. With him as a friend of sorts. After the nastiness with her old friends, she felt a drifting take place,therefore naturally took solace in darkness.
Malfoy slinked off, his shoulders high as he walked gracefully to sit next to his stoic faced mother, Narcissa.
“I bet she faints dramatically soon,” Theo commented to her and Blaise, nodding to Bellatrix as she began to wail on Yaxley’s shoulder. Hermione winced as the dark witch suddenly leapt forward towards the coffin, covering her arms around the deceased dark lord, screeching: “He can’t be gone. My Lord, come back to me!”
“No class, our kind,” Theo fussed, sniggering as Draco was pulled up by his father to help guide her to the podium to make a speech.
Her horrible claw-like fingers clicked on the enchanted microphone as she tried to pull it up to her level. Hermione could hear the wetness of her mouth as she parted it open and closed it again, emotion stealing her voice. Age and obsessiveness had not treated Bellatrix well. If there was ever a woman ugly to her core, it was her.
Slowly, she pulled out a piece of crumpled parchment, and began to read.
“Today marks the darkest day for wizard-kind. The death of…” her messy scarlet stained lips shook again. “The death of…” another wail poured out her mouth and she collapsed, only just caught by a shell-shocked Draco, who still somehow remained posed with the dead weight of the awful witch in his arms.
Theo adjusted in his seat, accepting a Galleon from Blaise. “Told you,” he winked to Hermione.
“Oh god,” Hermione whispered, watching as Lucius picked up the piece of parchment from the floor and whispered in his son’s ear. She watched with a grimace as Draco shook his head fast. Yaxley and one of the Carrows stepped forward, pulling Bella out of his grasp and hoisting her away.
Slowly, clearly miffed by his expression, Draco took to the podium.
His grey eyes travelled around the room, locking on Hermione’s for a moment before venturing beyond to the back of the huge, gilded room. No expense had been spared for the funeral. It was the closest Hermione had seen to the grand muggle funerals of kings. North Korea put on huge events for the loss of their Kims. But this took the crown. Outside, thousands of wizards and muggles stood in tribute. Most not there by choice, instead fear. Fear for the future. It was bad enough as it was. In recent years, the last especially, as Voldemort’s power had dwindled with illness, his minions had taken to swaying the rules. Making them no less cruel.
No one (aside from Bellatrix) was present to mourn a dead man. They were there in hope of change.
“I suppose I’ll continue,” Draco said, ignoring the whoop from Theo in the crowd.
He cleared his voice. “The Dark Lord shaped the world as we know it. For centuries, the purest of blood were placed in lower roles. Magic was spread equally between mudblood to half blood. With his power and love for us all…” Draco paused, the sound of his jaw ticking could be heard through the magical microphone. And she knew why. That man (if you could even call him that) was not capable of love. “He shaped a new world. A brighter world. Magic was tapered for the lower races, separations were put in place. Finally, those who were deserving were granted the status owed.”
At Draco’s words, she glanced down at her useless wand. She missed how her magic could be harnessed freely. What Malfoy spoke was true. After Voldemort had killed Harry after the events of the Triwizard Tournament, everything changed. She was allowed to finish her schooling, in separate classes for the ‘lower breeds’. They introduced horrendous punishments, and created a list of archaic communist inspired rules for anyone lower than a pure blood.
There were branches of hierarchy now. Pure bloods ruled. They reaped the benefits and riches. They held the keys to power and influence. Next was half-bloods: they could work basic jobs in retail, offices, and healthcare with half working wands (the wandmakers left in the world were tortured into amending the magical cores. It was complex enough for Hermione’s brain to hurt thinking of the logistics, and she was a very smart witch.) The bottom of the pile were blood traitors and mudbloods. They were the factory hens of the world. A world that knew of magic, as it happened. Voldemort saw little point in hiding from the muggles. He wanted everyone to fear him, magic or not. Early in his reign he had killed millions of muggles to add ‘balance’ - leaving the rest of the non-magical world to continue working half-full lives, mostly working on food production, building his huge monuments and being forced to take birth control so they would eventually die out. It was a hard life being a muggle-born witch, but nothing compared to being a muggle.
Theo nudged Hermione, bringing her out of her thoughts as Draco continued.
“The loss of my… beloved dark lord… has brought me much pain. But he would want to see us prosper. To continue his great work. And so, I am pleased to announce that he left me with one last duty.” Draco looked confused, and looked around to see Severus Snape holding up a sealed scroll. He, like Draco, clearly wished to be somewhere else.
“This scroll has been enchanted by the Dark Lord himself, to magically reveal the heir to his throne three days after his untimely death. For now, we shall grieve the loss of the…” pause again. Draco was not having a great time up there. “... the greatest wizard of all time. Lord Voldemort. Say his name with me.”
The echo of his name boomed off thousands of lips. Hermione heard what they said out loud. But she also knew what they thought.
Heir.
***
The wake followed the funeral. Naturally, only pure bloods could attend.
Hermione hardly saw her rejection from such a dull party as a hardship. Working in a factory fixing old, hardly useful magical items, was a party in a park compared to that horrid event.
That was the hand she was dealt, post graduation from Hogwarts. Even with her outstanding marks, the only job she could find was essentially a sweat-shop in England. Everyone, but the pures, earned the same amount regardless. Voldemort really had taken a leaf from Stalin with his rule of the modern world. Be it a chip shop, factory, hinkypuff farm or nursing home, everyone of the lower levels was paid the same.
The amount being, hardly enough to live, if you must know.
She was stationed in a large office in the factory smelling of rust, dust and kneazle fur. It was big enough for many of her friends to work together, not that it was any of their aspirations to work on fixing broken self-stirring cauldrons, weather proof boots and old broomsticks. Still, at least she had company.
Theo also happened to manage the factory, which was owned by Draco Malfoy, who was elected the undertaker of any major establishments that employed the lesser breeds. Basically, it was his job to ensure that those under the pure bloods were not causing mischief.
She would have hated him for his role, but he rarely caused a fuss. Most of the time he sulked in his office, nursing a hangover from one of his famous all-nighters. Draco Malfoy was not only one of the richest men in the world, he was one of the most sought after bachelors. When he appeared, still dressed in a designer suit from the night before, clutching a bloody mary, you could often see the peppering of hickeys on his neck, or smell whiskey on his blazer.
Theo, however, was perfectly content being manager of the factory as well as the branch only open to half-bloods that specialised in Time-Turners, or the fixing of them, specifically, seeing as the old devices had been destroyed in one of the attacks on the ministry from the Order. It was desperate times then. When it was clear there was no winning, the Order turned their efforts on making things less bad for their future. They bombed what they could of the Department of Mysteries, aiming to decrease the likelihood of the Dark Lord discovering a new prophecy or contraption to ease methods of torture to find out information.
It was the least they could do.
Not one time turner had survived, but Voldemort had been adamant that they should be fixed. It was an always on project. And poor Theo had received many lashings at the quarterly meetings with The Senate when time and time again, he appeared with no good news.
Today’s project was an automatic tea set that, instead of spooning sugar into the porcelain cup, flung it into the person's face. Hermione had thought her third try at fixing the silly broken object was successful. The mouth full of sugar she promptly received proved otherwise.
“Take a break Herm’, you’ve been working on that thing all afternoon,” Ginny muttered to her right, poking the seemingly inactive The Monster Book of Monsters with her wand carefully.
Hermione scowled at the teaspoon as it slowly dipped the head into more sugar. “I actually would like a cup of tea… I’ll stop when I… Merlin, are you serious!” She managed to duck the next pelt of sugar and grabbed the teaspoon, throwing it half way across the office.
Some of the wizards working looked down for a moment, peering curiously at Hermione, but got back to work quickly.
“Sorry,” Hermione fussed.
“It’s okay,” Ginny said, tapping her shoulder with a new awkwardness she hated. “We’re all distracted today, what with the news.”
“Tell me about it. Not to say that I’ll miss you know who, he can rot in hell for all I care, but he was quieter towards the end at least. It’s been years since we saw a public execution of one of our kind or a targeted attack at muggleborns.”
“Who’d have thought Voldemort himself would go lax in age,” Ginny agreed.
“His followers are the worst of him,” Hermione whispered, dotting her eyes around the room for eavesdroppers. The price for treason or blasphemy was a dozen Cruciatus curses, and having had her share of the pain and agony spell in the past for her misbehaviour, she didn’t intend on getting caught again.
“Not all of them,” Ginny said, stroking the spine of the book with no luck. “Blaise isn’t so bad. Even Malfoy couldn’t be that bad. He cares more about sex and whiskey than pure blood domination.”
“Hmm,” Hermione managed. Not allowing herself to think on Malfoy. Not after the last few months.
The spoon she had walloped down the office clanged on her desk. Looking up, her body froze as the familiar warm eyes of hurt appeared.
“You dropped this, ’Mione,” Ron mumbled.
“Actually I threw it.”
“You okay?”
“I got angry.”
Ron shrugged. “Fair enough. Lots to be angry about.”
She was sure he didn’t mean to say it with a double meaning, but the look in his eyes screamed it. Hermione could only look down to her tea project, hoping he would leave. The sadness in his face was too much to bear.
Technically, she didn’t cheat.
They had broken up. He said the words, not her. Demanded they needed space and left her alone in their one-bed flat in the arse end of London (Walthamstow) and tottered off to his parents' Burrow.
Hermione might have partaken in a few wines and decided it would be a better idea to drag herself out of the house and nip down the pub for a good dose of distraction. Theo and her had bonded at work, at the after-hours socials, and he mentioned in passing there was a good band on at The Merry Monk that wasn’t playing heavily vetted propaganda. Hermione did not expect to get as blind drunk as she became. She also did not expect to be grinding with the man whose arms she fell into. She certainly did not expect to wake up in his delightfully expensive apartment in silk black sheets with wine and his kisses still on her lips.
The memory itself made her cringe.
She came clean at once. The guilt was eating her up inside. Ron tried to reunite them with the news. Claimed it was clear she was punishing herself for the past that she blamed herself for (therapy was suggested more times than sex in their flat). But Hermione was done. She knew if she truly loved Ron she wouldn’t have jumped to another man’s arms so quickly.
That was a month ago. The wound was still fresh. And news had spread to anyone who would listen about who she fell into bed with.
One time, she told herself. It was one time. An act of weakness fuelled by cheap white wine and very nice aftershave.
But that one had slowly morphed into a close second. And, just last week, another almost.
If she wasn’t careful it was going to happen again.
She had decided to ignore his owls. Blank him in the halls when she could.
But she knew deep down what would happen.
Quite frankly, in her deteriorating mental state, it was only a matter of days before it happened again.
When she looked up, Ron had thankfully left. Her eyes glazed over to the orange and black tulips he still left for her every week. The stone in her stomach sunk further.
“He’s not so bad now,” Ginny said, pushing out a smile. “Honest.”
“I feel like none of you can look at me,” Hermione sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
Ginny nodded, still not meeting her eyes. “I’ll admit you couldn’t have chosen a worse person to sleep with. But we all make mistakes.”
And here she was again. Back in the thick of the guilt. The urge to down a glass of muggle wine or a strong beaker of firewhiskey grew strong in her. The potions she was regularly downing to help her sleep whispered from her drawer at home.
Hermione Granger was one big hot mess.
“You don’t think whoever is chosen will continue with that god awful program the Carrows suggested, do you?”
Hermione shuddered at Ginny’s words. It was their worst fear. A recent motion was passed in The Senate for a new marriage program. Despite his objection to pure bloods mating with anyone lower than them, Voldemort’s last motion was to encourage it.
Inbreeding, it turned out, was very common between the pures. One nasty side effect was a jutting chin, others stupidity which often resulted in fascist motives, and the final was women’s wombs drying up. Infertility had become a serious issue amongst the pure bloods for the last half a decade. The recent motion suggested a forced marriage between half-bloods and pures. The Pure Bloods could technically marry who they wished, their cousins if they wanted, but half-bloods were now bound to only marry those of full magical blood. Hermione knew what was next, blood traitors and mudbloods. For the last decade, anyone on the right side of history had little time to have babies. Who would want to bring a child into a world ruled by the worst tyrant of all time? The birth rate generally was at an all time low. This meant all wizards and witches were dying out. And it appeared Voldemort had noticed.
Hermione read The Handmaid’s Tale in her study of classic literature, and this was all sounding eerily familiar. “They wouldn’t do that,” she said, hope clinging to her tone. “It’s not fully in motion. More than half the senate were against it, so chances are the new ruler will push it out the door.”
Ginny curled a straight red lock between her fingers, pushing the dead monster book to the reject pile. “Hopefully.”
An hour before 9pm, their official clock out time, Theo strutted inside, still wearing his black suit of mourning.
“Hullo you,” he said to Hermione. “Fancy a drink after work?”
“I don’t have the spare cash, Theo. Next week after payday maybe.”
“Babe,” Theo whispered, kneeling so he was out of sight of most the office. He tapped her knee with a finger. “You know if you need money, I can give it to you. What are friends for.”
Hermione pulled out her bottom lip playfully, feeling relaxed for the first time in days. “You only want me there to lure in a new conquest of your own,” she teased, lacing her fingers between his.
“Okay, ouch. Is the image of us dancing together like kryptonite to the town’s best and most gorgeous gays? Yes. Is it the only reason I hang out with you… no. You also offer very good advice and cook me muffins when it’s my birthday.”
“They were not actually for you, it was a bake sale, Theo.”
“Ah, I think that was all a guise, how else would you know banana nut muffins were my favourite, hmm?” he leaned in to plant a quick kiss to her cheek, then fluffed her hair playfully. “I see you don’t have enough money for Sleekeazy, either.”
“Go away,” she laughed, pushing him now. She caught Ginny’s confused glare behind him as he danced away.
“When did you become so pally with the boss?” Ginny asked, laughing a little.
“He’s not so bad,” Hermione shrugged. As a matter of fact, he really wasn’t. Not only was Theo one of the only death eaters who didn’t pursue any woman with a pulse (on the rare occasion he was known to have a one night stand with a woman, but he promised it was usually under the influence of a great deal of firewhiskey), he was also a very fair manager. He gave them muggle heaters, for one.
It was horribly cold in the offices. Voldemort had decided that magic to heat said factories was a luxury to be earned, and tracked all spells anyway, so would know if anyone cast a warming enchantment. Theo also allowed for lunch breaks, unlike some of the other factories her colleagues had worked in.
“Lavender thinks he’s okay,” Ginny commented casually. “She cut herself on an enchanted pair of knitting needles once and he fixed her up with his wand.”
Ah, yes, another delight of weak wands meant it was almost impossible to do simple tasks they once took for granted. Healing injuries, for example.
“I told you, he’s okay,” Hermione insisted.
“Unlike him.”
“Who?” Hermione asked, before her eyes fell on exactly who she meant.
Draco Malfoy, also dressed to the nines in a shapely black suit (likely from one of the premium dress makers) waltzed in, not looking at a soul but her as he paraded down the line of busy workers.
“I don’t think his face has moved in ten years,” Ginny snarled.
“Shh.”
“Don’t tell me you think he is worthy of camaraderie?”
“I didn’t say that,” Hermione said fast.
“I can accept a moment of misjudgement, but seriously Hermione, you are better than that.”
“Apparently not,” she mumbled to herself. Her night with Draco Malfoy had haunted her darkest dreams for a month.
Not because it was life changing. It was certainly different to Ron. Draco was forceful, all teeth and tongues. There was no tenderness there. It was that reason that she longed for a moment of escape again, for that was exactly what he granted her.
She didn’t have to think about her past and mistakes when he was fucking her.
She hated him. And he hated her. It was carnal and animalistic. It made her feel pathetic and wrong. It was what she deserved for her crimes.
Hermione tried therapy and it only solidified her belief. If she hadn’t helped Harry progress in the tournament, despite knowing the danger it presented, he would still be here. They would be looking at a very different future.
She knew the Mad-Eye Moody that presented to them was sketchy. She knew that there was something strange going on with the death of Barty Crouch. For Merlin's sake, she saw the dark mark light up the sky and still she helped Harry play a stupid game that resulted in his death, and the public execution of Dumbledore one week later.
She could have stopped it.
It was her fault.
So she did what any rational witch would do. She pretended everything was okay until it wasn’t.
A decade of life with Ron in squalor, stupid drinks with family and friends who often turned up with bruises and busted open lips. She couldn’t pretend this was all life was. Not when she was the reason for all of it.
It bubbled over after ten years and Ron, being the closest person to her, was the first to notice.
And then Draco Malfoy happened.
An escape into a moment of wildness that made her feel human again.
Still, it was wrong. It couldn’t happen again.
So why did she watch him walk to his office, admiring his shapely glutes in his suit? Maybe one more plunge into the dark waters was what she needed to pick her up again. Then she could sort her life out.
“Hermione, what do you think?” Ginny asked, looking worried when Hermione caught her glare.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said you should come over for dinner with mum and dad, they miss you. Ron… Ron misses you. It’s forgiven, Hermione. I mean it. We want to go back to how things used to be. Don’t you?”
She could only nod. Knowing deep down that was the last thing she wanted.
***
“Funny isn’t it, that out of everything, it was cancer of the brain that killed him,” Theo laughed as he dropped a glass of butterbeer into her hands.
“Mmm,” she agreed, clinking her glass with his. She was in that delicious middle-ground between tipsy and drunk now. The place she longed to be forever.
They were sitting outside the local pub near the factory. The watering hole for most of the employees, many of whom shot Theo warm looks, very thankful for his kind treatment.
“Your little friend needs to be careful about her own not-so-secret relationship, you know,” Theo said, following Hermione’s eyeline to the pub next door, where Ginny sat with Lavender, Ron, Dean and Seamus. She used to sit there once, laughing at nonsense with them.
“What do you mean?” Hermione asked casually, knowing exactly who he meant.
Theo lit a cigarette, passing her one, which she accepted, seeing as she was already a bit drunk. The first inhale washed away all her thoughts of anxiety.
“He isn’t exactly quiet about them when he’s had a few. It’s still illegal for blood traitors to mix with any of the pures.” He paused, holding his hands up. “Not that I agree.”
“Who do you think will be made heir?” Hermione said, purposefully changing the subject.
Theo let out an exhale of grey smoke, looking up to the stars. “It’s anyone’s bet, The Dark Lord didn’t exactly have favourites. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think it would be possible for the man to trust anyone but himself with his plans. My money’s on Bella. Or maybe Yaxley, seeing as he’s a politician through and through.”
“We are truly fucked either way.”
Theo nudged her. “Or, could be a wildcard like Draco. You never know. Ol’ Voldy always had a weird soft spot for him.”
“I don’t think he’d pick someone in their mid-twenties."
The music outside began to pick up, the howling from inside proving the band had started. With a wink, Theo took Hermione’s hand and pulled her along to the dancefloor, grinding against her as the rock music flooded the venue.
It was fine, for a while. Theo was handsy, but it wasn’t with intention. Occasionally, he’d plant a small kiss on her lips, but it was just to entice the men around them. He was right, it would piss them enough to approach him after a while. That was his game. Rile up the guys, make them think he wasn’t interested, then boom, they were on their way back to his apartment in Holborn in a flash.
It didn’t take long for him to find his next conquest. Theo danced with both Hermione and the beautiful blonde man for a while, until the firewhiskey began to cloud her senses and she felt the need for outside air.
She whispered that she was going for a ciggie, as Theo nodded, grinding more purposefully into the arse of the guy who pulled his jaw into a kiss.
Leaving the mass of bodies, she practically fell out into the outside air.
Long fingers wrapped around her waist, keeping her steady before she could tumble onto the harsh concrete floor.
As she snapped up, ready to thank her saviour, her breath was stolen from her all over again.
Hermione blinked, staring into the silvery eyes that glimmered back. For a moment, she wondered if a Greek god had popped into existence. She had never, in her life, seen such a handsome man.
He was unnaturally tall, slender and clearly worked out by the way his muscular arms pulsed a little under the crisp white shirt he wore.
When he straightened, he smirked, revealing a lovely set of sharp teeth. “You should be careful.”
“I was… just getting some air,” Hermione managed, allowing him to help her into one of the metal chairs in the smoking area outside. Shakily, she pulled out the cigarettes Theo had passed to her before, offering the tall stranger a tab.
He took one, smiling as he pulled it from the crumpled cardboard casing. “Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t smoke.” Without warning, he plucked the smoke from her lips and threw it into the road.
“Oh,” Hermione said, taken aback by his boldness. Before she could thank him for catching her, the dark-haired stranger turned on his leather pointed heel, walking away into the dark streets of London, a billow of grey smoke lifting to the air around him.
She blinked again, taking in the lingering scent of dark moss, leather and sandalwood. She wondered if he was a drunken apparition.
After a moment, she decided it was late and she was certainly too tipsy to stay and dance. Theo wouldn’t miss her. In the distance, she watched as Ginny, Ron and other friends bundled into a taxi. As Ron leaned inside, he caught Hermione’s eyes, and motioned her to follow, his face kind and forgiving.
All she found was guilt in his gaze and shook her head, forcing a half-arsed smile to appear on her lips.
He got in anyway, and the taxi zoomed off into the direction of East London. She had taken a new flat of her own in Croydon. Not exactly a safe or attractive area of London, but it was all she could afford. Merlin, a taxi back this time at night would have been too much to afford. The underground network had been severely neglected since Voldemort’s rule, but it was functional, she supposed. No more Knight Bus. They were only called for the Pures these days.
Gathering herself up, and pulling her cardigan around her body to protect herself from the autumnal gusts, she headed to the nearest station.
She passed the factory on her walk there. A faint orange glow at the peak of the building proved Draco was still there. Likely working on the endless paperwork he liked to neglect. Or maybe sleeping off another hangover.
Temptation brimmed.
Would it be so bad to pay him a visit?
Yes, yes it would.
Still, her heels changed direction, walking through the quiet offices and up to the elevator that reached the twelfth floor. Draco Malfoy’s office.
She paused at the end of the long corridor, hovering her hand over the brushed cherry wood.
She was going to kick herself for this in the morning.
But the faint wash of alcohol that swirled in her blood gave her enough confidence to continue.
Three knocks, and she boldly opened the door.
Draco was indeed home. Nursing a well worn glass of firewhiskey from the looks of it.
He was laying on his desk, his shirt open, revealing his muscular pale chest, including a light feather of hair where his pelvis shaped a V.
He looked over to her casually, lifting up on an elbow and cocking his head. “Granger? What do I owe the pleasure.”
“You know why I’m here,” she said, her tone more harsh than she realised.
“Big words from the witch who wouldn’t return my owls for weeks. And then you have the gall to speak to me at the funeral. Ballsy move, Granger, there were many witnesses.”
“Shut up, they don’t believe any of the rumours,” she sighed, throwing her knitted bag on the dark green sofa and walking to peer over him where he still lay on his desk.
He smirked at her, slowly lifting, not breaking his magnetic gaze as he sat upright. When his eyes drifted, it was to her neck, then shoulders. She wasn’t exactly the picture of good looks in what she wore.
A knee-length plain skirt and a blue Oxford shirt with a bobbly grey cardigan. Anyone below a pure was required to dress plainly by law, as to not bring attention to themselves. Even their haircuts were pre-approved these days. Jokes on them, Hermione’s hair could quite literally not be tamed.
Draco’s gaze became greedy, his pupils dilating as he popped her top button open. “You keep seeing me Granger and people will talk. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t care,” she breathed, closing her eyes as he tugged open another button.
“I think you like it, the idea of a man like me looking after you. That’s why you left Weasley. You wanted an upgrade.”
“That isn’t true and you know it,” Hermione hissed, slapping his hands away.
He kissed her before she could argue more. It was quick, fiery and full of want. He squirled his body so her legs were open, then slid her onto his lap, grinding his promptly engorged member through his trousers against her already aching core.
“I could look after you, Granger. They wouldn’t dare deny me my own witch. My family pull all the strings. There might even be a day we don’t have to hide it,” he purred, kissing her neck as he quickly finished unbuttoning her shirt. He threw it to the ground and grabbed her jaw, kissing her again. He was all tongue and teeth, groaning as she made the sound of a moan into his mouth.
“Fuck Granger, i’ve been thinking about this every night since we…”
“Shut up,” she hissed, kissing him again, moving them so it was her bottom on the desk and Draco was the one in charge. This was how she liked it with him, it appeared. A lack of control.
She wanted to forget everything. And he could grant her that. If he just stopped talking.
“You can’t just strut back into my life with those gorgeous legs and expect me to forget that you’ve been ignoring me all month,” Draco growled against her lips, lifting her skirt and rubbing the sensitive flesh on her thighs. His grip was bruising.
“I had a lot on my mind… and when were you the man to say no to no-strings-attached sex?”
“Is that what this is?” he frowned, pulling back a little to observe her.
She nodded. Not feeling guilty. It was easier this way. He would learn that soon.
“Granger,” he sighed, pressing his brow to hers. “I might be the only man on this earth who can protect you. Don’t make this an act that animals partake in.”
“You don’t want to, fine,” Hermione huffed, going to leave.
He grabbed her arm hard before she could, still frowning. “What do you want?”
“Right now, you.”
“Just sex?”
“Yes.”
“And we can’t talk about anything else that you whispered in my ear that night,” Draco teased.
“Draco…”
“Fine. You want sex, bend over.”
Hermione caught his eyes, wetting her lips. He meant it to be derogatory, but that was exactly what she wanted. Simple sex. The angier and less personal the better.
To his surprise, she silently walked backwards to the desk, hitched up her skirt and bent over, reaching her arms to grip the other side of the desk.
“Fucking hell, Granger.” His voice was as shaky as his hands when they grazed her thighs, parting her legs as he stepped between them.
She heard him unbuckle his belt behind her, and heat flooded to her core.
“I usually like to look in the eyes of my lover when I fuck them,” he whispered close to her ear.
“I’m not your lover,” she said.
With a deep growl, he pressed the tip of his cock to her entrance, teasing her with impalement. She wiggled at the sensation, craving the escape she desired. Slowly, he thrust into her. Giving her a moment to acclimatize to his great size, he bent, kissing her bare back. When he wasn’t fast enough, she moved her own hips, encouraging him to continue.
“You want it hard, fine,” Draco snarled, slamming into her in a powerful thrust.
It was all lust from there. He beat into her relentlessly, making every piece of furniture in the room shake. She moaned gratefully for the sensation, closing her eyes as pleasure slowly filled her to the brim.
Just when she was in the land of bliss, he stopped, pulling out of her enough to spin her around, grab her cheek and kiss her again. She mumbled into his lips, but he didn’t stop kissing her as he fucked her, trying to be gentle when she wanted pain.
“Draco,” she complained, “harder.”
“Fucking hell, Granger, I won’t last long if you keep shaking like that,” he breathed, thrusting harder and faster into her. She pulled his hand off her cheek and placed it on her neck, encouraging him to squeeze. When he wasn’t giving her enough force, she grit her teeth, deciding there was only one remedy for this.
Pushing him back, she pointed at the desk, commanding him to lay down. He kissed her again, pulling her down onto his lap as he entered her again. Leaning down so they were chest to chest, he thrust hard into her, his eyes closing as the friction was tantalizing.
“Slap me, Draco,” she asked timidly. She was more drunk when they had sex the first time, so he was far more open to throwing her around his bedroom. This time, they were both on the borders of tipsy. She only hoped he would be as rough.
“Granger, that’s not my style,” he said, trying to pull her into a kiss again. She ripped away, riding him ruthlessly.
“Do it, it’s hot,” she asked, pretending it was for more carnal reasons.
He slapped her ass lightly, and she made a rewarding moan which encouraged him to do it again, harder this time.
“Again,” she whispered.
The next slap was what she wanted. The pain surged through her body making her shake and clench around him. Leaning down, she kissed his neck, biting his earlobe. She moved his hand back to her neck, encouraging the pressure she wanted.
This time, he complied. He was too lost in the throes of their love making to argue.
She looked down at his body, drinking in his handsome figure. He cleaned up very well. Clearly working out regularly. He also had a delightful cock and knew how to use it.
He reached his other hand to rub circles around her clit, and she felt him pause for a moment, before slowing his thrusts up into her. He was close, she could feel it. But she wanted more.
She rode him harder, desperate to reach the state of oblivion. As she closed her eyes, close to her own tipping point, a flash of the handsome stranger entered her mind. She thought of the way his long fingers wrapped around her waist, the flash of his sharp white teeth, the way he had thrown her cigarettes away.
Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t smoke.
The cord inside her stomach tightened, and just like that, she saw stars. Her climax ripped through her.
“Fuck, Granger, you’re… fucking perfect,” Draco hissed, pulsing inside her, filling her with warmth as he joined her with his own escape.
She collapsed down onto Draco’s hard chest, not arguing when he wrapped his strong arms around her and kissed her cheek.
A pop of air pulled at her and she was suddenly in Draco’s house, she remembered it from before.
Silk sheets were soft against her shins, a welcome feeling compared to the hard wood they were on before.
Draco rolled her over to her back, kissing her lips once, then her bare shoulder.
He lifted from the bed, commenting that he was getting them water.
Alone, she reached for Draco’s fully magical wand, and cast a birth control spell to herself. She usually relied on the old muggle pills when she was with Ron, seeing as neither of them had powerful enough wands or money for the potion. Since their breakup, she had stopped taking it.
Staring at the ceiling she breathed in the rich scent of Juniper and cedarwood. Draco was a comfortable escape for now, she had to admit.
But her reasoning for his company was not something she was proud of.
When she was with him, she felt dirty.
And that was exactly what she wanted.
To bathe in the guilt and depravity.