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“'Cock', Granger? Unless Pansy gave you a very special assignment I'm not aware of, that's fairly salacious. Even by Prophet standards.”
Hermione startled as soon as his voice broke the silence of their shared office, hunching over her desk instinctively. “What? No. I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I’m wearing my glasses,” Draco said, amused by her denial. “I know what I saw.”
She was well aware he was wearing the stylish black frames, which she found more attractive than she cared to admit. Hermione suspected he didn't even need them, but all attempts thus far to prove her theory had been foiled.
“I clearly saw you write the word ‘cock’," he continued, relaxing back into his chair, hands locked behind his head. His posture was casual, but she had his full attention. “In your neat, perfectionist handwriting. Whatever are you working on, my most esteemed colleague?”
Hermione took three deep, measured breaths. Draco’s relentless nature was part of the reason they were such a brilliant investigative team, but it was also exceedingly annoying.
“Okay. Okay.” Her fingers splayed over the words she’d written, as though the damage wasn’t already done. “Lavender brought me these books. Rubbish romance novels, really. Horribly sexist and unrealistic. And I just thought I could do better than that. So, I’ve been...practicing.”
Draco sat up straight in his chair again, elbows resting on the desk that pushed up against her own. His chin (no longer pointy at all, an observation that frequently vexed Hermione) balanced on his clasped hands. “Practicing.”
“Yes. Practicing. I’ve been doing some creative writing, okay? That’s a perfectly normal hobby for a writer to have in their free time, and I’m not ashamed of the fact that it contains explicit sexual content.” She bravely made the last assertion despite the heat she felt radiating off of her cheeks.
He gave her a calculating gaze. “Say it out loud.”
“Say what?”
“Say ‘cock’.”
Hermione fumed silently. The clock on the wall behind his desk (charmed silent, because neither could stand ticking) marked off twelve long seconds.
“Cock.”
His lips curved into a roguish smile, the one he reserved for any delightful opportunity to tease her.
“Hermione Granger, you naughty thing.”
She yanked at her desk drawer, ready to shove the source of her embarrassment out of sight, but he stilled her with a hand held out in placation.
“Wait, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I won't tease anymore." He drew a hand down his face, willing a mask of sincerity into place. "My curiosity is killing me, Granger. Read me some of it.”
“In the first place, absolutely not.” She rubbed a thumb in a circle at one temple, attempting to soothe the sudden throbbing headache. “Second, it’s not going well. I—well, I find it's easier to write more...concupiscent material after a drink. I’ll work on it later.”
He contemplated her for a long moment before opening his own desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Ogden’s Finest, and conjuring a glass. He unscrewed the top, poured a generous measure, and nudged across the divide from his desk to her own.
“There you are.”
Hermione gaped at him. “I’m not going to drink here, Draco. I’m at work.”
“I’m very aware. You can write about ‘straining erections’ here, but having a drink is a bridge too far?”
“Well, yes. My work is done; it’s not as if I’m shirking my duties. I’m...filling time.” She glared at the recognition of his very specific example. “How long were you spying on my writing?”
One corner of his mouth ticked up. “Long enough that I’m desperate for you to read it out loud to me.”
“Not happening.”
“Come on. Now I know. And you know that I know. If you don’t share, my imagination will fill in the blanks. I daresay it’s more concupiscent than your own.” The emphasis in his taunt made her eyes narrow further. “And you won’t dare leave early, because Hermione Granger’s flexible moral compass allows her mind to wander at work to write smut, but prevents her from skiving off, even if she’s nothing left to do.”
Hermione said nothing because it was true.
“So. Lay it on me.”
Her head was pounding and she knew he wouldn’t let up now. Draco’s ineffable tenacity made him a distressingly competent journalist. It would serve him right to read it, Hermione thought. Perhaps it would correct some of his assumptions about her innocence. Her fingers hovered over the notebook for a moment.
“I refuse to read it out loud. But you may as well look, if you’re so curious. You can read the rest of this page.”
She pushed it across the desk before she could change her mind. A deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth did little to settle Hermione’s nerves as she gauged his reaction.
She had observed Draco reading hundreds of times; from their early school days, to their tentative eighth-year truce, to long shifts beating a deadline together. Employment struggles were an issue for those on the wrong side of the war, and Pansy—flush with inheritance and guilt—had seen an opportunity. She purchased The Prophet before they’d even graduated and Draco joined her right away.
Hermione slogged through a frustrating year at the Ministry before realizing it would be far more efficient to leverage the power of the media to effect change. Ensuring The Prophet’s perspective was well-rounded had been an extra draw, but she quickly learned Draco shared her goals for transparency in the wizarding world.
They’d spent the last five years pushing each other to the same high standards they had in school.
At least, that’s how Hermione viewed it. Draco called it “competing”.
Pansy called it foreplay.
They both resolutely ignored her.
After all the time they spent together, Hermione was attuned to the nuances of his expressions and mannerisms. She knew what Draco looked like when he was reading something mind-numbingly dull and when something captivated him wholly.
She bit the inside of her lip, watching as he pored over her words.
“Merlin.” He pulled the knot of his tie side to side, loosening it with practiced ease. “Salazar, Granger. This is..." He swallowed the hoarseness in his voice, and her eyes, already focused on the mesmerizing play of his fingers over knotted silk, caught every movement. "Evocative.”
“That's the point,” she said dryly.
He cleared his throat. "Right. Well, you said you're stuck. Let's workshop this. Put our heads together, shall we?"
No amount of enlightenment was worth the copious amount of jargon Draco had picked up from Muggle conferences and workshops. He found the buzzwords and phrases snappy, applying them liberally to the workplace. She regretted her initial enthusiasm every time Draco referred to himself as a “thought leader” or insisted they take a “deep dive”. His delivery of “think outside the box” was very earnest, with just a touch of pride, as though he impressed himself with such fresh cleverness.
“Absolutely not. It's mortifying enough that I let you read some of it. You can't be serious.”
Draco selected his favorite pen from the ornate jar on his desk, placing it on top of the notebook and folding his hands over it. "I assure you, I'm very, very serious about my willingness to collaborate on this project with you."
“You've lost the plot."
“Plot isn’t really what we're looking for, is it?” He raised one brow and the opposite side of his mouth pulled up simultaneously, as though by some invisible, maddening connection.
“We are not looking for anything.” She leaned across her desk to snatch her notebook from beneath his fingers. “I’ll do just fine on my own, thank you very much.”
“I can offer you constructive criticism from the male perspective.”
“Mmm. That's exactly what female erotica is missing. More male gaze.”
Palms up, shrugging, he ignored her sarcasm. “As the only one in the room who can speak to firsthand experience with ‘rigid tumescence’, I have to say I'm disappointed.” He shook his head with a tsk of his tongue and played his trump card. “I’ve never known you to shy away from a research opportunity, Granger.”
She tapped the end of her pen on the desk, watching the tip retract and reappear. He'd been peeking for at least the last two pages, the bastard. “I know what you're doing.”
“What?” Draco was a picture of innocence.
She pointed her pen across the desk at him. “Stop it.”
"Stop what? Offering you a balanced perspective? Being helpful? Taking an interest in your interests?" He looked especially pleased with himself at the last, giving her a smug raise of his brows. “Besides, you know pushing the envelope is in my wheelhouse, Granger.”
Hermione shuddered at the excess of idioms, but her fingers twitched over her notebook. She knew exactly what he was doing. It didn’t stop her from considering it.
He must have sensed her waffling.
"I'm not teasing you, Granger. Not really. I just think this could be fun. You already know we write well together.” His expression softened. “And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend my evening with."
She took a sip of whiskey. Then another. She felt half-drunk already, tipsy from the intensity of his gaze and sparking at the openness of his admission.
Draco was very still, but his eyes followed every movement.
She waited for a breath too long. She could read the vulnerability on his face like a book. He was on the knife's edge of shifting back into a full grin, prepared to laugh off the tension as a joke.
"Okay," she said, passing the notebook back. “Okay. Give me an example of your input and I'll decide from there.”
Draco exhaled, and a small, touched smile lit up his face. “Thank you, Granger.”
He conjured a second glass and poured, taking a couple of healthy swallows before settling in to read some more. He considered the page, furrowed brow occasionally lifting in surprise. Nimble fingers twiddled the quill he kept out of habit. He brushed it absentmindedly across a lip bitten in concentration before dropping it, making notes with the ballpoint he'd come to embrace.
It wasn't often that Hermione had the luxury of paying such close attention for so long. Sure, she'd cast a surreptitious glance across her desk when her mind wandered now and then, but then she'd return to her work. She couldn't bring herself to even pretend to focus on anything else at the moment. Knowing he was reading her most prurient thoughts was both thrilling and harrowing.
Which part, for example, caused him to pause, eyes slowly lifting, searing into her, before silently returning to the page?
Draco gasped, apparently struck by inspiration. He jotted something with a flourish. Finally, he tipped back the last of his whiskey, sliding the notebook back. “What do you think?”
She felt the heat of his gaze in turn, as he watched her own body’s response to his notes. Hermione set her expression to appear unfazed, but her pulse skyrocketed and her breathing quickened. She twisted two fingers into her curls, desperate for something to ground her as tension and arousal built.
It was one thing to write filthy words and lustful acts herself. It was quite another to see how he played off of it. Draco was in the forefront of her mind, holding a starring role in the mental imagery of his contributions.
Of course he had to be good at everything.
Hermione used her thumb to mark the page, closing the notebook slowly. She took a visual accounting of their office, broken up by the last evening sunlight filtering through the shades: The awards on the walls. The framed Luna Lovegood paintings Draco had bid exorbitantly to win. The most nap-conducive sofa she'd ever experienced. The private Floo they shared; the delicate silver Malfoy heirloom that contained its powder.
These were the tangible, familiar components of her professional world. Her sanctuary teetered on a precipice, and any damage could be irreparable.
The last consideration—the one that had somehow become the most important to her—expectantly awaited her response.
"Okay," she said.
"Granger, no."
"What?"
"He can't just enter her like that. Like a—like a randy teenage boy with singular focus."
"Why not? That primal desire, just being overcome with the need to fuck and be fucked"—she looked up, noticing his lips part at her impassioned description—"well. It can be very heady."
"Quite," he said, a little breathless. "But she should come at least once before any ‘turgid members’ touch any, er, ‘glistening petals’.” Draco eyed her over the rim of his insufferable glasses. "Really, Granger? Fuck's sake. Just because you know these words doesn't mean you have to use them."
She glared at him, unwilling to mention how many glasses of wine had been consumed before those words spilled to paper, and refusing to cringe at their utterance.
"I am open to constructive criticism. When delivered positively."
"I'm positive those adjectives have to go. The nouns too, actually. Let's go back to the drawing board on those. Honestly, Granger. Do you want someone—in the throes of passion—to part your supple thighs, take a look at you in all your inevitable glory, and wax poetic about the glistening of your petals?"
"Inevitable, hmm?"
"I lose sleep, Granger."
They transitioned to the sofa under the pretense that it would be easier to work together sitting side by side.
Draco pointed to a sentence. “Do you always come from this?”
“That’s not really any of your business,” she said automatically, hoping it sounded less prim to him than it did to her.
“Then that’s a no. Why would you do this to poor Gladys, Hermione? Don’t subject her to subpar lovemaking. Why would you not—” He balanced the notebook on his knee, scribbling. "Here. What about this?"
She skimmed over his addition. "Right off the bat?"
"Why not?"
"They’ve never slept together before. That’s a little intimate, isn’t it?"
"He should want to make a good impression. Like a job interview."
"Like an interview," she repeated faintly.
“Yes, Granger. He should go down on her first. Like eating her cunt is the job he wants.”
Hermione was stunned into silence for a moment. Before she could dig too deeply into his logic, he continued.
“Or is orgasming from that alone, especially with a new partner”—he pointed at the offending paragraph again—“consistent with your experiences?"
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it, and examined her fingernails.
"I think it's safe to say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," he smirked. "So to speak."
She found her voice again. "You're awful."
"I know," he agreed pleasantly.
"The worst. That was terrible."
"Dreadful," he nodded, with sincere regret.
"You can't keep doing that."
"You have my word. I will try to restrain myself." He peered slyly over the rim of his glasses at her. "I will try so hard. So hard for you."
"Malfoy!"
"That was it. I’m done," he laughed. "But in all seriousness, a witch deserves at least one orgasm before a cock has even touched her. In fact, wait. Hang on.” He made some more swift, confident strokes with his ballpoint. “This. This is better.”
She considered, tapping the page thoughtfully before making some notes of her own. "Why not this, then?"
He glanced at it, then back at her. "At the same—wait, like this?"
His pen flashed and a crude sketch came to life in the top margin.
She bit her lip, nodding.
Draco slipped a finger in his loosened tie, freeing it entirely. He tugged it smoothly from his collar and slipped the top button of his shirt. "That’s very intriguing."
Hermione took issue with his word choice toward the end. "You can only say ‘suck’ and ‘lick’ so many times. It’s too repetitive."
"‘Cock’ and ‘cunt’ certainly make frequent appearances."
"That's different. Besides, you're the one who objected to flowery imagery."
"Hmm." He gave her a cheeky grin. "What about arsehole? What sort of flowery imagery can you use there?"
"Not much," she admitted.
"Pucker—"
"It's not necessary," she interrupted. "I'm not writing about that. Not...not for this piece, anyway."
Draco steepled his fingers, pressing his lips to them. He cleared his throat. Swallowed. "I see. Maybe we can put our heads together on that another time. Circle back to it."
Draco vanished their takeaway containers. He nudged her long-abandoned heels out of the way and reclaimed one end of the sofa she'd stretched across.
"It's good, Granger. Really good."
"Thank you. Your input was actually helpful; it’s better than before."
"I was just a second set of eyes.” He pressed a thumb to her insole. “May I?”
"Merlin, yes."
He settled her feet in his lap, rubbing with the perfect amount of pressure to make her entire body melt. She barely restrained a moan and from the look he gave her, he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Why did you offer to help me?"
His hands didn’t stop kneading, and his question in return was immediate. "Why were you writing it in the office where I could see it?"
It's tonight, Hermione thought. This thing that they'd danced around—the hesitance, the potential complications, the precarious comfortability of their status quo—tonight they would cross some lines. Or perhaps Draco would disabuse her of the notion that he had any interest in her, assure her she’d misread things, and they’d each Floo home to empty flats alone.
While she waged an internal battle, he wavered and sighed. He moved a hand to her ankle to give a single gentle squeeze. He surveyed the room much like she had earlier, avoiding eye contact.
"I'm not trying to take advantage, Granger. I enjoy your company and ruffling your feathers. But I'm not going to invite myself back to yours to do further research or anything like that, if that's what you're worried about."
To walk away now that an opportunity had so clearly presented itself would feel like closing a door.
The door should probably be shut, she thought. Closed and locked. They worked too well together, and neither would know what to do without their work. It would be unprofessional; that's why she'd never acted on any interest before.
But Hermione's moral compass was flexible.
So she said, “I appreciate that. Would you like to, though? Come back to mine."
His fingers tensed around her ankle and his eyes snapped to hers.
Before he could speak, she continued. "I'm not going to pretend like I’m asking for research. And it’s not a one-off, or at least, that’s not what I’m hoping for. I like your company, too. Inexplicably," she added, at the hint of a sly smile.
Draco shifted her feet off of his lap, standing and lacing his fingers with hers to help her up. He pulled her close; closer than they’d ever stood. Flush against his body. Her heart, already racing from her bold move, beat wildly in her chest.
His free hand curled around her chin, thumb brushing across her lips and then her jaw. Fingers carefully sank into her curls to push them back, closing into a fist and tugging just enough to make her gasp. Draco chuckled, tilting his head and nuzzling her neck. His lips grazed her ear and she shivered. “The good news is we already know each other quite well, so there’s no worry about anything being too intimate.”
Hermione slid her fingers around his neck, grasping silky hair. She pulled him into a kiss, and the soft, pleased sound he made was dizzying. It seemed impossibly sweet for something that sent licks of heat through her whole body. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, and she sucked at his perfect cupid’s bow, so distracting she could draw it from memory. She smiled against his lips, pressing one more kiss to his mouth before catching his hand again and leading him toward the Floo.
“Let’s go see how good of an impression you make.”