Work Text:
Grounded
“This is absolutely preposterous,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.
Oh, she was furious.
Draco made no attempt to suppress the grin tugging at his mouth.
“You don’t have to look quite so pleased about it.”
“I’m not pleased.” A complete lie. “I’m simply satisfied the Ministry has finally decided to improve it’s employees’ field performance.”
“The Ministry has never had reason to complain about mine.”
It was mostly true.
“Until today.”
He couldn’t resist. Not when she made it so painfully easy. She looked at him with enough fury to scorch the air between them.
“Yes, well,” she said stiffly, “this decree is—as I mentioned a moment ago—preposterous.”
“And why, exactly?”
Go on.
“There are countless other forms of magical transportation.” She tucked an unruly curl behind her ear, entirely unaware she’d just derailed his concentration. “I honestly don’t see why we need to learn how to fly on broomsticks.”
“Because they’re the foundation of magical transport. Most of us managed it at eleven.”
“There’s Floo—"
“—that can be blocked.”
“And Apparition—"
“—Anti-Apparition wards.”
“Portkeys—"
“—Useful if you’ve arranged your emergency three weeks in advance.”
“Will you just—"
“—Just what?”
She let out an audible groan. A couple of witches walking past slowed and Draco smiled at them pleasantly.
“Very persuasive, Granger.”
Her brows knitted together as she searched for another angle. He recognised that expression immediately. This witch was not going to give up.
“I can help you, you know.”
Shit. Where did that come from?
That hadn’t been the plan. The plan had been to enjoy every miserable second of her attempting to stay upright on a broom while he demonstrated, finally, that there existed one thing she could not immediately master.
“I don’t think so.”
“Seriously,” he heard himself continue, sounding perfectly reasonable. “I’d be happy to.”
Would I?
“I’m sure you would.”
She’s right.
Again.
Fuck.
“Does that mean yes?”
Hermione seemed to hesitate.
Then, infuriatingly, she caught her lip between her teeth. He wished she’d stop doing that.
“Please.”
Well, that was the end of him.
How could a single word ignite him in so many places at once?
“Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Whiltshire Quidditch pitch.” He forced the words out with practised indifference. “Try not to be late.”
Then Draco left before his expression could betray him.
***
By the time Hermione arrived the following evening, Draco had already been in the air for nearly an hour. He’d needed somewhere to put the restless energy that had followed him all day, so he’d taken to the pitch straight after work.
A succession of dives and barrel rolls left sweat clinging beneath his training gear and his shoulders pleasantly sore. There had been a time, due to his quick reflexes and ability to manoeuvre a broom as if he were born flying, that made professional Quidditch a genuine option. But Draco had played it safe, kept the target off his back, and chosen a Ministry job that promised more desk work and less professionally-induced flights of fancy. But he loved the sport all the same.
Hovering fifty feet above the grass, he watched Hermione stomp determinedly down the pitch, her irritation practically vibrating off her. His mouth curved; he always did find her most compelling when she looked ready to hex someone. That was probably why he never missed an opportunity to needle her.
Oh, to be on the receiving end of such a look.
She dropped her satchel with more force than necessary before shrugging out of her outer robes, and Draco’s amusement derailed spectacularly. She had come straight from work, still wearing that silk white blouse and those fitted charcoal trousers. Not only was the outfit unsuited for flying, but in Draco’s thoroughly unbiased opinion, also dangerously distracting.
She reached up, burying both hands into that absurd riot of curls to wrestle them into a messy knot. It held for all of three seconds before several curls escaped. The movement drew her blouse taut across her chest. Draco caught himself staring—hard—and shifted on the broom.
Part of him wanted to fly down there, grab a fistful of that chaotic hair, and pull her up against him just to feel the heat of her skin.
But... he was a gentleman.
Well... close.
And of course, she had a book. The witch truly believed she could read her way into the sky. She stared fiercely at a page for a few minutes, then set it aside more carefully than was strictly necessary and walked back to centre pitch, lugging a broom behind her. Draco remained unseen, hovering overhead with his arms folded across his chest. A slow grin spread across his face; this was going to be magnificent.
“Up.” She commanded the broom.
It remained, understandably, motionless.
A shame, really. If she wanted something that would eagerly rise for her on command, she was looking at the wrong piece of wood.
She kept at it for another two minutes, her frustration mounting with every failed attempt. Finally, when it became entirely too difficult to resist—not that he was trying particularly hard—Draco let out a sharp snicker.
Hermione’s face whipped upward, her brown eyes locking onto his. He dropped lower and began silently clapping his hands together.
“Oh, sod off Malfoy.”
A sharp gust tore across the pitch, carrying the scent of rain, heavy clouds gathering above. Flying was finished for the day; anyone with half a brain would keep both feet close to the ground in these crosswinds. Draco descended in a controlled, deliberate way, his broom steady beneath him even as the storm began to roll in. He touched down effortlessly, sliding smoothly off his broom before planting it upright in front of him. Resting one hand loosely over the handle, he turned his full attention back to Hermione’s struggle.
After watching her failed third attempt, he spoke up.
“That won’t work you know.”
“Oh, will it not?” She turned, sounding every bit as unimpressed as he expected. But then, she stopped. Her gaze lingered, drifting over him. Long enough for him to become aware of himself. The July heat, combined with an hour in the sky, had covered him in a fine sheen of sweat, and the wind had long since dismantled whatever order his hair had possessed before. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing far more forearm than his usual office attire ever did.
And Hermione Granger was checking him out.
Well, well, well.
His ego really was a gluttonous thing.
“See something you like?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he deliberately flexed his grip on the broom handle.
Despite the faint blush that crept up her neck, she didn’t cower. On the contrary, she squared her shoulders.
“Hardly,” she bit back, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness as she took a bold step toward him. “You stink, Malfoy.”
I do not stink.
Draco tilted his head down, as he inhaled slowly. “Smells like a successful flyer to me.” His grin widened, sharp and wicked. “You wouldn’t know the scent, though, would you?”
She looked ready to hex him.
Merlin help him, all the things he wanted to do to her.
Draco cleared his throat with a quiet chuckle and stepped into her space, positioning himself right over her broom. “Like this, Granger.” His lips had barely formed the p in “Up” before the broom rocketed into his hand, obeying him instantly.
Draco was certain she was about to throttle him with the handle. Remaining exactly where he stood was proof of his own unyielding audacity. He had better keep talking, or he was going to be dead in seconds.
“You’re overthinking it,” he said, looking down at the handle in his palm. “The broom doesn’t respond to words—it responds to intent. You’re throwing orders with nothing behind them. You must want it. Relax or your broom will just shoot up into the sky, not knowing where to go.”
Another roll of thunder sounded in the distance—low, building. His eyes flicked briefly upward at the sound before returning to her.
“That is completely illogical,” Hermione immediately protested. “If that were true, it would have—”
She cut her argument mid-sentence, looking down at the broom that had snapped neatly into her hand. For one glorious second she simply stared at it.
“There you are,” Draco said, unable to resist. “You may thank me at your leisure.”
He left her standing there, too surprised to argue, and started towards the benches bordering the pitch. He tugged his Quidditch gloves off, tossing them down next to his wand. A drop of rain struck the back of his hand.
Then Hermione screamed.
Draco spun toward the sound, every muscle in his body locking instantly. She wasn’t on the ground. She was clinging for dear life to the broom as it shot almost vertically into the sky. Straight towards the black wall of storm clouds.
No.
No, no, no—
The broom was accelerating. Draco was already moving before the thought had finished forming. Moments ago, his head had been full of arrogant schemes, of wanting to sink his hands into her hair and—now though, his mind was screaming. He vaulted onto his own broom, kicking hard from the earth and rocketing after her.
The crosswinds slammed into him. Rain followed. Within seconds, the scattered drops transformed into a stinging sheet that blurred his vision and slicked the handle beneath his grip. Lightning cracked across the sky—closer now, brighter—splitting the dark in jagged white.
One moment, everything was illuminated.
Hermione.
Thirty feet ahead.
Still climbing.
Then, darkness rushed back.
“Granger!”
His voice vanished beneath the wind.
Hermione was screaming. His pulse hammered against his ribs. Every instinct he’d developed as a seeker took over, reducing the world to distance, speed and angles. Forget the lightning. Forget the rain. Forget the fact he’d left his wand—the only thing capable of slowing her blasted broom—sitting uselessly on a bench beside his gloves. His hands slipped on the slick wood as emphasizing his own stupidity. But he didn’t have time to dwell on the ifs or should haves.
He had to get to her.
She pitched sideways as another violent gust caught the broom, and his blood ran cold. She was going to fall. And he was still too far away.
“Granger!”
She turned her head—rain lashed across her face, curls plastered to her cheeks, eyes wide with terror. She nearly lost what little grip she had left when she saw him. Draco drove his broom harder. He cut through the storm towards her, his broom angled against the wind rather than yielding to it.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he bellowed, his voice barely carrying above the storm. “Can’t you see the sky?”
Lightning cracked behind her, close enough now to flood everything in stark white for a heartbeat—illumination the tension in her expression.
“I don’t know how to stop!”
The broom jolted beneath her again, her hold threatening to give before she tightened it desperately.
“Lean back!” he shouted. “You’re pitching it forward—it’s making your broom climb!”
Another violent gust slammed into her. The broom rolled violently, she curled around the handle, folding herself over the shaft exactly as a flyer would to gain speed.
She’s making it worse.
“I can’t!” she howled. “I can’t move!”
Her voice cracked, swallowed almost entirely by the storm as rain poured down harder now—cold, relentless, soaking through every layer, blinding, numbing, making everything slower and more difficult and entirely out of her control.
Panic had taken over.
“Fuck.” Draco urged his broom alongside hers, fighting every savage gust that tried to force them apart. The space between them narrowed to feet, then inches. If he got too close, their brooms could collide. Too far, and she’d fall. Stretching dangerously from his own broom, he reached for the front of hers, fingers straining for the polished wood just before her white-knuckled grip.
“What are you doing?” She shrieked.
“Saving you!” He roared.
His broom dropped as another blast of wind hit them. He wrestled it level again, his shoulder slamming into Hermione’s as their brooms collided.
And they lost balance.
“No! We’re going to—” She protested.
Now.
He lunged.
He kicked away from his broom. For a sickening heartbeat there was nothing beneath him but open air. Then he landed behind her. His own broom spun away beneath them, caught instantly by the wind. He barely registered it tumbling towards the pitch far below before it disappeared into a curtain of rain.
A broom was replaceable. She was not.
He had her.
His chest pressed against her back as he hooked his legs securely along either side of the broom. There was scarcely room for them both but it held.
She was shaking. Violently. Every muscle in her body seized with fear.
The broom shuddered beneath them as Draco hauled it back under control. Instinctively, he folded himself more firmly around her, absorbing each violent jolt until the broom finally steadied. Once satisfied with his grip, he bent toward her ear.
“I’m going to need you to lean back into me.”
His voice dropped instinctively. There was no point shouting anymore.
Nevertheless, she remained rigid before him, every muscle locked with panic, her shoulders drawn high as she clung to the broom with white-knuckled determination.
Fuck.
Draco released one hand from the handle and slid it around her waist. His forearm spanned nearly the whole of it before he drew her firmly back against his chest.
Another violent gust slammed into them. He tightened his knees around the broom and hauled back on the handle, absorbing the broom’s shudder before it could throw them off balance. He forced the nose level. The broom resisted stubbornly for another few yards before reluctantly surrendering it's climb. They were still far too high, the storm now almost on top of them, but at least they were no longer hurtling straight towards it.
Rain streamed into his eyes, blurring the horizon. He blinked hard, but it made little difference. Keeping one hand on the handle, he briefly lifted the other from Hermione’s waist to shove the soaked strands of hair from his face. The instant his grip left her, instinct took over. Hermione pitched forward.
Immediately, the broom surged with a savage lurch. Draco reacted on instinct. With seeker-like reflexes, his arm snapped around her waist, dragging her back against him. The force of it knocked the breath from them both, but he barely noticed. Every ounce of his concentration narrowed to the handle beneath his hand as the broom bucked beneath them, eager to obey the command her frightened body had unknowingly given it. He hauled back with everything he had, shoulders burning with the effort, until at last the nose lifted and the dive broke. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears.
“No!” he shouted.
The word cracked through the rain, and something in Draco hardened. He was done adjusting to her fear. Done negotiating with the storm. From this moment on, they would fly exactly as he demanded.
“Do not move,” he said, his hold tightening around her waist, more warning than comfort. “Not one bloody inch unless I tell you.”
She didn’t.
Hermione remained perfectly still in his hod while he guided the broom downward in wide, controlled arcs through the storm. The wind battered at them from every direction, but he held his course, stealing back another stretch of altitude with every correction. Beneath his arm, Hermione’s breathing remained shallow and erratic.
“Breathe Granger.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, a shuddering breath expanded beneath his arm. A soft, helpless moan escaped her as every rigid muscle finally surrendered. Her weight settled fully against him.
Draco felt it all. The way she yielded without hesitation. The way her back moulded to his chest. The way she trusted the circle of his arm around her waist. Distantly, his mind registered how impossibly right she felt there. There was no time to indulge the thought, his eyes remaining fixed on the storm.
“That’s right.”
He felt her breathing change. One measured inhale. Then another.
Sweet Salazar.
His knuckles turned white on the handle. Every instinct demanded his attention remain on the descent, on the wind, on the broom answering the slightest shift of his weight. Instead, some traitorous corner of his mind kept returning to the witch before him. He banked smoothly through another sweeping turn, carrying them both with effortless precision.
“Lean back.”
She obeyed instantly.
One hand slipped from the broom, finding his thigh instead.
Fuck, not there.
Wait.
Yes.
—But, not now.
And then her other hand slid down the broom handle, and the motion drew Draco’s gaze down. With the worst timing known to wizardkind, his mind imagined that very same hand circling around a different shaft—one which was currently receiving most of his blood supply. And for the love of Circe, she stopped her hand right where it was nestled perfectly between her thighs.
She was completely oblivious to it, of course. She was just relaxing against him, sinking into the solid contour of his chest, entirely unaware that her actions were currently forcing him to choose between survival and absolute meltdown.
Draco ripped his gaze back up to the storm with more strength than he thought he was capable of.
Focus, Draco.
She’s finally relaxing.
Yeah, she is.
It should have made controlling the broom easier.
It really, really didn’t.
“Good girl.”
The words escaped his lips before he could stop them, a low, instinctive praise for her following his order.
His mind stalled. Where had that come from? It was a slip, something he hadn’t prepared for and the effect was immediate. Hermione softened completely against him, her head tipping back until it rested squarely against his shoulder. Her curls, heavy with rain, brushed beneath his jaw, dragging across skin already far too aware of her.
Draco’s breath caught. His grip around her waist faltered once, before tightening with a hard, possessive squeeze. He had accidentally stumbled upon a weakness he had absolutely no business exploiting, and the visceral thrill of it made his head spin.
Granted, that could also be the blood rushing down to his groin.
When he looked down, he registered two things.
The first; her eyes were closed. She was trusting him completely, letting him take charge, and it affected him far more than he cared to admit.
The second; the relentless rain had drenched her blouse and it had become almost entirely transparent. Pale fabric clung to her curves, tracing the line of her before disappearing beneath the dark strap of her brassiere. Draco’s fingers flexed involuntarily where they circled her waist.
Oh, fuck right off. As if he needed that.
He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes back to the horizon, and spoke to her more softly than before.
“Eyes open, Granger.”
The Quidditch pitch was finally beginning to feel within reach.
“Feet down when I say,” he ordered, his voice—not unlike his trousers—somewhat tighter than before.
Draco dismounted the broom first, and the very moment his foot touched the ground, his fury returned with startling momentum. His movements became clipped and sharp, entirely stripped of his usual grace. He was absolutely furious, mostly because his hands were actually shaking, with the delayed, terrifying realisation of how close she’d come to dying. He wanted to shout at her for being so reckless. Rain dripped from his hair as he looked down at her, his jaw flexing once before he held out a hand. She stared at his palm, blinked once through the downpour, then took it. He closed his grip, steadying her as she climbed down, catching her elbow when her shoes skidded in the mud. The instant she found her balance, he let go.
They stood facing one another while rain poured between them. His breathing came hard, his chest heaving beneath his soaked training gear. Hers matched it almost perfectly. He opened his mouth, ready to give her the dressing-down he so desperately needed.
And then Draco looked down.
Fuck.
The summer rain had done its absolute worst. Up on the broom, looking over her shoulder, he’d already seen that her soaked clothes were giving away too much. But now, with her standing directly in front of him, everything was absolutely perfectly, ruinously visible. Her blouse clung to the exact swell of her breasts and nipples hard from the cold.
Look away, his brain ordered.
But he didn’t.
Unlike Hermione, he wasn’t pliant; he didn’t obey, even as he felt her eyes on him. Instead, his eyes tracked the way her chest heaved violently with every single breath she took. The near-death panic in his veins was mutating rapidly, feeding into a darker, hungrier impulse that had no business being triggered at present.
She was alive. She was right there. And practically naked from the waist up thanks to the storm. The same storm he was swearing at, not a minute ago. His pulse refused to settle. Every frantic beat seemed to echo in the silence between them.
Look at her face, you bloody idiot.
His eyes dragged upward, and she was already watching him. If she realised her breasts were practically on display, she didn’t let it show. Not a hint of embarrassment or anger. She didn’t even seem remotely surprised that he’d been staring. She seemed almost... expectant. As though she’d been waiting for him to finish.
“Thank you,” she said, almost a whisper. “for saving me.”
But that wasn’t what either of them was thinking about anymore.
She took a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiation off her despite the rain. Close enough that, if either leaned an inch, there would be nothing left between them. Her gaze was unwavering, locked onto his with an intensity he had never seen before.
“Kiss me, Malfoy.”
Whatever speech he had been preparing—the vicious, cutting lecture about her absolute lack of survival instincts—was utterly pulverized, and the darker corners of his mind immediately began celebrating like Slytherin had just won a Quidditch game.
He immediately claimed her mouth with a fierce urgency that had been simmering for months, his tongue instantly driving deep past her lips to taste her. She met his aggression with a desperate hunger of her own.
Finally.
He steered them beneath the shelter of the Quidditch stands. The rain hammered against the overhead boards, sealing them into a dark, shadowed corner of the pitch. He tilted her chin up, his thumb sweeping hard across her jawline to hold her close.
Almost an hour ago, hovering fifty feet overhead, he’d watched her tie her hair up and wanted nothing more than to fly down, grab a fistful of that chaotic hair, and pull her against him just to feel the heat of her skin.
And now, he could.
His fingers tangled deeply into those damp, ruined curls, pulling firmly to tilt her head back as he claimed his victory. He wasn’t just kissing her; he was consuming her entirely while the storm raged overhead.
She let out a sharp gasp as he backed her up until her spine hit a thick wooden support beam underneath the stands. Before he could even register the movement, her thighs were locked tightly around his hips, her arms wrapping around his neck. His large hands slid down the wet fabric of her trousers, gripping her arse greedily. He held her up effortlessly, his muscles flexing as he anchored her exactly where he wanted her. She was climbing him like a fucking tree and he was there for it. Never in his wildest fantasies—and he’d had a fair few when it came to this witch—did he imagine her wanting him with such unhinged desperate, beautiful enthusiasm.
“Finally,” she moaned, mirroring his earlier thought. He broke the kiss to trace the column of her neck with his lips and tongue.
A sharp, wicked grin cut through Draco’s expression; his inner menace took total, unhinged control, utterly thrilled by her undoing. He pressed his erection hard against her. He was no longer trying to hide it—as if he bloody well could.
“Fucking finally,” he agreed, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her lips. “Tell me what you want?”
At this point, she could ask for the fucking moon. He’d ruin the world to get it for her.
Hermione let out a fractured, needy gasp, her fingers tightening desperately in his hair, as she abandoned the last shred of that damned Gryffindor pride.
“You,” she breathed, the confession raw. “I want you.”
You’re not a teenager anymore. Don’t cum. Don’t cum. Don’t cum.
“Well,” he said, unable to suppress the wicked curve of his smile, “let me spoil you, then.”
A flare of pure, silent, wandless magic rippled between them, and Hermione gave a sharp gasp. Within a heartbeat, her trousers thinned, flared outward, and shortened into a pleated, charcoal-grey Hogwarts school skirt. Her eyes widened as she looked down, then snapped back up to his, her face a mix of outrage and shock.
"Did you just...” she breathed, “Is this my old school uniform?"
Draco couldn’t even pretend to muster up a look of guilt. A slow, wicked smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he dipped his head, rolling his hips against hers. She immediately surrendered, chasing the movement with one of her own.
“If it's all the same to you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly purr. “I owe it to younger Draco to live out this fantasy.”
The one that fuelled his most effective teenage wanks. The same that usually left the poor pureblood boy he was raised to be mortified.
"You are an absolute menace," she whispered, though her grip on his shoulders didn't loosen. If anything, she pulled him closer.
"I prefer visionary, Granger," he corrected softly, his eyes tracking the way her chest heaved as his hand slid beneath the newly made hem of her skirt. “You have to admit, it allows for far more interesting access,” he murmured, his fingers sliding deliberately along the damp lace of her knickers.
Hermione let out a sharp, trembling gasp, arching instinctively into him.
“Well,” she moaned against his lips. “You aren’t the only visionary.”
With a silent ripple of magic, Draco’s trousers vanished into thin air. He froze, looking down, and confirming—yes, he was just wearing his boxer briefs now—and then back at her. The defiance in her eyes was intoxicating. A matching of wits and power.
Slytherin move.
A low laugh escaped him, sounding more like a growl of approval. Hermione’s breath hitched as his thumb stroked beneath the damp edge of her lace again, this time close enough to feel how wet she already was for him. Draco couldn’t resist. He brought his fingers back to his mouth to taste her. The look in her eyes when she came to realise what exactly he was doing was one he was quite sure he’d never forget. The moment the taste of her hit his tongue, he almost couldn’t help his eyes from rolling back.
He moaned, “Gods, I’ve wanted to taste you.”
All Hermione could do in that moment was gasp as she watched his fingers disappear in his mouth. His eyes locked on hers. Part of him wanted to take his time—to commit every second of this to memory. But another part was very—very—aware of how hard he already was, and the adrenaline still roaring through both of them. They needed this now, with all the urgency the moment demanded.
Hermione was bucking up to meet him—grinding against the pressure of his length—as Draco’s fingers ventured back down to tease her. He pressed them closer. And closer. And then finally, slipped a single finger inside her. She moaned as he pushed it deeper into her, feeling how perfectly soft and warm and ready she was for him. He pressed his mouth to her neck as he began a slow rhythmic motion that caught her breath and had her grabbing at his hair with abandon.
“Malfoy,” she panted, her voice trembling as she tightened her legs around his waist. “Can you actually... keep holding me like this?”
“Mm,” he replied, distracted.
Did this witch’s brain ever shut off?
An appalling realisation, really. If she was still capable of calculating the structural integrity of his biceps at present, his performance was... lacking.
Oh, fuck no.
He hooked his arm securely under her thigh, locking her against his hip. Then he kissed her again, his teeth catching her bottom lip and tugging hard enough to draw a sharp, breathless whimper. The punishing nip was pure malice, a deliberate move to erase the last of her thoughts and leave her completely at his mercy.
“Gods, I’m serious.” She shifted in his arms, causing his biceps to flex hard under her grasp. “You’re going to drop me.”
This witch.
“I’m not going to drop you,” he growled. His teeth raked the skin of her neck as he used the brutal strength of his arm to hoist her higher against his chest. He leaned down to press a kiss over her hard nipple, his other hand ruthlessly adding a second finger inside her. Her head tipped back, exposing the elegant line of her throat, her fingers clawing into his shoulders for dear life.
So all those months spent using manic workouts to keep from losing his mind over her had a purpose after all. He felt a sickeningly smug surge of pride at how easily he could keep her exactly where he wanted her.
“Satisfied?”
Draco felt her grip on his shoulders tighten as his cock pressed closer to her entrance.
“Shut up,” she whispered into his neck, her hips tilting into him involuntarily. She reached down and pushed his briefs out of the way, bringing him completely flush against her. “Don’t make me wait. Now, Malfoy.”
Thank fuck.
Draco didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself against her wet, aching heat and drove home in one deep, unyielding thrust. The sudden, violent friction knocked the wind out of them both. Hermione’s head snapped back against the wooden beam, her mouth opening in a silent, wrecked scream as he buried himself inside her to the hilt. Her internal walls were incredibly tight, slick with her own frantic arousal, squeezing him so fiercely he almost stumbled.
Fuuuuuck.
His inner monologue was a smoking, chaotic ruin. He was inside her. Hermione Granger. The Ministry's Golden Girl was currently wrapped around his waist under a dirty Quidditch stand, taking every single inch of him so fucking perfectly. It was a filthy, beautiful reality that his brain could barely process. His muscles bunched as he held her up, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs to anchor her as he pulled back and drove in again.
Hard.
Fucking perfect.
“You’re so tight, Granger,” he growled against her neck, completely abandoning any remaining shred of restraint. He was a menace, she had said as much, and he wanted her to know exactly what she was doing to him. To show her how much of a menace he could really be. Hermione couldn't answer. She whimpered, her fingers clawing lines down his back as her hips began to match his rhythm, moving with a desperate, primal urgency.
He searched her eyes in a fierce, protective possessiveness. He wanted this to be perfect; he needed to know that she was as swept away as he was. Slowing the pace to a crawl, he brushed his lips against her damp ear, his movements becoming deeper and more intentional.
“Hermione,” he whispered, the use of her first name a rare bridge across the divide they usually maintained. His voice was urgent, strained by the effort of his own restraint. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, finding his in the dim light, her expression wrecked and vulnerable.
I did that.
“Tell me,” he pressed, his jaw tight as he maintained the connection. “Is this what you need?”
She let out a breathy, fractured sound, her fingers exploring his chest and stomach under his shirt “Don’t stop,” she pleaded softly. “Please, Draco.”
Draco.
His ego didn’t just expand; it practically grew wings. Hermione was completely undone by him, and nearly begging. And she didn’t have to. He was already leaning over her, slamming back into a heavy, relentless rhythm, his thrusts punishing and deep, driven by the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.
“Draco—yes!” She cried out, a loud, sob of pleasure ripped through the roar of the downpour.
Hearing his name on her lips once more, while her walls clamped down around him in tight rhythmic spasms, sent a violent jolt straight through him. She was coming. Right here, under the stands of a Quidditch pitch, suspended in the air by nothing but his own arms. Her release hit him like a physical shockwave. Her hips bucked wildly into his, her nails dragging down his shoulders, drawing blood through the wet fabric of his training gear. She was screaming his name into the storm now, entirely unconcerned with who might hear them.
Fuck it.
That was his absolute limit. He buried himself inside her as deep as humanly possible, as the heat of her climax triggered his own. With a loud, animalistic growl, Draco came inside her, a heavy, blinding release that left him completely paralyzed against her skin. He locked his arms around her waist, letting the storm wash over them while his heart threatened to blast straight through his ribs. He stayed buried deep inside her for a long, heavy minute, pressing his forehead against her shoulder as they both gasped for oxygen.
Then, Draco lazily tilted his head up. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear, his breath ragged against her skin. Even though his muscles were trembling from the physical strain of holding her up, he tightened his grip on her thighs, shifting just enough to remind her that they were still entirely joined.
“Well,” Draco rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “Given the circumstances, I suppose I should ask you out to dinner.”
Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, dark and glassy with lingering pleasure, but the instant his words registered, a familiar, dangerous spark flared in her brown eyes. She let out a soft, breathless laugh against his neck, refusing to let him have the final word even while suspended three feet off the ground.
“Oh, not just dinner,” she panted, her voice trembling but dripping with defiant confidence as she tightened her legs around his waist, “You’ll be fixing me breakfast tomorrow morning after a second round at yours.”
Marry her now.
He looked down at her, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
“Deal, Hermione.”