Work Text:
EIGHTH YEAR
FIRST NIGHT BACK AT HOGWARTS AFTER CHRISTMAS BREAK
Hermione twirled the tip of her quill around her finger. Her Ancient Runes homework lay barely touched on the library desk in front of her. Every time she tried to drag her eyes to the parchment, her gaze wandered back to the window. Raindrops pounded relentlessly against the glass. The night sky outside was a deep indigo; any second now it would turn black. It was getting late.
Where was he? Hermione wondered.
She didn’t want to admit that he was the reason why she was so distracted tonight. Which wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t even here yet. If he was coming at all, that was.
Hermione shook her head. Since when did she care whether or not Draco Malfoy interrupted her studying, anyway?
After returning to Hogwarts for Eighth Year, Hermione had essentially lived in the library. Harry and Ron hadn’t returned with her and now there was no one taking up all her time with silly adventures. And no one to distract her from the memories of the previous year.
So, in an entirely predictable fashion, Hermione had sought refuge in the library. She studied until the early hours of the morning almost every night, until she couldn’t stay awake any longer. Madam Pince—bless her, really—turned a blind eye to Hermione staying up past curfew, and her little corner of the library remained uninterrupted.
Until Draco Malfoy came along.
It was Halloween the first night he showed up. All the younger students were celebrating in the Great Hall, gorging themselves on sweets and exchanging ghost stories. Hermione couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want to talk, or fake a laugh, or pretend she could still have even a modicum of fun. The war had ended less than six months ago. How has everyone else managed to move on so easily?
She’d been holed up in the library for hours, ignoring the festivities happening elsewhere in the castle, when she heard footsteps slowly approaching and then stop abruptly, a few feet away from her desk.
Hermione’s eyes flicked to the man’s leather shoes, perfectly polished. Her eyes travelled up his long legs, dressed in sharply pressed slacks. His right hand was casually tucked in his pocket; the white sleeves of his shirt rolled slightly above his wrists. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone and his green and silver tie hung loose around his neck. His other hand—silver signet ring momentarily catching the light of the candles scattered around the library—brushed a lock of blonde hair out of his grey eyes.
Hermione could feel her eyes widen in shock as she took him all in. She hadn’t expected to see another soul in the library tonight, least of all Malfoy’s.
Malfoy’s eyes scanned her face, calculating his next move.
Since returning to school, Hermione had only caught glimpses of Malfoy in the hallways, before she scuttled in the other direction, going wherever the shifting staircases carried her, and she always purposefully sat on the opposite side of the room in the few classes they shared. This was the closest they’d been to each other since the end of the war. Without thinking, Hermione reached for her own forearm, her fingertips tracing the scar hidden underneath her white shirt. Mudblood. She felt Malfoy’s eyes track the path of her fingers.
But she didn’t say anything. She turned her gaze back down to the parchment on her desk and dipped her quill into her pot of ink, poised to complete the rest of her Potions essay. She listened as Malfoy lingered a moment, then two, before his footsteps resumed pacing around the shelves. Eventually, he returned to the desk diagonally across from hers, a pile of books in tow, and began reading.
A truce.
And so, it began. Each night, Hermione set herself up at her usual desk and methodically worked through her coursework. And each night, Draco Malfoy arrived in the library, gave her a curt nod in greeting, sat at the desk diagonally across from hers, and did the same.
At first, they worked exclusively in a neutral silence. Occasionally, Hermione would lift her gaze and watch as Malfoy’s blond hair fell into his eyes as he read, or as the tendons in his wrist flexed as he scribbled endless notes, silver gaze almost always fixed determinedly on the parchment before him. But sometimes—just sometimes—when Hermione glanced up, she would catch his silver eyes watching her back. Each time they locked eyes, an unfamiliar feeling stirred somewhere deep within her.
The first time their eyes met across the library, Hermione snapped her attention back down to her desk, embarrassed to have been caught looking. But as the nights went on, and their silence grew familiar, she indulged herself, letting her gaze linger always a moment too long. As her brown eyes danced with his grey ones, Hermione wondered what was happening inside of Malfoy’s head.
Why is he here every night?
Is he scarred by the war, too?
What does he make of me, now?
Hermione never asked her questions aloud. She always averted her gaze, reluctantly. Although she couldn’t be certain, she thought she felt Malfoy keep looking.
Eventually, the silence was broken.
One night, while Hermione was returning from the shelves to her usual desk with a dangerously tall stack of books in her hands, she cast a cursory glance at Malfoy’s homework. His parchment was covered in scribbled lines of Arithmancy calculations that he had furiously crossed out, over and over.
Intellectual curiosity getting the better of her, Hermione paused and leaned a bit closer, trying to figure out what equation he was stuck on. She’d completed her Arithmancy homework hours ago, of course. The answer was about to spill out of her mouth, but she bit her lip, trying to keep quiet.
“Granger, I can feel you hovering behind me,” Malfoy said, without turning around to face her. The first words he had spoken to her since the war. She could have sworn his voice held a tinge of endeared amusement to it. As if they were at all familiar with one another. Then again, after spending the better part of a decade at school together, she supposed they were, in a way.
“Sorry!” Hermione squeaked, hurriedly taking a step towards her own desk.
Malfoy put out a hand to stop her, accidentally brushing his knuckles against hers where they gripped onto her tower of books.
“Wait, please,” Malfoy said hesitantly, eyes flicking to their hands, before he looked up to her face. “I’ve been stuck on this equation for ages, and I know you probably figured it out in two bloody seconds. You may as well just tell me the answer and save me from my suffering.”
Hermione gingerly set down her pile of books on Malfoy’s desk. Draco Malfoy, asking for her help? She never thought she’d see the day. For a second, she toyed with the idea of making him beg for it. She smirked to herself at the thought, but the pursuit of academic excellence won out in the end.
“It doesn’t benefit you if I just give you the answer. You’ll never learn that way. The rest of the questions Professor Vector set all follow a similar pattern, so you need to know how to do it yourself.”
She stepped in close behind Malfoy, leaning over to get a closer read of his scribbled-out work. Close enough that when her hair fell over her shoulder, she could feel it brush against Malfoy’s neck. She tucked her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, the practised movement of the bushy-haired. Absorbed in the task at hand, she worried her lip between her teeth as she examined his parchment, trying to figure out exactly where he had gone wrong.
Malfoy cleared his throat. Hermione broke her gaze away from the parchment and directed it towards Malfoy. Their faces were closer than she had realised, and she felt her cheeks flush involuntarily. She truly had a horrid knack for inadvertently invading one’s personal space.
Hermione thought she saw Malfoy’s gaze hovering around her lips for just a moment, before raising to meet her eyes, but it was so fast she couldn’t be sure.
“Well, what does the Brightest Witch of Our Age make of it? Can this mess be salvaged?” Malfoy asked, his voice taking on a teasing tone as he bestowed the title on her.
Hermione huffed, hoping to hide that she was secretly pleased by the accolade, even if he was only joking.
“Of course it can. If you look just here at the start, where you crossed out your working,” she said, pointing to the top of the parchment. “Your instinct was right; you should follow it.”
Hermione leaned over Malfoy again—but not too close this time—helping him work through the rest of the calculation.
The following night, Hermione arrived at the library first, as per. Except this time, she dragged her usual chair across the wooden floorboards and sat determinedly at Malfoy’s desk. She placed her chair diagonally across from his, trying to maximise space at the desk that—if she was being perfectly honest—was too small for two students to share comfortably.
She wasn’t sure what possessed her to do it. She didn’t know what to make of their interaction the night before. Had she ever even been alone in a room with Malfoy before these nights in the library, in all the years they had known each other? Was it possible that, in the confines of solitude in the Hogwarts library, they could move on from the last few years, and get along? (Hermione could probably get along with anyone who respected proper library etiquette. She wasn’t too proud to admit that Malfoy, in that respect, was exquisite.)
Hermione sat, half-heartedly leafing through a History of Magic book and doodling on her parchment, for what felt like an eternity.
Just when she had resolved to shift back to her usual desk before he arrived, Malfoy entered the library, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw where Hermione was sat. Hermione’s heart thumped in her chest. Nervous that she’d overstepped massively, she began rolling up her parchment, ready to flee the library altogether. All that Gryffindor courage was gone.
But before Hermione could finish packing away her things, Malfoy walked towards the desk and sat down opposite her.
“Good evening, Granger,” was all he said, before opening his book and flipping through the pages.
“Evening, Malfoy,” she replied. Hermione smoothed out her parchment over the desk again, smiling slightly to herself, satisfied at the prospect of making a new friend. That had never really been her forte.
From there on, they studied at the same desk together each night; sharing books between each other, helping one another out when stuck on a difficult question (okay, Hermione helping Malfoy out when he got stuck).
Study buddies. Purely academic. Never anything too personal.
(And if their knees ever knocked together under the desk—and if it ever felt like Malfoy also held his leg still, pressed against hers, for a beat too long—well, Hermione was sure that was just an accident. And if she tried to hide the electric heat she felt whenever their legs brushed—and if she wondered whether Malfoy felt it too—well, that was no one else’s business.)
They continued that way until the end of term.
On the last night before Christmas break, Hermione paced back and forth in front of a large arched window in the library. Moonlight shone through the glass, providing the only other source of light besides the candles floating above.
She had handed in all her assignments that were due that day. There was no homework to do tonight.
Would he still come?
Hermione glanced with panic at their desk. She’d nabbed two cauldron cakes from the feast at the Great Hall. The cakes sat on their desk, in the place of the books and parchment that usually lay scattered across it.
Merlin, she felt idiotic. A cauldron cake? For Draco Malfoy? On Christmas? Had she lost it?
She was in half a mind to shove both cakes into her mouth at once to destroy any trace of their existence, when an elegant hand gently wrapped itself around one of the cakes and picked it up from the desk.
“I pray one of these is for me, Granger. Or is there some other bloke you’re planning to meet in the library tonight?” Malfoy drawled.
Hermione could feel her cheeks heating once again. She must have been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard his footsteps approaching this time.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to answer his question before he started eating. So polite, Hermione thought to herself, amused. Those good pureblood manners on full display.
“Of course it’s for you, who else would be in the library on the last day of term?” Hermione laughed awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Malfoy paused a beat. “Good,” was all he said, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He stepped towards her, taking a bite of the cake.
Hermione mimicked Malfoy, picking up her own cauldron cake and taking a bite. She swallowed, looking back out the window again. She hadn’t thought this far ahead.
A moment passed. And then two.
Thankfully, Malfoy was the one to break their silence, again. “Do you have much planned for Christmas?”
“Well, we have a bit of a tradition. Me and my parents, I mean. We do presents on Christmas Eve, and we get a Chinese takeaway, and we watch a film—but it’s not allowed to be a Christmas film, dad hates those. Then we get rugged up and head to the Church—the nice one, that’s a bit of a further walk away—for midnight mass. Mum insists. Not that she’s religious really, she just likes the carols. Then the next day we always do a proper Christmas lunch—turkey, ham, roast potatoes, the whole lot. It's too much for just the three of us, but mum absolutely loves the holidays, so she goes all out. We end up eating the leftovers for the entire next week, usually. Then, weather permitting, dad and I always build a snowman together. He gets more intricate with the construction every year, tries to outdo himself. It’s silly really…” Hermione stopped herself and stared down at her shoes, unsure why she was prattling on so much.
“That sounds… lovely. Genuinely. Even if I have no idea what half of it meant,” Malfoy responded, drawing Hermione back out of herself.
“It is,” Hermione replied quickly. “I mean, it usually is. I’m a bit nervous about it all this year, if I’m honest.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow again. “What for?”
Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s been a bit off since the war ended,” Hermione hesitated, unsure if she was crossing dangerous territory by even mentioning the war, but she persisted. “They were never strange about the whole magic thing, before. I think I scared them. I mean, I get why they’d be freaked out, I wiped their memories and shipped them off to Australia without their consent. But I wonder if it’s more than that, y’know? If they see me differently now that they know what my magic is truly capable of…” Hermione trailed off again.
Malfoy paused a beat. “I hadn’t realised you did that,” he said, eyes scanning her face in a way she hadn’t seen him do before. In a way she hadn’t seen anyone look at her before. (She didn’t want him to ever stop looking at her like that.)
Hermione looked him in the eyes; chin raised in defiance. “I did what I had to do to protect them.”
“I know,” he replied, simply, his gaze steadfastly meeting hers below him.
They stayed like that a moment, just looking.
Unfamiliar feelings swirled around and around inside Hermione. Merlin, she wanted to—
Breaking her gaze from Malfoy’s, Hermione searched for a new topic. “I imagine my plans are quite different from Christmas at Malfoy Manor,” Hermione said, self-deprecatingly. She tried not to think of the one and only time she’d been inside the Manor. She stopped herself from reaching for her forearm again.
“Correct as usual, Granger,” Malfoy replied, before taking another bite of his cauldron cake. He swallowed, Hermione watching his throat bob. “Although, different is not to say better.”
It was Hermione’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Christmas at Malfoy Manor has always been an extravagant affair, as one would imagine,” Malfoy continued. “All of the Sacred 28 would attend a Christmas Eve ball at the Manor. Well, mother would never call it a ball, she’d call it a ‘festive get-together’, but that was just to come across as modest, she’d start planning the bloody thing in June. It would certainly put the Yule Ball to shame with all the frills. And then Christmas Day itself, that’s reserved for the family. Mother, father, Bellatrix, Rodolphus… But that was before the war. It’s all different now.” Malfoy’s brow furrowed.
“What will you and your mother do this year instead?” Hermione asked, tactfully avoiding stating the obvious—that the rest of Malfoy’s family were all in Azkaban, or dead.
But Malfoy addressed it head on. “I haven’t a clue, to be perfectly honest. I imagine she’ll drag me to go visit my father at some stage…I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. How we’ll spend the rest of the time remains a mystery.” Malfoy took a page out of Hermione’s playbook and looked out the window. The moonlight shone where it lay on his blond hair, the sharp edge of his cheekbone. His face had matured since before the war, Hermione realised. His jaw was broader, she noticed, as he tensed it, clearly just as nervous about seeing his parents as she was.
“To me, it sounds like a chance for the two of you to make some new traditions,” Hermione said, too sincerely.
“I like the way you think, Granger,” Malfoy hummed in approval. He looked back towards her, eyes trailing her down and back up, and hummed again. “Always have.”
Hermione’s cheeks heated again, and she looked down, playing with cuff of her sleeve.
Malfoy took another step towards her, so close that she was forced to tilt her head back to look up at him. She hadn’t realised before how tall he’d grown.
“Merry Christmas, Hermione,” he said, so gently, as if there was anyone else in the library to overhear them.
“Merry Christmas,” she replied, lips turning upwards into a soft smile.
A nod was all she received in response, before he turned on his heel and left the library.
***
Hermione Granger thought about Draco Malfoy all Christmas.
As she unwrapped her presents on Christmas Eve, she wondered what Malfoy had received from his mother. Sitting amongst the torn up wrapping paper scattered around her, she pictured Malfoy—polite as ever—slowly running his fingers along the edges of the paper that wrapped his presents, gently lifting the paper away, layer by layer, careful not to create a single tear.
Curled up on the sofa, watching their Christmas tradition non-Christmas film, she imagined him sitting next to her. Their knees knocking together, like they always did under the desk, and leaving their legs pressed together for the rest of the film.
Singing carols at the church, she imagined locking eyes with Malfoy across the pews. The sense of a shared understanding that would pass between them, without needing to say anything at all. A witch and a wizard, not sure what their place was in the world anymore, just trying to enjoy the holidays.
Helping her father with his elaborate snowman design, covertly using her magic to support what Muggle physics simply could not, she wondered, if Malfoy were here, would he whisper in her ear, teasingly: The Brightest Witch of Our Age.
When she had a few glasses of wine on Christmas evening—she was over 18 now, after all—well, she definitely thought about him then. Lying in bed that night, images swirled around her mind of Malfoy’s silver gaze locking with hers, tracing the features of her face, scanning up and down her body. Of Malfoy’s elegant hands and wrists, as he flipped through the books on his desk and scratched his quill across his parchment. Of the white collar of his shirt, a button or two loose, exposing his pale, perfect neck.
Those unfamiliar feelings swirled around and around, deep inside her core, too.
In the morning, still mostly asleep, Hermione found herself grinding impatiently against her mattress. She’d been dreaming of Malfoy. Of straddling him, as he sat in his chair at their desk in the library. In her dreams, she rubbed herself against him, grinding her hips against his, chasing something that felt so close but still so far out of her reach…
More awake now, Hermione slid her hand underneath her pyjamas, which had become damp with her wetness. With slightly unpractised fingers—she’d done this before, of course, just not much—she slipped along her wet folds, searching for her entrance. Slowly, she slid a finger inside of herself, and then two. She pressed her fingers in and out of herself, grinding down on her hand.
Hermione cast her mind back to her dream—imagining undoing Malfoy’s trousers as she straddled him, and sinking herself down onto his cock. He’d fill her up more than her own two fingers did, she was sure of it. She imagined slowly working herself up and down his cock, getting used to the size of it. How—once she’d grown accustomed to it—she’d quicken her pace, bouncing up and down on him. And then, when he was close, she’d grab onto his perfect blond hair at the nape of his neck, and ride him hard and fast until he came deep inside of her.
Hermione pulled her fingers out from inside of her, wondering how it would feel to have Malfoy’s come dripping out of her, and slid her soaking wet fingers up to her clit. She took a second to find the perfect spot—there—before circling it again, and again, and again. She came, hard, muffling her moan into her pillow, his name on her lips. Draco.
Coming down from her orgasmic high and cleaning up the mess she had made of herself, Hermione knew she had to admit the devastating truth. She had never been one to ignore the evidence.
Hermione Granger wanted Draco Malfoy.
Desperately.
Without Hermione realising, their late-night study sessions had become a routine. One she looked forward to, if she was completely honest with herself. But now she’d ruined it by crossing the unspoken lines drawn between them; by getting too personal, by mentioning the war, by thinking about him while she—no, surely he couldn’t know about that…
But as the night went on, Hermione had to admit defeat.
He wasn’t coming.
Frustrated, Hermione loosened her tie and ran a hand through her unruly hair.
She stared at his empty chair on the other side of the desk. Her mind drifted back to her dream, when she straddled her thighs across his, and moved against him.
Would she really do that, here? Hermione considered it. Would she let Malfoy unbutton her shirt, exposing her breasts? Would she let him bring his mouth to her nipple, licking and sucking, while she grinded against him? Would she tilt her head back and moan, loudly, not caring if there was anyone else still in the library?
As Hermione’s thoughts wandered, she could feel the wetness starting to gather inside of her. Her core was pulsing now, but she was so empty. She crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs together, trying to relieve the building pressure. She bit her lip and her eyelids fluttered closed, as she pressed her thighs together even tighter, rocking her hips ever-so-slightly in her library chair.
As her core desperately squeezed around nothing, she once again imagined Draco Malfoy slowly sliding inside her.
“Miss me, Granger?”
Spell broken, Hermione’s eyes flew open and landed on Malfoy.
Gaze starved over the Christmas break; Hermione’s eyes feasted on Malfoy.
Merlin, he looks good. How had she not noticed all last term?
She opened her mouth, ready to deny his accusation. But she stopped herself short—why not admit it? She had missed him. But the words became all jumbled up, and a lump lodged in her throat. She said nothing at all, instead giving Malfoy a small, tight smile.
"Enjoy yourself over Christmas, did you?" Malfoy asked. She could've sworn he was smirking slightly. No, no, no, he definitely couldn't know... right?
“Yes, thank you,” Hermione answered curtly. At a loss for what to say next, she wondered how it was possible for all of her social skills to leave her body.
Malfoy sat across from her at the desk, raising a hand to brush stray strands of blond from his eyes. Hermione tracked the movement, eyes catching on the flex of his forearm. She shifted slightly in her seat.
Malfoy cocked his head to the side, silver eyes focused on hers. A smirk tugged at his lips. Hermione felt the toe of his shoe nudge hers below the desk.
“Well, are you not going to ask me about my break? Tsk, tsk, you Gryffindors, always on about how brave and good you are, but did no one ever teach your lot basic manners?” Malfoy mocked her, but without any trace of malice behind it.
“Sorry, of course!” Hermione sat up straight. “Draco, how was your Christmas?” she asked seriously.
Malfoy’s eyes flashed dark at the sound of his first name on Hermione’s lips. Hermione berated herself. She’d never used his first name before, except for the time she had made herself come thinking of him. And she was trying so desperately to shift her mind away from that memory now.
After a moment, Malfoy answered, cordially, “My Christmas was grand, Granger, thank you very much for asking. My mother and I had a splendid time together.”
“Good, I’m very pleased to hear it,” Hermione smiled politely. Once again, she was at a loss for how to continue the conversation. She couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy.
The smirk returned to Malfoy’s face, his eyes trailing down Hermione’s neck, landing on the knot of her gold and crimson tie laying on her chest.
“But can I tell you a secret?” Malfoy asked, eyes coming back up to her face.
Hermione nodded slowly, not wanting to appear too eager.
Malfoy planted his elbows on the desk, white shirt sleeves rolled above them. Hermione’s breath caught as he leaned in close, bringing his lips towards her ear to whisper, “I missed our nights in the library together.”
Hermione felt a shiver of pleasure run down her spine at the sound of his voice, deep in her ear. She squeezed her thighs together again. She wanted to—she didn’t even know what…
Before she could think of an adequate response, Malfoy pulled away, leaning back in his chair.
“So, Granger, what are we studying tonight?” he asked casually, clearly unaffected by their return to proximity.
“Um,” Hermione drew a blank. She hadn’t thought about that at all tonight, if she was being honest.
“I was going to suggest we go up to the Astronomy Tower, get a head start on those charts Professor Sinistra wants by the end of the month. But you’re right, it’s not a clear enough night for that, let’s save it for later in the week. Transfiguration homework it is,” Malfoy declared.
Hermione nodded. “Great minds…” she muttered.
Malfoy stood up, announcing that he needed to find a book or two. Hermione watched as he walked away from the desk and towards the shelves. His white shirt stretched across his shoulders—when did he get so broad—and was tucked neatly into his trousers, which sat so perfectly on his hips. Damn Malfoy, and his impeccably tailored clothes, Hermione thought.
By the time Malfoy returned to their desk, a book in hand, Hermione at least had remembered to make herself look busy. Her Transfiguration notes were spread out on the table before her. Her eyes passed over her handwriting, absorbing absolutely nothing.
Malfoy busied himself with reading his book, although Hermione assumed he was actually taking in the content, unlike her.
Despite her best efforts (which could only be classed as Poor, Dreadful or Troll), Hermione’s eyes kept drifting back towards Malfoy. His head lay propped against his hand, elbow resting on the desk, as he read page after page. Her eyes trailed along the lines from his hand, down his flexed forearm (she could probably stare at it all day), up his bicep (was that a hint of muscle?), along his broad shoulders (she wanted to sink her fingernails into them).
Worried that Malfoy could feel her stare searing into him, Hermione forced herself to look back at her notes. Something, something, transfiguration, something…
A spark ignited on Hermione’s skin when Malfoy’s knee brushed against hers under the desk. Heart rate speeding, an excitement stirred deep in Hermione’s lower abdomen. Against her will, Hermione glanced up at him yet again—was it intentional?—but his gaze didn’t waver from his book. Hermione’s knee was warm where Malfoy’s was still pressed against hers. She could feel her wetness gathering again. Malfoy turned another page, somehow oblivious to the electricity coursing between them.
Hermione resigned herself to a night of torment.
After an age of waiting, and wanting, Malfoy finally turned his attention towards Hermione.
“Have you ever tried this spell before? I think this is what’s next on the curriculum, as a precursor to learning about animagi. I’ve been reading ahead,” Malfoy turned his book towards Hermione and pointed at the page.
Hermione stared at the veins running along the back of his hand, before leaning forward across the desk to get a better look at the book. Malfoy’s eyes flitted back down to the knot of her tie.
Hermione’s hand landed softly on the page, fingers trailing underneath the line Malfoy pointed to. “Self-transfiguration?” she read aloud. “I can’t say I have, it’s highly dangerous when not done under proper supervision.” Casting magic on any living being, but especially the self, was complex and risked permanent disfigurment if not performed correctly. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been tempted. There’s probably a never-ending list of things I’d like to change about my appearance with magic…” Hermione admitted sheepishly.
Malfoy’s hand twitched where it lay near hers against the page. When she glanced back up at him, he was looking at her intently.
“Believe me, Hermione, there’s not a single thing I’d change about the way you look.”
Hermione swallowed, clueless about how to respond to that.
After a moment, trying to divert the attention away from her, she ventured, “How about you? Have you used this spell before, or would you like to?”
“Why, do you think I need to, Granger?” Malfoy asked, teasingly. Hermione, honest, shook her head silently. “I quite agree, I’m perfectly well-endowed in all physical respects,” Malfoy continued, smugly.
Hermione hummed, cocking her head as she examined Malfoy. “I suppose you have those good pureblood genes to thank for that.”
The tendon in Malfoy’s jaw tensed, before a laugh bubbled up inside Hermione and escaped her lips. Malfoy’s jaw softened and a surprised smile spread across his face. Hermione stared as his hand came up to cover his mouth, his two forefingers brushing his lips. She felt her core pulse again, as she thought about brushing her own lips against his.
“There’s another book on the topic I want to read, but I wasn’t able to find it earlier,” Malfoy said suddenly.
“Oh? Which one? I might know where to find it,” Hermione offered, always willing to assist in an academic pursuit.
“Principles of Advanced Morphic Transfiguration by Cassius Thorneweaver.”
Hermione had never heard of it. A rarity. “It wasn’t in the Transfiguration section?” Malfoy shook his head. “And it hasn’t been checked out?” Malfoy shook his head again.
“Well, I suppose it is a dangerous area of magic, vulnerable to misuse by younger students. It might be in the Restricted Section,” Hermione pondered aloud.
“Help me look for it?” asked Malfoy.
Who was she to refuse? Happy to help, Hermione nodded, standing up from the desk. Her legs were slightly shaky from a night of squeezing them together, and she could feel a pool of wetness gathering in her knickers.
Hermione turned and led the way towards the Restricted Section. She was very conscious of the feeling of Malfoy walking close behind her. In all their nights of studying together, they had never descended into the shelves together. One person always held the fort at their desk, while the other went on their search for books.
They crossed the threshold into the Restricted Section easily (another perk bestowed from Madam Pince on her favourite student). Hermione took in the rows and rows of shelves in this deceptively large area of the library, just as mesmerised as she was as a second-year student plotting to brew Polyjuice Potion.
She led the way through the labyrinth of bookcases, not sure exactly where to start their search. Reaching a random bookcase, Hermione halted in her tracks. Malfoy, who had been walking right behind her the entire time, slammed into her, chest pressed into her back. She wobbled, and Malfoy laid steadying hands on both her hips.
“You alright there, Granger?” he whispered in her ear, the eerie quietness of the Restricted Section calling for hushed tones.
Butterflies soared in Hermione’s stomach, another shiver running down her spine. She nodded, wishing to linger here, back pressed against Malfoy’s chest, just for a moment. But Malfoy lifted his hands away, and so she continued onward between the shelves.
Hermione scanned the rows of books with futility. She couldn’t even remember the name of the book they were meant to be looking for. At least Malfoy seemed to be searching with intent.
“I don’t think it’s in this section, let’s try somewhere else,” Malfoy announced, turning to Hermione. She nodded in absentminded agreement. Her mind was still focused on the memory of his surprisingly large hands on her hips.
It was Hermione’s turn to follow Malfoy now. She paid little attention to the path he weaved through the shelves; her eyes fixed on the nape of his neck. She hadn’t realised before that his hair had grown and was beginning to curl at the ends, just slightly. It was probably just long enough for her to grab it, and tug, after all.
Malfoy led them around a shelf, and Hermione realised they were in the very back corner of the Restricted Section. Against the outer walls, rows and rows of books ascended to the ceiling. Ladders balanced against the walls to reach the higher shelves.
Malfoy looked up. “I think it might be up on one of those shelves,” he said.
Hermione followed his gaze up.
“Would you get it for me?” he asked.
She shot him a look. “Why don’t you get it yourself, Malfoy?”
“I’m afraid of heights,” he admitted, sheepishly. (Only later, when she thought about Malfoy in his Quidditch uniform, would Hermione question the accuracy of this statement.) “Please, Hermione.”
Those feelings swirled around inside of her whenever he said her name. She nodded, again, eager to please.
Hermione smoothed her hands over her skirt, before placing them on the rungs of the ladder. She climbed several feet, casting her eyes over the spines of the books. What was the author’s name again? Thorne, something?
Hermione looked over her shoulder and down at Malfoy to ask, and saw his eyes snap from her skirt to her face.
Surely, he couldn’t have been looking at my… could he?
Hermione decided to change tack.
“I don’t see it up here, it must be on the lower shelves,” she said, descending the ladder.
She landed on the floor, safe, and squeezed herself between Malfoy and the bookcase, her chest brushing lightly against his torso. Malfoy’s silver gaze pierced hers.
She slipped past him. “Maybe on the lowest shelf…” she murmured, innocently, before bending over to search it. She took her time, her fingers slowly dusting over the spine of every book on the lowest shelf, and then the one above it.
“How peculiar, your book doesn’t seem to be here either,” Hermione sighed, turning back around. When she locked eyes with Malfoy, she found his pupils blown, barely a ring of silver surrounding the black. It could just be because it’s dark in the Restricted Section, she supposed.
“I have one last idea for where it might be hiding,” said Malfoy.
Hermione expected him to lead the way again, but instead he placed a large hand on her lower back and guided her through the shelves. Hermione’s skin felt like it was on fire, even with the fabric of her school uniform between his touch. She could hear her blood rushing in her ears, and could feel her blood rushing south, her core throbbing.
Malfoy stopped them between a pair of bookcases and began searching one. Hermione turned, beginning to search the case opposite him. But her eyes—traitorous as always—instead shifted to search for Malfoy over her shoulder. She watched him scanning the shelves. Through the large arched windows of the library, the moon hung high in the sky now. Moonlight cast Malfoy’s hair almost as silver as his eyes.
Without turning to her, Malfoy spoke. “You seem distracted tonight, Granger.”
“Distracted? No, I’m not distracted. I’m just…still adjusting from the Christmas break,” Hermione lied.
Malfoy turned to face her, casting a disbelieving look.
Hermione turned around all the way to face him, pressing her back against the bookcase behind her.
“Something that happened during the break is distracting you, then?” Malfoy asked, stalking towards her.
“No, I told you I’m not distracted,” Hermione huffed. “Nothing distracts me from my studies. That’s why I’m such an academic weapon.” She held her head high.
Malfoy exhaled sharply through his nose, amused. He was standing over her now, arm outstretched, grabbing for a book on the shelf above her head. Hermione tilted her head farther back, digging into the shelf behind her, to look up at him.
“Is that right?” Malfoy asked, softly. He was standing so close.
Hermione nodded.
“Is that why you led us to the area in the Restricted Section on dangerous potions, when we’re supposed to be looking for a book on self-transfiguration?” Malfoy smirked.
“Um, that’s not, I…” Hermione stuttered, heat rising to her cheeks.
Malfoy’s eyes trailed down her body again. “That’s perfectly alright, Granger,” he said. “I’ll admit, I’ve been a bit distracted tonight myself.” Malfoy’s fingers delicately grabbed the hem of her skirt, gently rolling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. Malfoy’s eyes met hers, face breaking into a cocky grin. “But not nearly as bad as you.”
Hermione’s eyes broke away from Malfoy’s. She could feel her cheeks burning red; she hoped it was dark enough in the Restricted Section that it wasn’t too noticeable. Her mouth was agape, no defence available.
Malfoy leaned in even closer, whispering in her ear, “How lucky am I, to see the Brightest Witch of Our Age, struck dumb?”
Hermione simultaneously felt herself preening from the title, and her cheeks burning even hotter from shame. Malfoy’s fingers slipped underneath the hem of her skirt, resting lightly on her thigh. She stared up at Malfoy, rolling her lip between her teeth, silently pleading. She shifted her hips, parting her thighs, almost imperceptibly, hoping he would take the hint.
Hermione watched Malfoy’s tongue moisten his lips as he stared at her hungrily. Slowly, teasingly slow, Malfoy’s fingers trailed up her thigh, eventually finding the damp patch on the front of her knickers. Slipping underneath the cotton fabric, Malfoy slid his fingers effortlessly along her wetness. She was soaked.
“Fuck, Granger,” he coughed, eyes momentarily sliding shut, as he slid his fingers along her once, then twice. “How are you already so wet when I’ve barely touched you?” he whispered in her ear, before looking at her face, her redness definitely visible in the moonlight now. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting in your soaking knickers all night, waiting for me?”
Hermione let out a breathy sigh, rolling her hips. She didn’t answer the question.
Malfoy chuckled, smug grin spreading across his face. “You have, haven’t you?”
Embarrassed, Hermione looked down and nodded. She noticed Malfoy holding his wand in his free hand.
Malfoy brought his wand up, digging it underneath Hermione’s chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “Show me,” he demanded, before silently casting Legilimens.
As Malfoy entered Hermione’s mind, her earlier fantasy of them in the library swam to the surface. Her imagined visions of Malfoy licking her sensitive nipple as she rolled her hips against him wantonly, not caring if anyone saw. Malfoy now knew how she had pressed her thighs together as she waited for him in the library, core pulsing wildly, needing him.
In reality, pressed against the shelves, Malfoy tucked his wand away, before raising his hand again to the column of her throat. Hermione’s breath hitched, but Malfoy’s hand continued down the front of her shirt. His large hand paused over her breast. Hermione felt her nipples pebble against her shirt, no bra in between the sensitive skin and the cotton fabric. “Noted,” was all he said, before his hand trailed further south.
With both hands, Malfoy pulled Hermione’s underwear down her hips. Her knickers dropped to the floor, gathering around her ankles.
Malfoy’s fingers resumed their exploration, slipping between her folds, before gently grazing her clit, just once. Hermione felt like she was going to explode. She rocked her hips forward, chasing the sensation again, but his fingers evaded her, sliding back towards her entrance and circling softly. Slowly, he pushed one finger inside of her. Instantly, she tightened her core around him, already needing more. Hermione had been feeling so empty all night, and Malfoy knew it.
Malfoy added a second finger, pulsing in and out of her, before diving back inside her mind. He searched through her recent memories, scanning through her recollection of Christmas. Skipping over the bulk of the festive cheer, Malfoy paused on the memory of her in bed on Boxing Day morning. Malfoy hovered inside her mind as the memory replayed of her waking up from her dream, grinding against the mattress, pushing her fingers inside herself imagining it was his cock and needing more, more, more.
In the library, Malfoy chuckled again. “Your fingers not enough for you, Granger? Need me to fill you up, good and proper?”
Hermione whined, rolling her hips again. “Please, Draco,” she begged.
Draco’s eyes flashed dark again. He added a third finger, pumping them in and out of her now. His fingers curled against that spot inside of her, making her head fall back against the shelf as she moaned, too loud. She was so wet, the sound of his fingers pounding into her ricocheted off the walls of the library.
Draco kept whispering obscenities in her ear. “I knew you must’ve missed me, Granger, but not that much. I leave you for what, two weeks? And you end up fucking yourself on your fingers all Christmas, thinking of me…”
Hermione’s fingers scrambled to find purchase on the bookshelf above her head, her core squeezed around Draco’s fingers as they hit that spot inside of her over and over. Her back arched against the bookcase as she moaned again.
When things had gotten handsy with Viktor Krum after the Yule Ball, or when her and Ron fumbled around behind Harry’s back while they were hunting for Horcruxes, it had certainly never felt like this.
“Fuck, fuck, please, Draco… I’m going to—” she began to beg, but was cut off when Draco removed his fingers from inside of her with a wet pop.
“Not yet, you’re not,” Draco stated, firmly. He looked downwards; towards the fingers he just had inside of her. He brought his hand up to their eye line. The wetness coating his fingers glistened in the moonlight. “Look at what a mess you’re making, Granger,” he tutted, crowding her in even further against the shelves. “You’re going to have to clean it up.”
Realisation dawned on Hermione’s face as Draco slowly brought his fingers towards her mouth. Merlin, she should have been humiliated at the thought of what he wanted her to do. Instead, she felt the wetness spreading down the inside of her thighs as she pressed them together.
Tentatively, Hermione ran her tongue along Draco’s fingers, tasting herself on them. She was surprised; it was sweeter than she had expected. Hermione swept her tongue along his fingers again, licking them clean as he’d asked. She swallowed his fingers into her mouth, sucking gently as she raised her eyes to meet his. Draco stared at her lips, hungrily, seemingly torn about whether he wanted to replace his fingers with his own lips.
Hermione could scarcely believe what was happening. Sucking her own juices off Draco Malfoy’s fingers in the middle of the Restricted Section! It was obscene!
But then a more obscene thought occurred to her.
Hermione pulled Draco’s fingers from her mouth, kicked her knickers all the way off, and slowly lowered herself onto her knees. Knees digging into the hardwood floor beneath her, Hermione looked up at Draco, nervously worrying her lip between her teeth. Would he be alright with this?
Draco certainly looked alright with it. His pupils were blown wide again as he stared down at her. It was indeed hard to tell in the dim lighting of the library, but Hermione could’ve sworn a hint of pink tinged the tops of his high cheekbones.
Slowly, Hermione ran her hands up the front of Draco’s neat trousers, along his thighs. Reaching the top, she skimmed her fingers underneath the band of his trousers, until her fingers reached the button in the middle. With her unpractised fingers, she undid Draco’s trousers and slid them down slightly.
Curious, Hermione brought her face closer, mouthing over the dark fabric of Draco’s underwear still covering his cock. It was rock hard beneath her mouth.
Hermione curled her fingers under the band of Draco’s underwear and tugged those down, too. His cock stood proud and perfect, a droplet of precum glistening at the tip of his pink head.
Hermione gulped. There was no other way to describe it—it was huge. She had no idea where to begin.
She started by running her tongue along the underside of his cock, base to head. When she reached the tip, she flicked her tongue across the slit on the head of his cock, licking up the precum that had gathered there.
She repeated the same movement, before taking the head of his cock into her mouth, suckling on it gently. Wrapping her hand around the base of his cock for assistance—she really had no idea how she was supposed to fit all of it in her mouth—she began bobbing her head up and down, trying to find a rhythm.
Removing her hand after a minute, Hermione made her genuine best effort to take all of him into her mouth (she’d give herself an Exceeds Expectations, but not an Outstanding). She made it most of the way to the base of his cock before starting to choke slightly, at which point she slid her mouth back to the tip. She repeated the motion a few times, each time getting smoother.
As Hermione sucked Draco’s cock, she timidly lifted her gaze to his, wanting to check if she was doing okay. Above her, Draco looked completely undone. His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, came up to her face, combing his fingers through her unruly hair.
Gazing up at him, mouth full of his cock, Hermione swallowed.
“You’re going to fucking kill me, Granger,” Draco sighed, tightening his grip in Hermione’s hair, before gently thrusting into her mouth.
Hermione moaned around his cock, trying to nod her approval.
Draco thrust into Hermione’s mouth again, then again, then again, the pace of his thrusts increasing. Hermione hadn't expected to love this feeling, the feeling of Draco hitting the back of her throat, the feeling of her mouth barely being able to stretch around him, the feeling of the wet slide of his cock in and out of her mouth. The feeling of him fucking her face.
Hermione was so wet that droplets rolled off her, hitting the wooden floorboards beneath where she knelt.
Still staring up into Draco’s eyes, Hermione wondered what it would taste like if he came in her mouth. She imagined swallowing his come, the excess dribbling down her chin.
Draco’s breath hitched and his hips stuttered. “Nice thought, Granger,” he said, apparently still having access to her mind from his earlier spell. “But not tonight. I have other plans.”
Draco tugged Hermione’s hair and slowly pulled her mouth off his cock.
On shaky legs, Hermione rose to her feet. Draco fastened his trousers and crouched down to pick her knickers up off the floor, pocketing them. Rising, he placed a hand on her shoulder, gently spinning her to face the other direction, before sliding his hand down to her lower back. He guided her back through the maze of shelves, back across the threshold to the Restricted Section, and back to the desk. Their desk.
Draco moved his hand down to Hermione’s hip, pushing her lightly, until her backside connected with the hard wood of the desk. Hermione teetered, perched on the edge of the desk, while Draco stood tall above her.
His fingers once again found the column of her throat, where sparks flew off her skin. Slowly, his fingers trailed down to the knot of her tie, the one he had been glancing at all night. In a practised movement, Draco undid the knot, sliding the tie off from around her neck, and placed it delicately on the desk.
Silver eyes locked on Hermione’s chest; Draco’s fingers moved to the buttons of her shirt. He slid the first button out from its hole, then the next, then the next, all the way down.
Draco pushed the fabric of her shirt open, exposing her shoulders, collarbone, breasts. She shivered as the cold night air of the library hit her skin, goosebumps rising, nipples pebbling.
Lightly, Draco trailed the back of his forefinger along her collarbone and down her chest, pausing at the top of her breast. Hermione arched towards him, needing more. She could hear her breath in the quiet of the library.
Draco’s finger continued downwards, towards her nipple, brushing it softly. Hermione’s breath stuttered. Draco brushed her nipple with his knuckle again, before switching to circle it with the pad of his finger. Her nipple hardened even more under his touch. She was so exposed—anyone who walked into their corner of the library would see her pink, perfect nipples, standing out against the soft arc of her breasts.
Hermione moaned as Draco brought his mouth to her nipple, circling his tongue around the outside of it—once, twice—before flicking his tongue over the peak. Draco then took the whole thing into his mouth, sucking. Hermione moaned again, grinding her hips impatiently and becoming frustrated at finding no friction there.
Draco unlatched his mouth from her nipple before declaring, “You were greedy before, Granger. I need to taste you myself now.”
It was Draco’s turn to sink onto his knees.
His hands landed on her thighs and trailed upwards, bringing her skirt with them. Draco glanced up at her face, smirking, before focusing back on the task at hand. He brought his face closer to her, before licking a straight line up the centre of her folds with a flat tongue. A breathy sigh escaped Hermione’s lips. Draco did it again, and again.
Draco’s tongue made its way to her clit, tracing around it in tight circles. Hermione cried out, one hand stabilising her on the desk and the other finding purchase in Draco’s hair, as her hips bucked involuntarily. The feeling was so intense, she’d never experienced it before.
With his tongue, Draco lured Hermione closer and closer to the edge. Just when Hermione thought she was about to find her release, he stopped. Hermione bucked her hips again, petulantly. Draco smirked, moonlight catching on his wet lips.
Draco stood, and Hermione’s eyes caught on the movement of Draco’s hands, reaching to unfasten his trousers again. She bit her lip in anticipation. Was he finally going to fill her up, like she’d been waiting for all night?
Draco stepped even closer to her, between her legs where they were spread as she balanced against the desk, pulling out his cock.
With a strong hand, Draco gripped the outside of her right thigh, pulling her leg to wrap around his hip.
At long last, Draco Malfoy pushed himself inside of Hermione Granger.
They locked eyes—wide in shock and pleasure—as he slid all the way inside. Both breathing heavily once he was fully sheathed inside of her, they rested their foreheads against each other. If Hermione had thought Draco’s pupils were enlarged before, that was nothing. She could hardly make out a trace of the silver now.
“Fuck, Granger, you’re so tight. I fucking knew you’d feel this incredible too,” Draco panted softly. She could feel his breath against her mouth.
That gave Hermione pause. “You’ve thought about this before, you mean?” she asked.
Draco exhaled an amused laugh, as if the answer was obvious.
It was Hermione’s turn to demand, “Show me.”
Draco obliged, flooding Hermione’s mind with images. Of them sitting across from each other at this very desk, night after night. Of Draco sneaking glances at Hermione’s lips when she wasn’t looking, wondering how they would feel between his. Of Draco staring determinedly at his work whenever their knees brushed under the desk—so he did feel it, too—tensing his jaw as he resisted the urge to lay his hand on Hermione’s knee and trail her soft skin up, up, up. Of the countless times Draco had imagined bending her over their desk, flipping her skirt up, admiring her backside, lining himself against her entrance, and pushing in.
“Oh,” Hermione moaned softly, into the night of the library.
With one hand cradling the back of Hermione’s head, and the other caressing the middle of her back, Draco guided Hermione to lie down on the desk. Her shirt fell completely open around her, exposing her breasts. Her brown hair splayed out around her on the wood like a halo. With encouraging hands, Draco guided her legs up, until both of her ankles rested on his shoulders. He placed his hands gently on her ankles, keeping them steady.
Gazing down at Hermione, Draco pulled most of the way out of her, before pushing himself back in, so slowly. He did it once more, just as slow. Hermione didn’t know before that she could ever feel this full.
Draco gradually started moving his hips faster, pulling part of the way out before pushing back in, building up his tempo with each thrust.
Once Hermione was comfortable with the way he stretched her, she squeezed her core around him, wanting more.
His large hands moved to grip the front of her thighs, pressing his fingers in hard, pulling her even closer to him. As her hips tilted up just slightly, Draco’s cock hit a new spot inside of her. A moan tore through Hermione, so loud that she should have been embarrassed, but she couldn’t bring herself to find shame in that moment.
Draco slammed into her again and again and again, harder and harder and harder, hitting that same perfect spot over and over and over. The wet sound of him pounding in and out of her was obscene in the eerie silence of the library. Hermione had lost any and all concern for how loud she was, practically wailing with pleasure as her hands clawed into the desk beneath her, back arching against the wood.
Hermione locked eyes with Draco, her lips forming a perfect O-shape, as waves of pleasure crashed over her. She’d never felt this sensation before, having only ever made herself come with her fingers against her clit. Hermione almost screamed as she climaxed, core pulsing uncontrollably around Draco’s cock.
As the waves of pleasure rippled away, Hermione was left so, so sensitive, but Draco kept pounding into her, unrelenting. Draco’s hips stuttered—“fuck, Hermione”—as he came deep inside of her.
Draco lingered inside Hermione for a minute as they both came down from their pleasure-built highs, panting heavily. He pulled out of her, a pool of his come trailing behind. “Look at what a mess I’ve made of you, Granger,” he said, admiringly, running his fingers through the mess.
Hermione watched as he moved to grab his wand from his pocket, ready to clean her up.
She had a better idea.
She rushed to sit up on the desk, clamping her thighs together.
“What are you doing?” Draco asked, shooting her a puzzled look.
Hermione hesitated, the words feeling more foreign on her tongue than the first time she cast a spell, “Um, I was thinking… I want to sit here for the rest of the night, studying, um, filled with your come… Is that alright?”
A shocked laugh burst from Draco’s lips. “Is that alright?” he muttered under his breath. “Yes, Hermione. It’s more than alright.”
He paused a moment. “Wait, you’re really telling me you want to study, tonight?” he asked, incredulous.
“It’s the first day of term, Draco! We can’t fall behind already!”
FIN