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It starts with an idea.
"Are you ready?"
"I am." Hermione's eyes flutter shut when Draco kisses her neck. "You promised no distractions."
"Did I?" Another kiss is dropped, this one with more force, and he nips at her collarbone before sucking so hard she nearly loses her concentration.
His intent, most likely.
Draco wouldn't know how to play fair if his life depended on it.
Bastard.
"I don't remember that." His lips tickle the skin beneath her ear. "Consider this part of your final test."
Legilimens.
Draco begins with a push.
It nearly steals the breath from her lungs, but Hermione remains the picture of serenity. He's trying to rattle her. And though Hermione has never been afraid, there's power in the brute strength Draco wields to test her mind. His fearlessness, borne from knowledge and experience, stretches higher and wider than her mental walls can reach.
But tonight's not about the fight. Tonight is a test Hermione intends to pass.
So she pulls him in—it's easier than keeping him out.
In six months, she has become better than any of his past students, but it's not because Draco has taken it easy on her.
He has not.
Far from it.
"You're a terrible student, Granger."
It's not the compliment she takes it as, but Hermione knows it's not the insult he intends it to be either.
Now that he's inside, Draco explores her mind like he has never been there before.
She's devoted countless hours to building both the wall and this place. Much more than what was required by the Minister. It's unbreakable, not because she can lock everyone out, but because they would never know what to look for should they ever get in.
Hermione calls the thoroughness a compulsion, complex and meticulous, but really her mind is just layers upon layers of secrets and memories hidden within a labyrinth. It is full of dead ends and artificial shortcuts, but it also has memories—both fabricated and true—hiding in plain sight.
Genius, really.
Final test: show me a fantasy. One you want and one you don't. I'll pick which is which.
Hermione presents two floating orbs the size of marbles hovering above her hand.
Draco chooses the first.
She's scrambling to get away, a mess of torn clothes, voice hoarse from screaming. He catches her ankle and yanks her back. She tries to fight but her body is tired. Her words plead for him to stop, but her body gives permission he's—
"No need to go on, Granger. You don't want this."
Even in her mind, Draco sounds smug.
He thinks he's won, but she knows otherwise.
"You're wrong."
Draco's smirk heightens the dangerous gleam in his eyes when they resurface after validating his incorrect choice. Had he been a stranger, Hermione would have bolted without looking back, but he's not, and she's intrigued by his response.
The art of losing has never been his strong suit.
When he circles her, Hermione feels bold in the same reckless way that brought her back to him after that fateful first lesson.
"You've surprised me."
Hard to do when he's seen her every thought and vice versa, but her mind has been pulling her in the direction of some of her darker desires. Things that were just faint thoughts are now much clearer. Bolder. Strong enough to consider.
Or let him consider it.
Draco's been testing her boundaries for months. The division between them narrows long enough for Hermione to forget where they should go. What they should do. He hasn't changed one bit. This hasn't pulled him in the direction of being a kind or gentle man.
That's not who he is. That's not why she wants him.
"I passed."
"So you did."
In the span of a breath, the desk digs into her back, her skirt is around her waist, and her knickers fall down around her ankles.
Draco sinks into her and her legs shake as she exhales on a groan. As rough as he is—as they both can be with each other—he's consistently gentle in these moments.
Until he's not.
His rhythm is punishing, demanding, borderline painful. Hermione's sure to have bruises in the morning from how tight he's holding her hips, but she loves it. Loudly. Spots are dancing in her vision when Draco abruptly stops, pulls her up by her arms, and lifts her off the desk with his hands on her arse and his cock still deep inside of her.
She barely has time to wrap her arms and legs around him and hold on before he's back to it. Setting his own pace, he uses her body like it's made for him, grinding his pelvis against hers.
The position, the brute strength he shows by fucking her with ease like this, the friction on her clit—it all sends her hurling into oblivion quicker than she wants. His growl vibrates against her ear when she comes. Shaking, she fists his hair tight enough to make him stutter.
A brutal myriad of titillating emotions washes over her.
Hermione isn't like this. Never this sensitive.
Not until him.
Because he knows her—knows what to do and how to do it. He knows how to make her toes curl.
Which is what they're doing when he puts her down, bends her over the desk, and slides back in, fucking her with a new goal in mind: his own satisfaction.
Draco pulls her hair so hard it makes her grip the edge of the desk.
Neither let go.
Her legs are wobbling on the floor. He's rough. They're both loud, sounds of slapping skin and moans create a chorus of mutual enjoyment that reverberates between the walls. When he slows down, trying to hold out, Hermione tightens around him like a vice.
"Fuck, Granger. Stop."
"No."
Hermione pushes back on his cock, rolling her hips as much as she can in this position, but it's enough to send Draco into a frenzy, pumping into her with short, brutal strokes. She turns her head to the side, pressing her cheek against the cool wood and catches the sight of Draco with his head thrown back. The lean line of his neck looks inviting to her lips, her fingers—her teeth. But she can't reach it.
For as rough as he is, he's quiet when he comes, holding her hips painfully tight and letting his release pump into her until the tension bleeds from his frame.
When Draco relaxes, it's the softest Hermione will ever see him. It's a look she knows well, one of satisfaction that lasts but a few seconds. His tiny, cocky grin returns.
He's grating.
Insufferable.
When they're separated, righted, and cleaned up, Hermione picks up her shoe and grimaces.
"I liked these and you broke the heel."
"We're even." He settles on the sofa in his office and beckons her to him with a crooked finger that will surely end up under her skirt again before the end of the night. "You tried to strangle my cock."
"Better than your throat, hmm?" Hermione straddles his lap. "I can do it again. More often than our weekly lessons since I've passed now."
Draco's probing her, not diving into her mind, but searching her face. "Your real fantasy?"
"What about it?"
"Is that what you want?" He looks into her eyes. "Is that what you like?"
"Yes." Hermione hums the word while leaning in for a kiss. "Give up complete control against my will. I'll only know if I try."
Draco draws her in, pulling her bottom lip between his teeth. "I can do that for you, but you're not ready."
"You're wrong."
"I'm not." His hands slide up her thighs and he grips her arse, grinding against her centre. "You can receive, but you don't know how to take."
"I would be asking you to take."
"How can I take when I know all you do is give?" One of his hands leaves her arse, rounding her thigh before slipping between her legs. "How can I push when all you do is pull me in willingly? You'll never say no to me in any way that would convince me you mean it. You'll kill the fantasy before we can act it out."
Draco slips two fingers under her skirt, rubbing the wet spot on her knickers. Hermione closes her eyes.
"You're a giver, Granger. You don't know how to be selfish. And that's the key to taking. It's about the pull of power, knowing they can't get away no matter how hard they try. There's control in it and the peace found in release."
That sounded dangerous and scary but… thrilling in an inexplicable way.
"Have you done it before?"
"No, but I've thought about it. Extensively." The look in his eyes is almost wild. "With you."
Hermione gulps.
"But." Draco slips a finger under her knickers and teases her. She sucks in a breath. "You have to learn to surrender your body as you do your mind. You have to learn how to take for yourself in order to know if the risk of letting go is worth the reward. But that's just not who you are."
Draco tilts her chin up, turns her head away and nips at her jawline, whispering in her ear while rubbing her more insistently. He pushes one finger inside of her heat.
"But I'll tell you what." A second finger stretches her. "Take me and I'll consider your fantasy."
"I don't think I'll—"
"You will."
His voice is low like a gravelly hum, his smile wicked, and it widens when he curls his fingers and makes her moan.
It takes three weeks for Hermione to recognise Draco's plan of action.
Embarrassing.
But in her defence, she's been busy making sure the Minister's office runs smoothly despite the sheer volume of incompetence around her.
With foreign diplomats arriving for a meeting regarding worldwide terrorism efforts, she's barely had time to harass Draco about his late report for the Minister or his office's budget for the next fiscal year. She's been too busy to even see him, and he's been a virtual ghost with his second in command attending staff meetings by proxy.
The first excuse: big case.
Reasonable, given his position.
The fourth excuse: family emergency.
It makes her squint.
Draco's relationship with his parents is hard to describe. He loves them, but they agree on nothing, least of all his career and his vocal lack of desire to marry and sire children. The emergency must have been his mother's excuse to see him outside of their biweekly dinners.
She does that sometimes.
The seventh excuse—lost his quill—is the most ridiculous of them all. It activates her suspicion.
Draco's avoiding her. Up to this point he has only done that for a few reasons: planning, crossing some invisible line in his head that likely should put him in Azkaban, or he's already in the midst of a scheme.
With Draco Malfoy, it's hard to determine which.
Still, Hermione is too busy to hunt him down and demand answers until after the diplomats leave. But when she does, she figures out his vanishing act was due to the third option.
Scheming.
On her first free night since finishing Occlumency lessons, she dresses exactly as he likes and comes through his Floo. Draco's skimming a book when he looks up, smirks, and goes back to reading.
Odd.
He should have pounced.
There are no rules to what they've been doing, no titles given, but Draco's as picky as he is prickly and possessive.
There's no one else.
She knows this.
But when Hermione plucks the book from his hand and attempts to start the night off with a kiss, he catches her by the chin.
"You're going to have to take."
He nips her lip with his teeth and that jogs her memory.
Starvation will force any animal from their natural habitat.
Hermione's sure that's what Draco's attempting to do to her.
But she's not an animal.
And even if she were, Hermione is more prey than predator. Trying to force her to push when she has only ever pulled lies so far outside of her comfort zone that it's practically on another planet.
She won't.
She can wait him out.
She's not the only one starving.
But there's a problem with Hermione's stubborn logic: going from having regular, mind-clearing sex to nothing is an issue she is not adequately prepared to handle.
It only takes a few days before she's snapping at interns. After a week, she's touching herself nightly before bed. Then in the mornings.
Spent but hollow.
Hermione starts biting her nails again. During dinner at The Burrow, she scares Ron by cutting him down with words when he comments on her mood. The stress Draco usually fucks away settles tense in her limbs.
By the second week, she realises he knows.
Draco smirks when she eviscerates the Ministry Librarian for causing a meeting to run late with idiotic questions—professionally, of course—but she scowls, apologises, and redoubles her efforts to avoid giving him the satisfaction of victory.
She can do this.
Her will is stronger than his.
Right?
Perhaps not.
Now that Draco knows she's on edge, he begins to push.
He comes out of hiding and teases her, pretending he's giving in only to stop when she's desperate and panting for him to do something.
He makes that same stupid demand.
Take it.
Give in to the pull of nature.
Draco turns up everywhere, wearing that dark smirk as he corners her like prey. He attends every staff meeting, appears in her office daily, and at her home each night, filling her mind with images of her taking everything he has to offer.
In his mind's eye, he's trapped, nowhere to go, and she looks particularly wild with power.
It's… tempting.
He's a surprise guest at Seamus' birthday party. His hand sits high on her thigh as he converses with Theo and Blaise. When Hermione shocks him with a wandless charm, she knows it hurts. His hand turns as red as her cheeks, but Draco's smile only grows wider.
He wants more.
She often forgets he doesn't mind pain.
Likes it, even.
Draco attends the Ministry's garden charity event with a charming smile and promises a million Galleon donation while he's teasing her beneath the table. He stops just before she sees stars.
This goes on for another week. He toys with her like a cat playing with its meal: not hungry, just enjoying the sight of it struggling to survive.
Hermione might be his prey but she has the advantage of knowing so much about her predator.
His habits.
Preferences.
What grabs his attention.
What Draco Malfoy finds irresistible.
And Hermione becomes everything in one. It's not hard.
As complicated as his desires are, and as muddy as the depths of his morals may be, Draco is a simple man.
"Good morning." Hermione's hand glides over the top of his polished wood desk. "Your report was due two days ago and I'm here to collect. I'm not leaving until it's in my hand."
He stops short when he sees her standing by his chair early in the morning. Her hair is down, skirt at perfect, regulation length—though it does hug her form—and her blouse has the top two buttons undone. Her wand is nestled in the holster on her shoulder, and her heels are intimidatingly high but don't add nearly enough to overtake him.
Prim. Proper. Strong. Infuriating.
This is how he likes her best.
"Granger."
He blinks twice when she walks around his desk and lifts herself onto it despite the papers splayed across the top. Draco locks the door, drops his briefcase, and steps up to her. His hardening cock presses against her leg when he places his hands on either side of her hips and leans in.
"Wear this again once you're done fighting the pull."
"You're pushing me." She pushes him back to cross one leg over the other and shifts, knowing his hand will trail up to touch what he likes.
"Is that what you think?" Draco does exactly as she anticipates: his hand slides down the dip of her spine and moves lower. "I'm merely pulling you in the direction of your own interests. Allow yourself to indulge in some of the darker thoughts I know you have."
"I—"
Draco's kiss is devastating.
She wonders how close he is to breaking. When he grabs her arse and pulls her flush to rut against her centre, she can feel his willpower crumbling. Hermione curls her legs around him and locks them both in place. The spark of power found in the slight tremble of his hands gives her a hint of what he's been talking about all along.
She could do it.
She could take.
"You could give in," she whispers, reaching to loosen his tie until he stops her with a hand over hers. "I know you want to."
Draco doesn't confirm nor deny her accusation.
"Your stubbornness and desire to cling to societal norms is depriving us both unnecessarily." He nips her ear. "Accept it. You know you want to know what it's like."
"I—"
"You can and you're almost to the point where you will." He runs greedy hands up her back and she shivers from the contact. "Only a matter of time."
Draco isn't wrong.
Hermione's breaking point comes after another week of him tormenting her with his presence. Little bits of contact test both of their willpower. She doesn't care to think about how much he enjoys it because that thought leads to horrible sleep and the deep pit of sexual frustration that comes with teasing hands and lowly spoken words.
It's nearly two in the morning when she gives in, kicks off the covers, and plots.
It starts in the shadows.
Not exactly according to plan, but the timing is too perfect, and Hermione can't help but use it to her advantage.
A raid in Knockturn Alley leaves dozens of cases for Draco's office to sort through. Hermione happily sends everything over in one go.
It's absolute chaos.
Draco is overloaded with work; he has no time to lurk or linger. She waits another full week. When he starts snapping on people and scaring staff members, she knows it's time.
On the day of, Hermione works voraciously to give herself a pocket of free time and waits until she knows Draco will be in his office alone under a mountain of paperwork in peak irritation.
Which just so happens to be right before lunch.
After sending his secretary on a series of missions to allow Hermione the time she needs, she approaches the hall to his office. Warding all the doors for silence in her wake, she saves her strongest distraction charm for the one at the end of the hall.
For privacy.
The last thing she needs is for anyone to come in while she's executing her plan.
Hermione adds a silencing charm, too—for good measure—and opens the door without knocking.
She knows that agitates Draco more than almost anything else.
"What do you want, Granger? I don't have time to entertain y—"
"Make time." She closes and locks the door behind her.
Draco's eyebrow raises before he scoffs and returns to his work. "Go away."
"I will." A pause. "When I'm finished."
Draco looks puzzled for all of two seconds before she takes out her wand and Vanishes his chair. It leaves him sprawled on the floor—flushed and angry about it.
"What the—"
Hermione casts another charm, and when he tries to lift his hand, it doesn't move.
"A sticking charm, Granger." Draco sounds bored. "How quaint."
She crosses the room and stands at his feet. "Only way to keep you down."
Then she Vanishes his trousers and pants.
Her heart is racing. Though it's part of the plan, this is also further than she's ever gone before. Right to the edge. Draco looks irritated but his cock is interested—especially when she stands over him and looks down.
He's right.
There's power in this position.
In having him defenceless at her feet.
In control.
It thrums in her veins and pools in her belly.
There's a spark in Draco's grey eyes; his pupils are blown wide and she hasn't done much of anything… yet.
"Is that it?" His voice is low and teasing; he's pushing her—like always. "Is that all you came to do?"
"No."
Hermione kneels between his parted legs, touching and working his cock with her mouth and hands until he's breathing hard and straining against invisible binds. She knows he must be agitated by his inability to touch.
But she can tell the exact second he gives up control.
It's the same moment she grips his cock and sinks down slowly. They both gasp, exhaling relief.
Over and over, Hermione rises and falls on his cock. Frantic and desperate, she lacks finesse with heels but can't be bothered to care.
She just wants.
Takes.
Gives in.
Allowing herself to push, she bathes in the power he's giving her with every sound that escapes him.
Every gasp. Every curse.
Draco's pupils are blown black, his lips are bitten red, and his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are white, but his body is pliant.
Powerless. Willingly so.
She's never seen him like this.
It's stunning.
Erotic.
She's overwhelmed. Hermione wonders at the picture they must make: him naked and bound by magic, letting her take everything and more. Leaning over him, she catches his swollen lips with her teeth. Every breath escapes in a little hitch, and the symphony their skin orchestrates with each rise and fall of her hips sounds like sin.
She's never been wetter in her life.
Her knees throb and her body is sore; Hermione has complete control but she wants to come so hard it hurts. Her cunt is raw and swollen, yet she aches as her heat grips his cock tighter the closer she climbs towards bliss.
"You look fucking divine."
Hermione's not sure what sound escapes her: a moan, a scream, a whimper. Perhaps a combination of all three.
Everything goes white.
All she knows is that she's shaking and exhilarated from the experience and his praise. Falling apart. Shredded to scraps by the man beneath her until she can no longer recognise herself.
And when it passes, she's dizzy with the control she still has over him. The control he has over her.
The balance between them in that lone moment stills her.
His cock is still lodged deep, twitching, craving more; he wants her to move.
"You can let me go now, Granger."
Hermione rises off him completely, and his cock twitches. He's still hard, wet with her release and swollen with need.
"No, I don't think I will."
Ignoring the angry commentary, she fixes her skirt and leaves. When she shuts the door behind her, all is silent.
Taking a deep breath, she realises she finally understands power… and peace.
Hermione hadn't planned for the impromptu Department Head meeting called an hour later, but she's timely, in a much better mood, and her skin is still tingling with power.
She has plans to go back later and release him. The payback will be thrilling, she's sure of it.
"Where is Mr Malfoy?" The Senior Undersecretary looks around before starting the meeting.
"Tied up, I imagine. He has an awfully large caseload." Hermione picks out her favourite quill to take notes. "We can start without him and send the minutes to his secret—"
The door opens and Draco walks in looking no worse for wear.
Perfect in fact.
Too perfect.
"Apologies for my tardiness." He looks directly at Hermione, quiet murder in his eyes. "I was indisposed."
A spark of fear runs through her, but then she realises it's not fear at all: it's excitement.
The first time she feels Draco brush against her thoughts, the presentation has been going on for ten minutes and her to-do list has tripled with each request she's dutifully noted.
Hermione swats him away.
There are budgets to handle and meetings to schedule and a host of owls to send off. The new deadlines are weeks away, but it's still too close for comfort. Hermione's taken on at least half of the Senior Undersecretary's duties and she regularly fantasizes about taking his job and—
"Let me in."
Draco does not like being ignored.
Hermione glares at the man across the table who's watching her—not like she's the moon or the sun or anything romantic. No. That's not how they work. It's predatory and dangerous, the way he's eyeing her now. Something primal. Like he's equally starved and parched and she would satisfy both urges.
There are fifteen other Department Heads in the room, all listening to a long presentation about the next fiscal year. Draco's the only one not looking at the presenter.
He can't borrow a fuck to give.
This is when she realises she has a problem.
"You left me hard and stuck to my office floor, the least you can do is let me in."
"You told me to take."
"And you did." It sounds like a compliment. A smirk quirks the corner of his mouth. "How did it feel?"
Bloody fantastic but she won't confess that now.
"I didn't anticipate you leaving." Draco shifts in his chair. "You surprised me. Now let me in."
The demand is clear.
"Later." Hermione attempts to bargain, but he sits back in his chair like the picture of pure ease. Tapping his quill against the parchment, his ire is loud in the nearly quiet room.
Shite.
The brush of his attempts to enter her thoughts combined with how potently attractive Draco is just sitting there with every shred of his attention and lust honed in on her…
Well, it makes Hermione reach for her glass of water to wet her parched mouth.
She clears her throat.
"Everything okay, Madam Undersecretary?" One of the presenters looks directly at her and all other eyes in the room turn, too.
Hermione clears her throat. "Yes, please continue."
And they do; parchments rustle as they instruct the room to turn to page two.
"Shall I continue, Granger?"
"No."
"I can always push."
When she feels him again, Hermione controls her breathing and rests a hand over her racing heart. He's waiting with an uncharacteristic patience.
What does he want?
Permission.
He sometimes doesn't bother to wait for it and demands she not ask for it. But he is waiting, asking in his own way, and that can mean only one thing:
Oh fuck, she's not getting out of this alive.
Draco continues on, skimming the walls that protect her secrets from everyone except him. His touch is so gentle it makes her tense—almost affectionate. She rubs her thighs together.
He's being nice and that's scarier than the alternative.
But it's thrilling, too.
"What are you going to do if I pull you in?"
Draco doesn't answer, per se. He only makes one promise.
"You'll love it."
Too bad it sounds like a threat.
Hermione can't breathe.
The kaleidoscope of visions and fantasies is back, flashing images of what they've already done. What she's loved the most. What he's willing to repeat. What they plan to do to each other in the future.
Her detailed list. His widening interests.
It's all melting in her brain as she drifts freely from the shore of safety to float in all directions. The horizon is so far gone from her vision that she's not even sure whether she's coming or going.
"Don't think about coming. You can't."
And therein lies the problem.
In the last unknown stretch of time, Hermione has died twice and been resurrected three times.
The entire concept of time is meaningless when she's about to come so hard she sees the face of a God she hasn't proven the scientific existence of.
He's in her head like a physical being. As real in her fantasies as he is sitting in front of her—pretending to write notes just as she's pretending to listen.
The quill snaps in her grip.
"You're getting sloppy, Granger." Draco tsks in her head. "I taught you better."
Hermione is too far gone for an intellectual rebuttal. In fact, she has to gather what's left of her wits to respond when the Head of Magical Transportation glances over at her.
"Everything okay?"
She gives some excuse about her quill dying of boredom and they both chuckle a little before he goes back to listening. Hermione has to force herself to rest her hand on the table and contend with the man who's watching her with lust and a tiny bit of mischief in his gaze. Draco has adjusted himself discreetly for the fifth time—she's counted because it's the only proof she has that he's just as wrecked as she is.
The Head of Magical Transportation looks at her for the second time and she smiles.
Nothing to see here.
"Do you think he knows?"
Hermione inhales a sharp breath. He's knocking on the door of where she needs him.
"I think he does. I think they all do."
She's as broken as the fingernails on her right hand, the same ones that are digging into the wood underneath the table so hard she's sure she's carving marks.
"That's what you like. Isn't it?"
Hermione pries her hand loose and runs it through her hair. When she hears his voice again, she ends up gripping too hard.
Fuck. This is it.
Hermione bites her bottom lip hard enough to bruise or maybe even bleed.
"Do you really think I'll let you come like this?"
No, but she's ready to die trying.
Another ten minutes and she really is as sloppy as Draco accused her of being not long before.
The first low moan escapes her mouth like a baby bird being forced from its nest. It's never learned to fly so it's free falling.
And loud.
Hermione bows her head in an attempt to catch her breath, then looks up and finds everyone staring at her.
"Madam Undersecretary, you don't look well." That time, it's the presenter talking to her.
As the Head Auror and the largest recipient of said budget, Harry's sitting next to the Head of the DMLE. At the sight of her, his eyebrows vanish into his hairline.
She wants to tell him she's fine, but she can't.
"Your skin is awfully flushed and you're sweating." The Minister of Education, sitting two seats down from Draco, narrows his eyes at her. "Did you eat something bad at lunch?"
Hermione hasn't even eaten lunch.
Something else she can't say because she's too busy trying to catch her breath as Draco calls forth a fantasy so similar to what's happening now that it's beginning to bleed into reality.
Draco's pupils are more black than grey. It's his second sign of being affected and the hottest sight she's ever seen. At least today.
Everyone in the room is growing more concerned. "Perhaps you should—"
"She's fine," Draco says crisply. "Continue."
"I don't think—"
Grey eyes cut over to the unfortunate soul. "I said. Continue."
The deadly serious tone of his voice, one that leaves no room to argue, is almost enough to send her careening over the edge, but Hermione chokes off a moan with a cough and lifts her head to find people are watching her with more concern than ever before.
Except Harry, who looks suspicious as hell as he glares at Draco—hard.
"I'm… I'm fine. Please continue."
Albeit reluctantly, they do. It's a slow progression, but soon the room's attention is off of her again. Hermione even has a moment to turn to the right page before Draco floods her mind with fantasies. Everything he wants to explore. And not for the first time, Hermione thinks about touching herself in search of what's shaping up to be a devastating orgasm.
But she doesn't.
"Good girl. Just a little longer."
Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, closes her eyes, and embraces the snapshot of Draco on his knees between her thighs as he holds her open. She's laid back on the very same table they're sitting at right now, and he's holding her gaze as his tongue works her over. Just the way she likes. And when she tugs on his hair and his eyes roll back, to make her feel the vibrations of his voice, Hermione notices that the man seated in the room with her is just as destroyed as the version of him in her head.
He hides it well, but she sees it because she knows Draco better than anyone else.
The thought, the sight, the edge he has her poised on—both mental and physical—it's all too much. Hermione can't wait. She needs relief as much as she needs oxygen. Draco won't let her suffocate, but he'll cut her air off until she sees every star in the universe.
It's cruel, but also kind.
Which is exactly what she needs.
"Almost there."
It's a blessing and a curse when the Head of Magical Games and Sports gets an emergency interdepartmental memo that sends him from the room.
Draco retreats from her mind completely.
The blessing happens when the presenter calls for a twenty minute break, but the curse is that it takes another five minutes for everyone to clear the room. Harry glares at Malfoy on his way out like everything is his fault, but the man merely issues a tight smile in return.
When the door shuts behind the last person, Draco springs into action.
Hermione is the vision of a woman on the edge: dropping her head on the cool table, sucking in lungfuls of air, struggling to hold on, fists balled tight on the table.
And the most insane part of it all is that she could come right then, but she can't.
She barely hears Draco utter locking and silencing charms, barely notices him until he's right there, already on his knees next to her chair.
"Granger." Draco's voice sounds ragged and starved and another spike of arousal burns through her veins. He's gentle when he makes her sit up, and careful when he turns her chair towards him. He kisses her quickly but it's intense and with a clear goal in mind. "Open up."
Hermione is shaking, so far gone she can't tell if he's talking about her mind or body, only realizing it's the latter when he tries to pry her legs open, but can't because her thighs are clenched so tight together.
"Relax."
She shakes her head. "I can't."
Draco goes back to kissing her. His affection is not soft but it is tender enough to make her forget about the cliff she wants to jump off. Hand on her lower jaw, he works her mouth open with kisses so deep she feels them in the very marrow of her bones. Hermione can't help but open up, can't help but wrap her arms around his shoulders, can't help but relax enough for him to pry her legs apart and hike up her skirt.
When he touches her for the first time, they both moan for different reasons: Hermione from the contact alone and Draco—well, his reasons come with words.
"You're drenched."
"The table, can we—"
"Can't." It's a reminder that she's not the only one on the brink. Not the only one on the edge of oblivion.
Hermione throws her head back when he abruptly sinks two fingers into her body; she welcomes the intruders like the old friends they actually are. It's not the right angle, not even close, but that doesn't matter.
One flex of those fingers and Hermione's world goes spiraling.
She can't hear herself—or anything except Draco's harsh breathing and quiet, shocked swearing—but if there's anything she knows, it's that she's loud. She doesn't give a damn.
Draco's mouth is on her neck, and she hears his breathing change as his teeth scrape against her skin first before he bites down.
The sound Draco makes when he comes is pained.
Gruff. Primal. Devastating.
And the fact that he didn't touch himself makes her clench against his fingers. They both shake and hold each other tight as they ride out the storm of their climaxes until everything calms.
Until everything is right.
"That," Hermione says when she finally can speak, "was unprofessional and—"
She stops when Draco brings wet fingers to his lips and slowly sucks in each digit while watching her.
"Fuck."
"Says the person who fucked me on my office floor and left me there."
She smiles. "I hate you so much."
"Of course you do."
By the time the meeting restarts, they're both pristine, clean, and back to professional mode.
"You look much improved," someone remarks. "The break did you well."
Harry is squinting so hard she can barely see his eyes.
"I do feel much better, thank you. The break was necessary."
And so was the frantic shag on the table about ten minutes ago, but that is no one's business but their own. Draco looks so terribly smug in his stolen seat next to her that she stomps on his foot with her heel until he glares at her.
"You'll pay for that."
She knows.
She's looking forward to it.
End.