Work Text:
A Thursday in July, 2015
~Hermione~
“Pop, my feet hurt,” said Hugo.
They'd been in New York City for three days. Ron insisted upon seeing everything, nevermind that they were dragging around two moody teenagers with no interest in any of it. They were exhausted, and frankly, so was she.
Ron had presented this trip as a second honeymoon, although considering that their first honeymoon had been two rainy September days in a cottage in Dover seventeen years ago, perhaps they should have called it their first.
It should've been a romantic getaway. She’d naturally assumed they'd go alone, but Ron requested a four-person international portkey. It seemed almost mental to Hermione; they were trying to repair their relationship. Taking two teenagers with them on a honeymoon made no sense. But she'd stopped trying to reason with Ron long ago.
-O-
When Hermione sketched out her life-plan a few months after the war ended, none of it included having two children by age twenty-two. None of her goals involved serving ten years as the Junior Undersecretary of Permits and Inspections within the Department of International Cooperation, where her primary task was checking and stamping forms all day.
And her grand plans never included getting married to Ronald Weasley.
But potions sometimes fail if improperly stored, and if the contraception charm isn't done before sex, its reliability is cut in half. And that was how in September of 1998, Hermione found herself wearing a white dress and a simple gold band with a chip of a diamond at its center, knocking rice out of her shoes and crying in the upstairs toilet of the Burrow.
-O-
Still, they were in New York City, the city that never sleeps (although as teenagers, Hugo and Rose both could’ve really used a kip, she thought).
“Pop, let's stop. I'm bloody tired,” Hugo whined for easily the fourteenth time in the last hour.
“Ooh, Ice cream!” sixteen-year-old Rose exclaimed. “And look at the adorable swans!”
They'd reached a particularly beautiful section of Central Park, and Ron hesitated. He had an itinerary, after all– they had tickets to a children's theater matinee in thirty minutes.
“I don't know,” Ron said.
This little vacillation was all it took for the teenagers to decide for him. Rose flounced away to the ice cream stand. Hugo pulled a sleeve of biscuits from his pocket to feed the swans.
“I suppose if we apparate, we can make the theater on time,” her husband said uncertainly.
"That'd be brilliant. You know, Ron, I'm feeling a bit poorly. I think I'll beg off and pop back to the hotel for a quick kip before dinner.”
He looked put out. “What about the show? The tickets were free.”
Ron offered this as if it were an enticement. Hermione didn't have the energy to explain that, if anything, this made a children's theater production even less appealing. If it wasn't good enough to charge for entry, it likely wasn't good.
“Why don't the three of you enjoy an ice cream and the play, and we'll meet up for dinner?” Hermione offered.
Ron frowned. Caring for the children had always been Hermione's job. Even now that they were self-sufficient, he still always seemed ill-at-ease, being left in charge of them. When Ron watched them as young children, he typically flooed straight to the Burrow so that his mother could wait on them hand and foot.
He didn't want to be alone with the children now, but he could find no reason to object. “If you're sure,” he hemmed.
“Positive. Let's say seven? That Italian place near the theater?” Hermione said, trying to keep the lilt of happiness from her voice. She was about to have four blessed hours alone in New York. She felt nearly giddy.
“Sure,” he sighed. “We'll see you then.”
By now, Hugo was debating between strawberry and raspberry ice cream. Rose had spotted a teenaged boy across the pond and was watching him whilst pretending not to. Hermione kissed them both goodbye, realising only after she'd walked away that she'd neglected to give the same to her husband.
She didn't turn back.
-O-
Within a few blocks’ walk, she felt like a new version of herself. The city was vast and bustling, far grittier than any area of London she'd frequented growing up, and she could feel it rubbing off on her. A banner strung across one street read “Happy Independence Day.” She smiled. Even though she knew the words weren't meant for her, she felt like they could've been.
Her senses carried her forward and she allowed herself to wander. The delightful scents from a Greek restaurant pulled her down one street; a ghetto blaster pumping a hip-hop song from her youth took her down another.
After thirty minutes, she'd gotten herself hopelessly, deliciously lost. Drunk with the liberating feeling of it, she ducked into an isolated corner in the back of a bodega to disapparate.
Appearing on the subway stairs two blocks from the hotel, Hermione set off at a leisurely pace, stopping at a zebra crossing to wait for the light. On the other side, an attractive man waited to cross in the opposite direction.
Inspirational Photos in case they're helpful
He wasn't as tall and gangly as Ron, and he seemed to exude a kind of quiet confidence that Hermione had only read about in books or seen in films. His dark blond hair fell in waves, curling slightly over his collar. The scruff of his chin was darker blond, his eyes obscured by expensive sunglasses. In his tailored blue suit, he cut a dashing figure. Even with his tie loosened and the top button undone over his throat, his demeanour exuded old money, a kind of confidence in his posture that was both effortless and ingrained.
Something about him screamed English, which she knew sounded ridiculous. But she had the feeling that if he spoke to her, it would be in the clear tones of RP.
He was looking intently at where she stood, though he was likely only watching the light for the crossing, she reasoned. Still, it sent goosepimples up her arms. That a man who looked like that would even glance in her general direction! Her eyes lifted with her friendly smile, all the same.
In a different life, another, bolder Hermione might have spoken to him, or at least offered him a flirtatious look. But that was two children, one husband, and a million years ago. This Hermione felt frumpy, dumpy, used up and flattened like an old milk carton. Now, she only had fantasies of how an encounter with a man like that might go.
Hello, she might say. Something simple like, I like your tie.
Or if she were really bold, she'd say, do you know of any good pubs nearby?
He'd recommend a place.
I hate to drink alone. Walk me there? They'd share a drink, and then…
She laughed to herself at the absurdity. For one thing, she was married. For another, he was far too attractive to waste even a few minutes of his charmed life with a woman like her. His chiseled features, half-masked by the sunglasses, his perfect hair– he could've been styled by a magazine editor, or else just stepped off the deck of his private yacht.
The signal changed, and the crowds began to cross, sweeping Hermione along with them. She and the man passed within inches of each other, and in that last second, she glanced up, her lips lifting in a half-smile. Then he was gone, and so was Hermione's chance to do anything about it.
“Miss?”
A light touch on her shoulder. A man's voice, his English accent softened and rounded by years of living in America. “You dropped this.”
She turned, heart suddenly beating out of her chest. It was the man she'd noticed. He held her ticket to the children's theater between two long fingers and a thumb that looked so dexterous and strong. Her eyes travelled up, feasting on his muscles through his suit jacket, his broad shoulders and strong neck. His eyes were still hidden, but his smile made the most delightful dimple in his stubbled left cheek.
Something brushed across the surface of her mind, something like a memory, but more. It wasn't the recollection of an event, but rather a feeling– that euphoria from the acknowledgment by an unrequited crush, the flood of heat one feels when something is new, and wrong for her, but oh-so-fucking desirable.
The thing he held– the ticket to the play, a seat next to a man that she didn't even like some days, much less love– no, she really didn't want that.
“I don't want that,” she blurted out like some kind of petulant child.
“I'll take care of it, then,” he said, cheek dimpling once more. He crumpled the ticket, and it vanished into his pocket.
A horn blast; they stood in the middle of the street.
“Well–” he started.
“My hotel is just this way. Come there with me?” Hermione heard a voice saying, and it was a couple of seconds before she realised it was she who'd said it.
-O-
~Draco~
After his acquittal, he left the UK altogether. It felt like the thing to do; with his father in prison and his mother in Belgium, he was the only Malfoy left in England. Blaise and Theo departed for Italy. Pansy and Greg slipped away to the continent. Vince was dead. And Draco was alone.
He decided upon New York. What better place to reinvent oneself? The bustling metropolis offered a whole new world to Draco, and for a few years, it felt like enough to fill the void in his life. He grew his hair out, letting it naturally darken without bothering with the lightening charms he'd always used. He took up smoking, then quit. Got a couple of tattoos. Softened his English accent considerably to sound far less posh. Bought a whole new wardrobe of muggle clothes and burned his old robes. Some days, looking in the mirror, he seemed unrecognisable even to himself.
Back in those early years, there had been an abundance of alcohol, drugs, and women. Most of it, he could’ve taken or left– but it was nice to have options.
But they say that there's no loneliness like that of the big city. Running the muggle side of Malfoy, Ltd wasn't as time-consuming as one might've hoped. And in 2007, after one particularly awful night in which he'd awoken, strung-out and facedown in the pool of his own vomit, next to an unknown woman who did not care that he'd been struggling to breathe, Draco was done with all that.
He found a pureblood witch with which to settle down. Cassandra was polite, calculating– and boring. She didn't love him. The feeling was mutual, but she'd agreed to marry him, and even offered him sex once a year or so, with the understanding that he could satisfy the rest of his needs elsewhere.
He had, but even that was no longer enjoyable. Something was missing; he could just never put a finger on what it was.
That Friday, he'd wrapped up another useless meeting at Sanders & Figley. It was an inconvenience, coming six blocks out of his way to discuss something that could've been a conference call. But now that he was out of the office, he rather appreciated the moment for what it was– a beautiful, unexpectedly free September afternoon in New York.
“Back to your office, sir?” his driver asked when he'd stepped out.
“You go ahead, Charles. Take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll walk.”
The driver eyed him doubtfully. “You're sure, sir?”
Draco smiled, loosening his tie and collar. “I'll hail a cab if needed.” And with that, Draco set off.
He didn't choose any particular direction– the penthouse was a half-mile west, the office six blocks north. But the walk was the thing. The sun seemed brighter, the leaves greener. It felt like a day of possibilities.
And then he saw her.
She stood on the opposite corner, staring around with a kind of wonder that made his heart sing a familiar tune. She was taking in everything– the buildings, the cars, the lights, the panhandlers. She'd always been naturally inquisitive, and now she seemed to be trying to look everywhere at once.
Draco's breath hitched in his chest at the sight of her. The sun made a halo of her golden brown curls, dancing off her bronzed skin. Her summer dress of pink and yellow fluttered above her knees.
Then she looked at him.
Did she know him? Something played in her eyes for just a moment, and for a fraction of a second, Draco thought she might speak as they passed. But she didn't.
He couldn't help himself; afterwards, he was amazed that he'd even had the audacity to do it. Wandlessly, he summoned an object from her pocket– anything would do, he thought. He caught it in his fingers and looked down– a ticket. His steps turned, falling in behind hers as he tapped her on the shoulder.
“Miss? You dropped this.”
The horn blast pulled him out of what had to have been a dream, he thought. Had she really asked him to her hotel?
“Sorry, what?”
More horns, and now a man in a delivery truck offered a stream of choice obscenities. Draco followed her to the far pavement.
She was blushing. “It was nothing, sorry.”
“I'd love to,” he said quickly, hoping she hadn't changed her mind.
Her mouth fell open, plush lips appearing to sift through several responses before answering, “Alright. It's just here.”
They walked next to each other in silence, neither looking at the other. She seemed as nervous as he felt.
The hotel was small, a bit shabby at the edges, not the sort of place Draco would ordinarily go. It was a haven for tourists on a budget, a few blocks off the popular path.
It irrationally annoyed him, that she was staying in a place like this. She deserved so much more. An upper floor of the Ritz or the Waldorf Astoria, the penthouse at the Plaza, at the very least. Still, her very presence improved the look of the place considerably.
She gestured to what passed for a bar in the lobby- a few mid-level liquors fronted by three barstools. “Fancy a drink?” she asked in a high voice.
“No. Do you have a room?” He couldn't help it. His mind had been racing ever since he'd spotted her across the street. In that moment, everything about the day seemed to fall into place– the out-of-the-way meeting, the late summer sunshine, the way the long walk seemed to beckon him– all paths led to her. And who was he to argue with Fate?
“Upstairs,” she said without looking at him.
The reflective lift doors closed behind them. Draco saw that he still wore his sunglasses indoors like some kind of wanker. He reached to remove them, then hesitated, choosing instead to run his hands through his hair.
He followed her stiff gait down the third floor corridor. She seemed almost surprised that he was still behind her as they entered room 302, as though she'd assumed he'd left by now.
Wild horses couldn't drag him away, he thought.
“No,” she said quickly when he reached for the light switch near the door. “Leave them off, if you don't mind.”
-O-
~Hermione~
Ron had insisted upon closing the curtains in the hotel room when they left that morning, leaving the room nearly pitch-black.
“It'll keep cool that way,” he reasoned.
She tried to explain to him what air conditioning was, but gave up after it turned into an argument. It wasn't important. Now, she was glad he'd done it. The room was an absolute wreck, as she knew it would be, but at least the man with her wouldn't see the mess immediately.
Ron's clothes had been hopelessly strewn around the room within seemingly minutes of their arrival. Rose and Hugo were slightly better, but still teenagers. Thankfully, the children's untidiness was mostly contained to their two bunks inside the clever hideaway behind folding doors.
The man reached for the light switch, about to throw a spotlight on this mess and break the spell of the moment.
“No! Leave them off, if you don't mind.”
“Of course,” he said agreeably.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly in the dark, hating that even that small thing surprised her. Ron hardly ever said anything in an agreeable tone.
Why? He would wheedle. I want them on. I can't see where I'm walking. I don't understand why I need to leave them off. It isn't like we're paying for the electricity, you know, Mione. Can I at least turn on a lamp? Would that be alright with you? Will that bother you too much?
It would go on and on for at least two minutes, long after she'd given in and turned the lights on herself. If Hermione said the sky was blue, he would spend the day explaining to her how very wrong she was.
The man stood in the dark, waiting, his blue trousers and brown cap-toe dress shoes lit by the streak of light streaming under the door from the attached toilet. Hermione swept up an armful of Ron's clothes, dropping them unceremoniously into a corner. As she passed the table, she whispered a quick vanishing charm to dispel the rubbish, hoping he wouldn't notice in the dark.
The man removed his sunglasses and took off his suit jacket, fumbling for a hanger on the closet door. From the corner of her eye, she stared at him, at least what she could see of him. He'd seemed so fucking fit, so far out of her league when she first saw him. Even now in the dark, there was an aristocratic surety in the way he moved. Was he really here, in this dingy hotel room with her?
And was she actually going to do this? Hermione's breath quickened, and a cool sweat broke out at her brow. Could she really fuck this man in this hotel bed she'd shared with Ron? It was true, he was unbelievably attractive, and despite his poised bearing, he seemed kind and willing. But was this a good idea?
Then in the semi darkness, he caught her looking at him and smiled at her. She still hadn't gotten a good look at his eyes– it was far too dark in the room for that– but that smile! Gods, to be favoured with a smile like that, like she pleased him just by being here!
Did it matter that all this was just an illusion? That he was only here on a whim, that she was just an easy lay to pass the afternoon?
No, it didn't. He was only that for her as well, she reminded herself. And after all, she'd been trained to take what she could get, and to be happy with it. This wouldn't be any different.
“So. Have you been in New York very long? Here on holiday?” he asked in a conversational tone. His accent was beautiful– clearly he was English, but had spent long enough in New York that his pronunciation had become lax. She found that she loved it. He didn't sound nervous at all, as though he frequented hotel rooms of unknown women all the time. For all she knew, he did.
Still, the more he spoke, the less this felt like a dream, and the more she was reminded of exactly what she was doing.
“Do you mind if we don't talk?” She asked nervously. God, he was going to think she was a complete slag– and a part of her rather hoped he did.
“No. That's fine,” he said, stepping tentatively towards her. He reached for her hand, rubbing her fingertips lightly between his own. Ignoring her wedding ring, he massaged her palm before lifting it to his face, placing a delicate kiss on her wrist and on the inside of her arm, the place where Bellatrix's dagger had tried to carve a word once years ago. The scar thankfully disappeared with the witch, but she still stiffened in momentary discomfort at the memory. Sometimes the invisible scars were worse.
Still, the delicate sensation of his lips ghosting over the tender skin sent shivers up her spine and a loosening within her belly. She closed her eyes, her head lolling back. A pool of slick gathered in the gusset of her knickers. Godric, who was she? Since when would a kiss on her wrist make her gush like this? She couldn't think of the last time any of Ron's paltry attempts at foreplay had done that.
Now the stranger kissed her neck, and Hermione pulled at his tie. His hands moved to her hair, running his fingers lightly across the curls as though trying to tame them. She began to work on the buttons of his shirt, and he reached for the zipper of her dress.
“May I?” He asked, his face still buried in her curls at her neck. Another flush of sensation in her lower belly. Ron had quit asking a long time ago. He'd even been known to simply vanish whatever she was wearing, regardless of how much she liked the outfit, much to her consternation.
His shirt was open now, and if this man had seemed wealthy before, he looked like a million galleons now. His muscled chest and abs were smooth and supple alabaster, the curves of his pecs hard yet pliant beneath her fingers, a far cry from Ron's soft midsection covered with scratchy ginger hair. With his chiseled abdominals that just hinted at a V above his groin, the man with her right now could have been a model. Godric, he was fit.
Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, she felt rather than saw a small scar running diagonally along one side of the man's chest. Her fingers traced it, and he shivered now.
She dropped her hand as though burned. “Sorry. I'm always curious about scars. How did you get this one?”
He was quiet for a long moment before answering, “A fight back in school. You should've seen the other bloke.”
Hermione laughed, but fell silent quickly when he slipped her dress down her shoulders. She was self-conscious; she had not worn a bra because of the heat. No man except Ron had seen her in only knickers in nearly twenty years. Stretch marks and baby weight and breastfeeding had left well-earned scars of their own on her body.
In the semi-darkness, lit only by the sliver of light from the washroom, she could feel his stare go on for so long that she grew self-conscious. She tried to cover herself, but he held her hands firmly. “You're so gorgeous. I never doubted it, of course, but– you're truly beautiful.”
She wanted to laugh again, but he sounded so sincere, and she worried that if she opened her mouth, whatever noise she made might come out as a sob. How many years– had it been since someone told her she was beautiful? She didn't want to think of the number.
The man's hands came to the nape of her neck, pulling her close against his bare chest and crashing her lips to his. The kiss was surprisingly soft but insistent, as though he was asking a question of her, and without even knowing it, her body was answering it. She pressed into him, wanting to close the distance between them, suddenly bestial with a need for something, anything this man could provide.
Her skin felt seared where it touched his, and her arms came up to circle his trim waist. He moaned, a sound that sent sparks down her spine, electrifying her core. Between her legs, her clit pulsed with need, and if she thought she'd ever see this man again after today, she would have perished from embarrassment at her wantonness.
But he was a stranger in a foreign country. He was gorgeous and far out of her league. She was married, a mother– bloody hell, for all she knew he was married as well. This was a single moment, something so out of character and out of the ordinary for her that she knew she'd never do it again.
And God, her heart ached for just a few moments of release, just a little time to forget that she was Hermione Weasley now, that her job was boring, that her husband no longer found her attractive, that this was her life. A few minutes, please, she begged the universe.
Cool air pebbled her nipples for only a moment before the man was moving down her body, his lips following a map that only he seemed to possess. He teased the pink buds with his fingers and teeth, sending fresh flutters through her belly. Her fingers ran through the soft dark blond hair to reach his back, tugging him gently towards the bed. She'd felt an insistent press against her belly a moment ago, and her mouth watered with the idea of filling it with him, taking his cock as deeply and forcefully as she could, pleasing him just a fraction of how much he'd already pleased her.
With a soft groan, he sat on the side of the bed, his legs parting to bracket hers, his hands pulling her as they're trying to coax her onto the bed with him. But she would not be swayed. Pulling insistently to unbuckle his belt, her magic managed to work the button and zipper free in an instant, unnoticed by him in the dark.
He gave a whimper, then released her nipple with a small pop. “Climb up here. I can make it worth your while. My mouth is good for so many uses,” he panted, and sod it all to hell if Hermione did not feel another trickle of arousal soak her knickers, a bit of it slipping down the inside of her thigh.
She smiled. “My mouth is too. My room, my rules. Take off your trousers.”
Somehow, his trousers and briefs were off in a few seconds, and in the low shaft of light, she could see him now– and if she wasn't sure she was a slag before this moment, she certainly was now. Godric, his torso was fit, but this cock was perfection. Her lower belly clenched, picturing all of the ways this man could use this to satisfy her. He could fill her mouth, her cunt, her arse– she wanted him in every hole he could fit into, obliterating her senses and her thoughts and her worries with his gorgeous length. Long, the veins ropey and engorged. Thick without being intimidating. The reddish tip strained with want, a bead of pre-cum weeping from its slit.
Hermione fell to her knees in front of him, loosening her jaw and parting her lips to pull him inside, her mouth watering and easing his way. He was huge but she was eager, and on the first go, his tip touched the back of her throat. He cried out softly even as he held perfectly still, waiting to see what she would do, such a contrast to Ron who had simply pistoned in and out in lazy thrusts the last time she'd done this for him. Hermione relaxed her throat, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath before pushing just an inch further.
“Oh my God,” the man above her whispered raggedly above her, and she preened, moaning her gratitude around his stiff length. “You're so amazing. A dream–”
She pulled back until his tip passed her lips, then plunged down again, taking him deeper more easily this time. The noise he made was almost a whine, and her nipples, brushing against the fine hairs of his strong legs, ached in agreement with the sentiment. She rubbed her thighs together, unsurprised to find them slick with need where they met below her quim.
Two more thrusts, and apparently, she'd nearly broken him, she thought with satisfaction. “I can't take it any longer. Please, get up here, let me taste you.”
He hauled her up with two strong hands under her arms, reaching for the band of her knickers to trail them down her legs. She could smell herself now– god, it was so much– and she hesitated in embarrassment.
“Fuck, you smell divine. Never could’ve imagined–” he said, his lips finding hers again in the darkness, standing to hold her whole body against him again.
It was her turn to whine, forcing herself not to speak her disbelief. That this man wanted her seemed unreal, but she would not be the one to break the trance she seemingly held on him.
He spun them so that she was the one against the bed now, and braced her back as he lowered them both, their lips never parting. He worked his way down, but as he neared her belly, his barely-stubbled chin brushing against the top of her mons, her hands hooked around the lean, muscular triceps of his upper arms.
“Wait. Are you sure?” she asked self-consciously. Ron hadn't done this for her in at least a decade. Doing it whilst she was pregnant felt odd, he'd said. And he'd insisted that her body tasted different after having children.
The man's tongue was tracing circles at her hip now, but she could still feel his smile against her. “Oh my god, I want nothing more. I could drown myself in your pretty cunt.” And fuck, if that didn't send a fresh pulse of slipperiness dripping from her bits.
The man pecked a tender kiss on her clit before flattening his tongue against it, rubbing softly down to her opening and then back up. He pushed his face against her with a deep moan, his jaw working open and closed, and her thighs clenched around his shoulders, making him growl.
“You're good at this,” she said, trying to remember to breathe. It came out on a rushed huff though, as his tongue had now come to a blunt point, rimming her opening before plunging deep inside.
The man moaned in answer, shaking his head quickly back and forth against her, creating a delicious vibration that she felt down to her toes. After a moment, he pulled back in just enough to hum in reply, “No, woman. Your pussy is just so delectable. This must be how Adephagia felt.”
Hermione stilled. Adephagia– it was a name she recognised from a long ago History of Magic lesson, a powerful witch worshipped as a lower deity in ancient Greece as a goddess of abundant satiety and bountiful nourishment. She'd used a combination of transfiguration and charms to allow the villagers of Sicily to avoid famine for years, but even amongst mythology scholars, she wasn't well known.
“You studied mythology?” She asked, cringing only slightly as her hips bucked against his mouth. Heaven help her, a gentleman and a scholar– she didn't know if she could stand the sensation this thought wrought within her. Her clit, already swollen far past the point of sensitivity, practically thrummed under his warm tongue.
He moaned again in answer, and she couldn't help it: she reached down, her hands finding the dark blonde hair on the head between her legs. It was soft and fine under her fingers, and she remembered how it had curled just slightly at the ends, the bit that brushed the collar of his suit. She'd nearly let him walk away! Hermione bit her lip, the giddy smile overtaking her face as the sensation low within her built.
The man's licking and sucking motions quickened as though sensing her getting close, and this little thing– his awareness of her body– sent her suddenly crashing over the edge in an overwhelming crush of pleasure, her orgasm dragging from deep within her core to undulate over his tongue. He whined deep in his throat as he sucked, pulling every bit of satisfaction from her as though it was his life's ambition to do so.
She lay there twitching and boneless for what felt like eons as he kissed slow, reverent bites along her inner thigh. “So very beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Rising, he crawled up her body, his hands caressing the soft skin of her belly, her breasts, as though afraid that if he let go, she might disappear. His mouth found the sensitive dip of her jaw just below her ear. She giggled and writhed beneath his tickling touch, squirming to capture his lips with her own. So close now, she opened her eyes to look into his. There was just enough light to look into his eyes, his irises nearly obliterated with desire. What colour were they? she wondered. In this dim light, she couldn't tell.
But something about his gaze– the intense way he looked at her, or the shadow of a strain between his brows, she wasn't certain– there was a haunted longing she couldn't place. She wondered how much of this afternoon was for him as much as it was for her. What kind of life did he lead that bedding a nameless woman with stretch marks, a stranger in a budget hotel near the business district of the city, was any sort of highlight to his day?
Hermione felt the head of his cock near her entrance now, but it was a testament to his apparently proper upbringing that he did not immediately push inside with a rough thrust. Instead, in a hoarse whisper, he asked, “May I– can we–?”
“Oh god, please, yes,” she said in a voice that she hoped did not come off as begging, even though she was fairly certain that it did. In any case, she was begging. She needed to feel him inside of her, needed something more that she hadn't had for so long, something new and yet familiar, A tale as old as time: two people coming together to make magic happen. It might not be the magic she was familiar with, but that was rather the point, she thought with a wry grin.
The stretch of him was both uncomfortable and glorious– even with as wet as she was, he was forced to take his time, which he seemed to do gladly. Hermione felt like weeping with relief. It was so different from every other experience she had. Victor, her first, had been extremely thick but not very long. She hadn't really enjoyed it, and when they were done, it'd hurt to walk for days. Her muggle boyfriend from sixth year had been a virgin, sweet but fumbling. It had been quick, over so fast that she hardly remembered it.
And Ron. In the early days, he'd been gentle, taking his time with her. Sex had been good, then. But as the years ticked by, he'd gotten lax – literally. Ron was big, probably even longer than this man, but not very thick. And he seldom reached full mast until very close to his climax. This flaccidity meant that his thrusts were usually more for his pleasure than hers. Which was fine, she'd always thought.
Except it wasn't, really. In the back of her mind, Hermione already knew this. But feeling this man move within her so gently, so reverently, as if he was touching the barest edge of heaven– it rebuilt something inside of her. In the last seventeen years, that something had eroded and chipped away so gradually that she hadn't even realised that it was gone until now. That sense of power, that feeling that she deserved love, happiness, pleasure, indulgence– she'd nearly forgotten it.
The man rolled them over, and now Hermione straddled his muscular torso, her hands gripping the smooth muscles of his chest, feeling her way along in the darkness to touch his arms, that scar, his stubble, the softness of his hair. And all the while, his hands gripped her hips and thighs, rubbed her back, massaged her calves, ran over her hair, as though he needed to memorise every part of her.
It seemed mental, thinking this way about a stranger's touch, but it felt as though he was trying to tell her how much this meant to him without words.
“That's amazing. You feel so good inside of me,” she found herself saying, all the while wondering where these words were coming from. She and Ron had typically been perfectly silent in bed. Early on, she'd tried to talk, but he said it was a distraction, so she'd stopped years ago.
“Fuck, you feel as though you were made to fit around me,” the man gritted out. His accent, which earlier had carried the softer roundness of one having lived away from England for a while, had shifted back into his natural dialect. It held the poshness she'd expected when she first saw him. Hermione smiled to herself. Perhaps this man had been playing a part with her as well, pretending to be something he wasn't. This only added to her desire for him, that he thought he needed to change who he was to satisfy her.
-O-
~Draco~
Salazar, this woman was beautiful. How did she not know this?
He could tell she didn't believe it; keeping the lights off, wanting to cover her breasts, even in the dark.
But even without lights, he could feel her beauty. He had to touch her, had to take anything she would offer.
And her words! 'You feel so good inside of me.' Bloody hell, he had no idea what hearing that would do to him. Being with her was a long-held fantasy– coveted far longer than his younger self would have ever admitted– and the opportunity to live it out now seemed like a dream.
She was getting close once more, he could tell, and so was he. He licked his thumb, reaching between her legs to find the top of her slit, then that bundle of nerves that he knew would light up her insides. He pressed, rubbing firm circles against her. She tightened her walls around him.
Draco hissed, then made the most embarrassing noise that sounded to his ears like an animal dying. Gods, for all he knew, he was. Somehow without realising it until this moment, he'd reached the pinnacle of his life. When they were done here, if he were hit by a bus or struck by lightning, he could die a happy man.
She made a little moan with each thrust now, and he rubbed faster, feeling the velvety drag of her walls squeezing him so perfectly. And then he was coming, coming hard inside of her, pushing higher and deeper even as she seemed determined to hold him inside of her. Silly witch, a part of his brain wanted to say. She'd had him in a chokehold from the moment she'd looked at him on the street– maybe from the first moment he'd met her, twenty-five years before. He would do anything to stay exactly where he was right now forever.
His mouth fell open, huffing out a word against his will. “Granger!” he cried.
Above him, she strained, her walls still fluttering against him. She moved once more, apparently unwilling to allow the sound of her own name to distract her from milking that last bit of pleasure from the moment.
Then she was still, her body thrumming and pulsing. Only now, he could sense that her mind was doing the same.
“Lumos Maxima,” she said in an uneven voice. On the bedside table, the tip of her disillusioned wand lit brightly, along with the lamp beside it. He blinked at the sudden intrusion of colour, his irises constricting rapidly. He opened his silver eyes to stare into her copper brown eyes, her expression inscrutable.
Flatly, she said, “Malfoy.”
And fuck if that didn't make his slightly softening cock jump within her. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, his embarrassment flushing his cheeks even more than his climax had. “Granger, you have no idea what the sound of my name said in your voice does to me.”
-O-
~Hermione~
The euphoria she'd felt during her second climax still tingled through every nerve in her body. But now, those earlier doubts were surging back tenfold. That feeling of odd familiarity, the immediate, intimate comfort– it had been Draco Malfoy all along. How could she have felt that– towards him?
Yet somehow, it wasn't anger she felt now– only confusion and disbelief. “Did you know it was me? What am I saying, of course you did,” she said.
His hands, which rested on the outside of her thighs, now moved up her hips and back, rubbing tender circles there. “I did. I thought you did too, at first. Know who I was, I mean. But then when you asked where I got the scar…”
Hermione inhaled, then realised that his cock was still inside of her– and what's more, his stiffness seemed to be strengthening again, despite his earlier finish. She licked her lips, her traitorous core relaxing around him. She found it difficult to think this way. Of course, that had been her goal when she initiated all this– to stop the swirl of thoughts in her brain, if only for a little while. But that was before she'd known who he was.
She lifted herself off of him, trying to ignore the empty feeling this created within her. Finding his shirt on the floor, she pulled it around her body. It smelled of his cologne– a woodsy, fresh scent that she wanted to drown in, and she shook her head and struggled to focus again.
“I didn't know it was you…” she stopped, her eyes drifting out of focus as she looked away. “At least, I don't think I did. I mean, something about you seemed… oddly familiar, but…”
Draco sat up now, unembarrassed by his still-hard cock, his desire for her so obvious. He came towards her tentatively, and when she didn't back away, he kissed her hungrily. After a moment, she was shocked to find that she was returning the kiss. Bloody hell, she was kissing Draco Malfoy! Who was she? Who was HE?
Because clearly, this wasn't the same man she'd known twenty years ago.
Reluctantly, he pulled back. “I'm sorry for not saying something earlier. It's just– I know this is going to sound mental, coming from me, what with our history. But this is something I've daydreamed about so many times over the years. And when I saw you on the street, it felt like– I don't know, a dream, or an answer to a prayer I didn't even know I'd been praying–”
Draco's voice cracked with emotion, and he paused only a moment to gather himself. “Granger. Hermione. You have to know, I've always felt something for you. When I saw you, it felt like– I don't know, fate? I apologise if that sounds stupid–”
She shook her head. “It doesn't. When I saw you, I had this moment where– I don't know, it was like a glimpse of another life, a life I could have led. I don't usually do things like this–”
“I know you don't. I don't either.” He stole another kiss from her lips before smiling. At her disbelieving look, he chuckled lightly. “I really don't, Granger. I may be unhappily married, but I don't make it a habit of going around bedding women on random Thursday afternoons.”
She dropped her gaze from his. “You're married.”
Draco surveyed the men's clothing in the corner, the oversized trainers and muggle athletic jacket by the door. “You are too. Still to Weasley?”
Hermione tried to school her features, tried to stop the look of discontent that crossed them, knowing that it was obvious. “Yes.”
He sighed, one hand now coming up to cup her chin. “He doesn't know how lucky he is.”
Then she was pushing against him, kissing his soft lips once more, more urgently now that all their cards were on the table. There were no more secrets between them. Godric, she didn't recognise herself right now– but somehow, this version of herself felt more familiar and alive than whoever she'd been before.
He turned them, pressing her into the mattress, his cock raging again, and she smiled against his cheek. He kissed her neck before pushing himself up so that they could look at each other properly in the lamplight.
“So you've thought about this before?” Hermione asked in wonder.
Draco threw back his head, shaking it in embarrassment. “All the time. I wouldn't even admit it to myself until our fifth year, but I had a crush on you– Salazar, I think from the very first time you touched me.”
Hermione laughed. “You mean, when I slapped you?”
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “Oh yes, then too. But no, I mean on the train to Hogwarts in our first year.”
Her brow furrowed, trying to recollect the moment.
“You were with Longbottom, searching for his toad. Both of us bent down to check under the bench, and our heads bumped when we sat up. You held your own head with one hand, and reached to touch my head with the other. It felt like an electric shock, like in one of those muggle films.”
“I remember that! I thought your hair looked like candy floss, and that was a good excuse to touch it,” she laughed. Her fingers trailed up, carding through his darker blond.
“Hermione,” he said suddenly. “I'm sorry again for–”
“No,” she interrupted. “You said all of that years ago. I forgave you then.”
With a grateful groan, he dropped his face to her shoulder, ghosting a line of kisses across her clavicle. She could feel his cock pressing urgently once more between her thighs, and she shifted her hips to move him closer to her entrance.
“Again?” He asked, looking up at her hopefully.
Exhaling, she smiled. “Again.”
This time, he slid into her more easily, her body still wet and responsive from their last go.
His lips sucked the lobe of one ear into his mouth, nibbling lightly before he whispered. “I know you forgave me, Granger. And it took a long time for me to forgive myself. But now, I can be better for you, if you'd like.”
She closed her eyes for a long moment before answering. “Draco…”
He pulled back, his silver eyes staring wide into her copper ones. “Please, Hermione. I can make you so happy–”
it was him who was begging now, and it broke her heart just a little, even as it fed her desire. “You're making me happy right now.”
He was still for only a moment before resuming his movements within her, his eyes cast down slightly.
She closed her eyes and threw her head back, wrapping one foot around the back of him to pull him closer. He reached for her leg, holding it higher to improve the angle of his cock as it moved within her. Hermione cried out, her body nearly pulsating with the sensation.
Even if he didn't know it, he was making her better. She tilted her head up, and he captured her lips in a kiss as each of them chased their next climax together.
-O-
An hour later, she checked the time. She was supposed to meet Ron and the children for dinner in thirty minutes. She stood, finding her dress lying across a nearby chair. It was hopelessly wrinkled, nothing that a few charms couldn't fix.
“Will I ever see you again?” He asked from the bed. He had one arm triangle behind his head, his free hand rubbing slow lines up and down his muscled torso.
She bit her lip. “I'm married, remember.”
“I am, too.”
“And I have children.”
“I'm sure they're wonderful, they're half you, after all.”
“Hugo looks exactly like his father,” she said, a little smile playing across her lips.
Draco lifted one eyebrow. “Well, I'm sure the other one is wonderful.”
She laughed. “I just don't know…”
“You could stay. If you wanted to leave him, I mean. Hell, I would go back to England for you if–”
“Draco…” she said over his words.
Each of them felt silent. Finally, he said, “I know.”
Hermione winced. “I'm sorry.”
He rolled towards her, reaching out a hand to pull her back onto the bed. She sat beside him, and he lifted to kiss her deeply.
When they broke apart, he said, “You've nothing to be sorry for. This was the most incredible day of my life.”
-O-
A Monday in January, 2016
She'd kissed her children goodbye that morning in their little cottage in Ottery St. Catchpole, barely able to contain her excitement. They were heading back to Hogwarts by floo, and she had plans of her own.
“You're sure you'll be gone a whole week, Mione?” Ron asked in a nervous voice.
Her smile thinned. “Yes. We've already discussed this, Ron.” She barely contained the brief flash of copper fire in her eyes. She's been making the greatest effort these last several months to play nice with her husband, despite his clear jealousy over the promotion she'd earned within the Department of International Cooperation.
“Yeah, but can't someone else go? You've got responsibilities at home, you know,” her husband grumbled.
Hermione smiled, patting her pocket where she held her magically shrunk trunk of clothes. “I have you at home, Ron. What more do I need?”
-O-
Her international portkey deposited her in the Transportation Division of MACUSA headquarters an hour ago, and she'd apparated directly to the Royal Suite at the Ritz-Carlton. She wasn't sure why he had gotten such a decadent suite, considering that they really only needed a bit of space. But she wasn't going to object.
The doorbell to the suite rang. She checked her reflection in the mirror nearby before throwing open the door. Her hair was a tumultuous mess, as it always was in winter. The light from the chandelier winked off of the enormous sapphire ring he'd sent her for Christmas. Hermione wore it on her left ring finger. Ron hadn't even asked where she'd gotten it.
Draco stood there smirking at her, looking every bit as posh as he had months before. His suit and sunglasses were black, setting off his perfect dark blond hair. Between his long fingers, adorned only by his Malfoy signet ring, he twirled a pink camellia, which he now held out to her.
“Happy Independence Day,” he said in a throaty voice.
Hermione smiled, pulling him into the room even as what felt like sparklers lit in her belly. He kissed her, and his lips tasted just like freedom.