Work Text:
Draco stood outside the Stone Gargoyle at exactly 4:59, the password for the Headmistress’s office written on a slip of parchment in his hand.
Crookshanks
Terrible choice in password. Even if he hadn’t been given it in the note she’d sent, along with the express invitation to join her at 5 pm, he probably could have guessed it without much effort. Pet names were always an excellent first guess.
He would keep that thought to himself, though. While the exact reason for the summons wasn’t apparent, the chance that it was a meeting to discuss improving her security was slim. He hadn’t been hired as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, though he was more than qualified. He’d held the position at Dumstrang for three years after the war. It was the only position he could get.
No, he’d finally been hired as the Hogwart’s Potion Master. After over a decade of training, working abroad, sending in countless applications and receiving countless rejections. Once Hermione Granger had moved from her position as Transfiguration Professor to Headmistress just two years earlier, he had assumed that he would never achieve his dream position. The only thing in his adult life that he’d ever dared to reach for. Still, he sent in another application and was shocked when he was summoned to interview.
Granger didn’t conduct the interview; instead it was a panel of three. A parent representative, a teacher and a member of the Board of Governors. All were new faces to him, and he was grateful for the lack of history. He still assumed that Granger would make the final call, so he didn’t even start to hope that he might be successful. Until the offer came, and he packed up his simple bachelor lodgings in France to move into the simple dungeon apartments in Hogwarts. Then he’d taught, with nary a blip on his radar. Not until the summons that morning.
The clock ticked over to 5 p.m., and before he had a chance to say the password, the stone gargoyle moved, and the familiar lilting voice came down the stairs.
“Are you coming in, Professor Malfoy?”
Gods, he both loved and hated that voice.
While he had been away, he had dated. Not excessively, but enough to know that he had type. Coming home and meeting adult Hermione Granger made him realise his type had an origin. A curly-haired swot he’d convinced himself he hated. The most brilliant witch he’d ever met, whose mouth could bring him to his knees then and now. And all 5’6” of her was now his boss. His boss that likely hated him. So he steered clear of her as best he could and used the stolen glances of her to keep him warm while he wanked to thoughts of her at night.
“Would you like some tea?” Granger asked, sitting on a very comfortable and, for a castle made of 14th centurary stone, very modern cream settee.
“I don’t wish to be any trouble,” Draco replied, looking at her freckles on her cheeks instead of her eyes. It was easier to keep his secrets if he wasn’t looking at her eyes.
“It’s no trouble,” Hermione replied, immediately fixing his tea, somehow knowing how he liked it. He wondered if that was on his employment file somewhere. “Please, sit down.”
Draco folded himself into the single armchair across from her and took the tea she held with an outstretched hand and a smile.
“Right,” Hermione said, sitting up a little straighter, “I’ll get right into it.”
She paused and looked about as uncomfortable as he felt. Was he about to get fired?
“Your teaching has been exemplary this year,” she started, red creeping up her neck as she spoke. If she was firing him, she was off to a poor start. “Which is not surprising. I know from my counterparts in Beaubaxtons and Drumstrang that you are an excellent teacher.”
She swallowed, her eyes darting around the room.
“However, your appearance here has caused quite the flutter among the students,” she said, a false giggle belying exactly how nervous she was.
Ah, so he was getting fired. The students and their parents had not forgotten nor forgiven his past. He put his tea down on the table, ready to shake her hand, thank her for the opportunity, and leave as quickly as possible before she had any idea of his disappointment. The last thing he wanted her to worry about was his disappointment.
“I suppose it was to be somewhat expected. You are, well, you,” she gestured in his general direction, “and your predecessor was almost 104 years old, and you could see his nostril hairs from across the room.”
Seemed like a strange thing to bring up while she was firing someone, but Granger had never been particularly graceful in her social interactions. It was part of her charm. It’s why he was drawn to her after a life of perfect society witches. In this instance, however, he wished she’d get on with it.
“Still, it’s inappropriate, and we must address it.”
Now, that caught his attention. He was many things, but he was never inappropriate. At least not out of his imagination.
“It seems that some of the seventh-year girls and a couple of the boys, if we’re being honest, are quite taken with you. And your… physique.”
Red flooded her face as she spoke, and Draco couldn’t even enjoy it. He was too horrified at what she was implying.
“It seems they have developed a game in class where they goad you into saying certain phrases that could be taken in a sexual nature, awarding themselves points for each phrase they ellicit.”
Draco would never. He had never. How did he even begin to defend himself against this?
“Now, these phrases are mostly innocuous, but I am led to believe when you say them, with your sleeves rolled and your reading glasses on,” Hermione swallowed and looked away.
Draco looked to the ceiling, suddenly very aware that his sleeves were rolled to the elbow at this exact moment.
“Can you give me some examples of headmistress? I find it hard to believe that I’ve said anything untoward.”
“I assure you, you haven’t,” Hermione leaned across. For a minute, he thought she was going to pat his knee in comfort. She didn’t.
“They’re all silly things really… ‘Good Girl’
She swallowed and looked away.
“We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap as she stared at the ceiling,
“ Go ahead and take it”, always in reference to paper or potion ingredients, but still…”
Hermione swallowed again and shifted in her seat. Draco’s face was on fire.
“I believe the most points were awarded when Miss Kiana Shorts got to you to say the word Daddy in front of everyone.”
“We were speaking of Father’s Day, Granger!” he spluttered, immediately regretful that he’d switched from the formal to the familiar when addressing her.
“I know! Of course, I know. I don’t for one minute think you encouraged this, and I don’t want you to feel like you need to second-guess everything you say. Just know that the ringleaders have been dealt with, and I will be stamping out any more of this behaviour. I want you to feel safe here, Professor Malfoy. You are a fantastic teacher, and I’ve enjoyed having you on staff. So, to that end, I will attend your seventh-year classes to ensure that no one is jeopardizing that!”
***
It had been the most uncomfortable conversation of her career. And that was saying something. Explaining to Malfoy that him in his reading glasses telling a student to ‘do as they are told’ was, in fact, a turn-on, wasn’t something she ever thought she would have to do. It was bad enough that she had to sit across from him in staff meetings while he wore said glasses and never met her eye.
Now, she was standing outside of his classroom, ready to watch him in action, specifically listening for phrases that she would then imagine later. In her own bed. In her own room. And it was ok. Because she was an adult. And he would never find out about it. That last part was key.
When she entered the room, the students were milling around their tables, and Draco was standing at the board, writing up the goals for the day’s class. His shirt sleeves were tightly buttoned around his wrists. Probably for the best.
“Ok, class!” he said, and the students found their seats, quills out and ready. It was a testament to his teaching, the control he had over his class. The instant respect. It was almost as attractive to her as his forearms. The competence.
The students must have recognised his expertise as well, which is why they were all so ready and willing to learn. Well, all except for Jen Chi, who was still talking to her seatmate.
“Eyes on me, Miss Chi,” Draco gently chided from the front of the room, but Jen kept talking, twirling her hair around her finger.
Draco placed his closed potions book on the table with a little more force than necessary, and the clap rang out around the room, finally silencing Jen.
“I said, Miss Chi, ‘Eyes on me’.” Draco’s tone was firm and commanding, and it was no surprise that as soon as his back was turned, Jen Chi smiled and discreetly wrote a tally mark on a sheet of parchment.
Hermione signed and wrote down Jen’s name on a list of her own. It was going to be a long class.
Draco was trying; he really was. He had awkwardly paused after saying “good” at least three times and finished the phrase with “work” instead of the ‘girl’, she knew must have been on the tip of his tongue. But the girls in the class were relentless.
Emma Castian had deliberately smeared ink across herself and then triumphantly written her tally when Draco had observed, “You’re filthy, Miss Castian.”
Chelsea Sanders repeated the trick with a goblet of water and earnt herself a, “You’re drenched!”
Alexandre Birch used a different tactic. She pretended to be confused about how long to stir her potion, and then practically preened as Draco stood beside her, instructing her to “Keep going, keep going, don’t stop yet, just a little more. You’re doing so well.”
Abby Bligh has asked about the topics they could write their next essay on and if they could be under the strict word limit. Draco had met Hermione’s eyes as soon as the words “You can handle the length” were out of his mouth. He knew he’d been set up and failed yet again.
For the remainder of the lesson, he spoke as little as possible. Hermione had a list of names that would keep their Heads of House busy for weeks supervising detentions, and contacting parents. They both looked exhausted.
***
“I think, I need a drink,” Draco said as soon as the last student left the room, and he’d locked and silenced it. A huge part of him wanted to scream obscenities to the ceiling, and it was better no one heard if he gave into the impulse.
Never in his decade of teaching had he been so frustrated. Instead of focusing on the students and the lesson, he was worried about the words that were coming out of his mouth and if they could somehow be construed in a sexual way. What’s more, watching the curly-haired witch at the back of his room, cycle through various shades of pink let him know what he was saying was indeed blue in nature.
He’d wanted to make her blush for months. But not like this. Never like this.
“Whiskey, Headmistress?” he asked, summoning a bottle of his favourite Scotch from a local distiller and two crystal glasses.
“Hermione, please,” she said, accepting the glass with a wry smile. “Given that I now know what you sound like when you instruct someone to ‘bend over,’ I think we should be on a first-name basis.”
That had been Connor Cain’s fault. He’d been sent to the store room to get another mortar and pestle, and when he’d claimed that he couldn’t see them, Draco had tried to direct him for five whole minutes before the frustrated instruction had been growled when Connor refused to look on the bottom shelves.
“He was baiting me!” Draco was almost too tired to defend himself.
Hermione laughed and took a long sip of her drink.
“He was,” she agreed, “I don’t know who was more disappointed when you said it, you or Chelsea, who up until that point had the highest score.”
Draco lowered his head to the table, and then, because the whiskey he’d drunk (very quickly) was warming his veins, and he couldn’t help himself, he started laughing.
“This has to be the most ridiculous day of my teaching career,” he chuckled into the table.
“Mine too,” Hermione agreed, refilling both their glasses and nudging his towards him, “And here I was thinking the most bizarre staffing issue I’d have to deal with as headmistress was convincing Professor Binns that he was indeed dead.”
Draco sat back and watched her. She was perfect like this. She was perfect all the time, but especially like this.
“Thank you,” he said, his tongue loosened by the alcohol and the atmosphere in the room, “For your help today and for hiring me. I’ve always wanted to teach at Hogwarts. Never thought I’d get the chance.”
He took a drink to swallow down the relief of finally telling the truth and watched her reaction.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, face flushed. “You’re an extraordinary teacher. It would have been madness not to hire you.”
“Maybe, but I still tormented you for years, not to mention the war. I would have understood if you didn’t want me anywhere near you.”
At that, Hermione put her tumbler on the desk and leaned closer, face all seriousness.
“It’s been ten years, Draco. Those who refuse to let us all move on from the past… well, let’s just say I think they probably didn’t learn enough from it. I got your letter after your trial. I’m sorry I wasn’t in the right headspace to reply to you at the time and let you know I accepted your apologies, but this is a new era for us now. One where we can be colleagues or even friends and team up against the Abigails and Jaquelines who have bets on who can get you to say the word ‘spanking’ first.”
Draco was laughing again.
“Oh Merlin, don’t tell me they’re in on it too. And “spanking”? Why would I ever utter the word ‘spanking’ in a class?”
“I don’t know?” Hermione smiled, “I’m sure they thought ‘Daddy’ was impossible as well, and yet here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agreed, suddenly very grateful to the teenage girls and their antics for landing a slightly tipsy Hermione Granger in his classroom for an impromptu drinking session. “I really should be glad you didn’t fire me for that or believing I should deliver praise where praise is due.”
The laughter flitted away, and a tension grew between them.
“Yes, well, given I’m well aware how powerful praise can be in the right setting, I can hardly begrudge you that. And as for the seventh-years, well, one can only hope that some creative punishments will reform the little brats.”
The silence was deafening as Draco waited for Hermione to realise what she’d said, and when the horror overtook her features, they both burst out laughing again.
“Oh good lord, you’re rubbing off on me!” she accused, and Draco poured them another drink.
They drank in silence for a minute, him watching her watch him. He enjoyed the unfettered perusal. He enjoyed the moment in time. It was a gift, not unlike the job opening he had wanted his entire life—the only thing he had ever pursued, but not the only thing he had ever wanted.
Hermione sipped her whiskey. The gentle bob of her throat as she swallowed entranced him.. He waited for her to take another drink, and then, for the second time in his life, he set his eye on something and was ready to pursue it.
“So tell me, Hermione, do those phrases actually do it for people?”
***
The whiskey she was drinking was caught in her throat. She needed to swallow, but it was like her body was frozen, all because of his question.
The answer was ‘yes’. But she suspected he knew that. It was in the gleam of his eye, the ghost of a smirk. Knowing the answer, he’d asked the question, just so he could hear her say it.
“It depends,” she said, the burn of the alcohol raw in the best possible way.
“On?” Draco asked, refilling their glasses and not breaking eye contact.
“Who is saying it,” she answered truthfully, “And when. In the middle of class, when it’s only said by accident doesn’t do it for me.”
“But if it were later? In an empty classroom? With an old schoolmate in a new era?” he hedged.
Hermione licked her bottom lip while she considered, acutely aware that Draco was watching her every move with a hungry and hopeful expression.
“Under those circumstances, then yes. It would be very effective.”
“And if I were to say some of my slips from class? Right now?” he pressed, and Hermione sensed what he was asking for. Permission.
“I would enjoy that, I think,” she tried to sound confident, but her heart was beating rapidly, and she was suddenly aware of her clothes, constricting around her, making it hard to breathe.
Draco’s eyes darkened as he put down his glass. Without dropping her gaze, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves to the elbow. The flexing of his forearms had Hermione tensing in anticipation.
“Well, in that case, Miss Granger”, his voice was low and commanding. “Bend over.”
Hermione felt heat flush through her at the command. It took a moment for her body to catch up with the thrill of understanding in her mind, but as soon as it did, she scrambled off her seat, placed her palms on the desk, and lowered her cheek to rest on the wood, folding her body just as he asked.
“Oh, that’s very nice,” Draco purred, and Hermione listened for sounds that he had moved. That he had come closer to touch her, but there were none. He was content, it seemed, to watch her in silence. It should have made her nervous; instead, she just felt intense arousal.
Eventually, there was a scrape of the chair on the stone floor. An extended drag, the sound of which set every nerve of hers alight in anticipation. When she felt his heat behind her, she wanted for his touch. Would he caress her hip, her leg, her breasts, her stomach? No. It was her hair. A gentle tangle of fingers in her curls once freed from the bun she had kept them in.
She couldn’t stop herself; she let out a whimper at the touch. Draco responded with a chuckle before leaning over her and burying his face just below her ear, his entire weight pressing her into the table.
“What will you say if you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low and confident, so reminiscent of the way he’d controlled the room at the start of his class and yet wholly different.
“Red,” Hermione whispered.
“Good Girl.”
Then he was gone again. Pulling back and leaving her colder and impatient. Longing for the weight of him but willing wait for as long as he wanted to. Just to hear him say those two words again.
She didn’t need to wait long. One finger traced up the back of her thighs, far too slowly and yet perfectly all at once.
“I have to say, Miss Granger, I don’t know if this skirt is appropriate for class,” he said, his pointer reaching the bottom of her hem and continuing its journey upwards, dragging the soft black material with it, “Or staff meetings for that matter. So many meetings sitting, trying to be respectful, but you were wearing this fucking skirt.”
She felt the cold flush of air as her skirt came up high enough to reveal her underwear. She tried to remember which ones she had put on that morning but drew a black. All she could do was hope he was pleased by them.
“Were you trying to distract me? Were you trying to get my attention?” he asked, sitting her skirt on the small of her back and palming her exposed arse.
“Come now, Miss Granger, be a good little swot and answer the question,” he said, his fingers dipping under the elastic of her knickers but going nowhere near the apex of her thighs.
“No,” she said, her voice high-pitched and shaky.
All she got in response was a light tap on her arse cheek. Not a smack, but a gentle reminder.
“No, Sir?” she tried again.
“Good Girl,” he said, the smile in his voice evident. He rewarded her by hooking his fingers in the waistband of her knickers and dragging them downward before he ran his fingers through her folds. She felt her knees wobble in relief at the touch.
“Miss Granger, you are absolutely drenched. Is this all for me?”
“Yes, Sir. " She was more confident in the honorific now, but instead of another reward, the fingers that had been so close to entering her, filling her the way she wanted, disappeared. She cried out for him, and he chuckled behind her.
“Now, now, I was just having a little taste,” he said, his fingers returning to her cunt where they stroked her gently, never dipping inside but sweeping over her clit. Soft touches that were rapidly become not enough.
“And while you are fucking delicious, I will not be burying my face in your cunt this time.”
Again, Hermione let out a little moan of frustration, and far from comforting her, Draco withdrew his hand again, this time to land on firm stroke upon her arse. The crack that rang out in the room was enough to have her biting her tongue.
“Temper tantrums will not be tolerated, Miss Granger,” he said, his palm soothing her flesh with soft circles before drifting back between her legs. “In fact, I think we should say this is silent time. I will be the only one speaking. We have an important study to do.”
One of his long fingers filled her then and Hermione gripped the edge of the table to stop herself from crying out. She didn’t know if moans counted as speaking but we was so determined to make him proud.
“You see, there is a series of phrases that I am led to believe will evoke arousal when uttered appropriately; however, I think I need proof.”
He added another finger. Long, and slow and curling to find the right spots inside her. She bit her tongue. It felt extraordinary. A sensation she could lose herself to, if his deep baritone wasn’t keeping her tethered to the moment.
“So I am going to say these phrases, and your job, Miss Granger, is to show me if they do indeed evoke arousal. I want to feel you drip. I want to feel you clench.”
He pushed his fingers in as deep as his knuckles would allow.
“Shall we begin?” he asked “A ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, Sir’ will suffice.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Good Girl,” he replied and the warmth that flooded her at those word made him chuckle.“Oh, I could feel that. I think that is adaquate cofirmation that phrase is a turn-on. What about we try another… what about… ‘You’ll do exactly as you’re told’.”
Her wetness was on the inside of her thighs. Draco’s hand stayed completely still, which is not what she wanted. She wanted him to move. She wanted him to start fucking her with this fingers. He seems content to just feel her clench around him.
“Hmm, that one too. Merlin, you are glorious like this. What about, ‘You’re doing so well’?”
It was a tiny whimper. One she couldn’t stop. It made him chuckle but it did not provoke him to move.
“You need to make this count, Miss Granger.”
Hermione couldn't help herself; she pushed her hips back against his hand, trying to get him to move, increase his speed, his pressure, anything; his words were driving her to despair.
“Oh, aren’t you an eager girl? So impatient. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Draco’s other hand came up to grab her hip, and she immediately worried that she had been too much and ceased her movement before he had the mind to punish her for her impertinence. Then he removed his fingers, and Hermione was ready to beg for forgiveness until she heard the rustle of a zip and felt the blunt head of a cock at her entrance.
“Who said you could stop, Miss Granger?” he growled.
She desperately wanted to look at him, she wanted to see him, but she was very, very good at following instructions and so without pausing or flinching, she pushed herself back onto his cock. The stretch was divine. The hitch in Draco’s breath a perfect reward. She resumed her movements and was immediately rewarded with his thumb against her clit. Strong, slow circles that were going to be her undoing. She could feel it building in her legs, her arms.
“So fucking perfect. Keep going. You’re doing so incredibly well,”
He was leaning over her again, the warm weight, his breath across her skin, the scent of the whiskey on his breath. Every part of him was overwhelming her.
“This is exemplary work,” he gasped, the hand on his hip tightening. “But I think I’ve changed my mind about being the only one speaking. I want to hear you, Miss Granger. Show me what you’ve learnt.”
It was the permission she needed. With a desperate cry, she felt everything holding her together snap, and she came hard. Her mind went blank, her muscle convulsing. Draco moaned above her and finished while she was coming down from the peak.
“Well done,” he whispered, kissing the crown of her head and stroking her hip. She was grateful for the table holding her up, as the aftershocks still went through her legs, making it impossible to stand. They mirrored the goosebumps that had broken out all over her body.
“Good?” he asked when her shaky breaths steadied.
“Perfect,” she replied, grateful for the gentle hands that brought down her skirt and guided her to stand.
She expected him to manoeuvre her to a seat; Lord knew her legs couldn’t reasonably handle the journey by themselves. Instead, he surprised her, and with two hands around her waist, he lifted her until she was sitting on the desk and he was standing between her thighs.
Like before, every part of her froze as his hands came up to cradle her face.
“Too much?” he asked, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones. She shook her head, revelling in the gentle touch, the unguarded adoration on his face.
“I should have asked before I…” he trailed off, and Hermione registered the stickiness in between her thighs.
“It’s ok,” she said, “I liked it.”
Draco looked at her and traced the crests of her cheekbones, which she knew must be pink.
“More?” he asked, vulnerability bare in his tone, “I don’t mean more sex, well not right now, but do you think this could be more?”
“Yes.”
It was the simplest answer. She didn’t want any other meaning to be gleamed between the lines.
“How much more?” he asked, and she noticed glints of blue in the grey of his eyes. She’d never noticed those before, not at school, not in all the staff meetings.
“A whole new era of more,” she said, and the corner of Draco’s lips twitched in response.
He leaned closer, one breath away from a kiss, their foreheads and noses touching.
“In that case,” he whispered, “Eyes on me, Miss Granger.”