Hermione climbed the stairs to her bedroom, moving as fast as her stiff knees would allow. Stopping at the door, she caught her breath. Would Draco still be there? She cautiously opened the creaking door.
What she saw made her gasp. Draco sat on her sofa in a half-unbuttoned black shirt, stroking her cat, who was comfortably nestled beside him. And he was... reading. Reading Hogwarts: A History.
Hermione's gaze slid to the S.P.E.W. questionnaire, scribbled over with familiar elegant handwriting. Draco reading, petting the cat, and filling out Ravenclaw questionnaires? Shirt unbuttoned and hair tousled? Oh, if only he were wearing glasses...
Draco raised one eyebrow, and Hermione nearly melted into a puddle of furniture polish.
— You... uh... — She swallowed and tried again. — Why are my curtains green?
He ignored the question and closed the book.
— Where have you been? — he demanded. — I almost died of boredom here.
— I... I volunteered to polish the Grumpy Staircase, — she said. — S.O.A.P.
— Soap?
— Student Organization for Active Polishing of temperamental architecture. — Hermione set down the wooden bucket with a sigh. — The damn staircase whined incessantly: "Not so rough, don't skimp on the polish, too sticky, now too gentle..."
— Interesting. — Draco picked up Crookshanks and set him on the floor. — Come here and demonstrate. Show me exactly what you were doing.
She shook her head, suppressing a smile.
— I'd better take a shower.
Draco looked her up and down.
— Yes, that wouldn't hurt. — His nose wrinkled slightly, and that was Hermione's cue to grab her robe, towel, and toiletry bag and run out the door before she changed her mind.
She returned twenty minutes later—and found a completely different scene. Draco stood before her bed in only black boxers, dark wood wand at the ready.
— Colova...
Hermione put her hands on her hips.
— Maybe enough spells for my bed, Draco?
He spun around.
— Finally, I found lotion... — He stopped, staring at her.
— What? — she asked.
Draco gave her a predatory grin.
— Do you have any idea how you look right now?
— No, — Hermione smiled back. — Tell me.
— MRAOW!
Crooks was furiously scratching at the door, demanding to be let out. Hermione waved a hand—the door opened, then slammed shut again as the cat darted away. Draco cast a weak, almost imperceptible protective barrier on the doorway with the dark wood wand.
Then he turned to Hermione, who let her robe fall open a little more. She expected Draco to pounce on her immediately, but he just froze, watching water droplets from her wet hair roll down her neck. Merlin, did he realize how he looked right now?
— Book, — Hermione drawled languidly. — Cat. Scientific data.
Draco raised a finger.
— No studies. Hmm, bet he filled out that perverted questionnaire down to the last item...
She felt his hands wrap around her waist over the robe, and Draco smoothly guided her backward—the wizard's bare chest and shoulders filled her entire field of vision. Hermione's back pressed against a heavy tapestry hanging on the stone wall.
Draco lifted her chin with one hand, and with the other pulled at the green robe.
— You're still wet, — he whispered.
— You have no idea how much.
— Cheeky.
Draco pinched her breast, then began covering the witch with gentle kisses along her neck and lower. Hermione squirmed playfully, and her hand shot up, accidentally scratching his face with her nails.
— Oh no! — she cried. A thin red line now stretched from cheekbone to chin.
— Lioness, — was all Draco said, his eyes darkening. He lifted her with one arm and pressed her against the wall. — Let's check...
The other hand slid down between their bodies. A shiver ran down Hermione's spine, and thoughts of Romilda's stupid Death Eater roleplays flashed through her mind... What if she were handcuffed to the wall... Oh Merlin, she was so...
— This is totally you, isn't it? — Draco whispered in her ear, his fingers continuing to caress her. — You like Malfoy's cock pressed against you?
Hermione let her head fall back helplessly against the tapestry.
— Yes, — she breathed. She tried to say "Malfoy," but the word turned out to have too many syllables, and the "l" sound wouldn't cooperate at all—in the end, she gave up. He knew his damn surname anyway.
Draco chuckled.
— Are you mooing at me?
Hermione immediately wanted to scratch him again, but her vagina was already clenching around his fingers, and her hands refused to obey. His voice became low and wicked:
— I'll push you to the limit, lioness.
He easily kept his promise, never ceasing to kiss her passionately, and Hermione gasped, reaching orgasm from his fingers and feeling as if she were shattering into pieces. On the edge of consciousness, she heard Draco whisper a contraceptive spell and felt familiar warmth in her belly. With a satisfied sigh, she wrapped her trembling legs around Draco's hips. Strict moral principles are damn sexy.
— I'll take you right now, — he whispered in her ear, — right here...
And here it was—the moment she had craved so much. Draco held her with both hands, sinking deeper into her with each thrust.
— Like that, Hermione, — he rasped, — yes, more... good girl...
Suddenly there was a loud knock on the bedroom door, just a couple of steps away from them.
— Hermione! — Romilda called. Draco froze, but Hermione didn't even bat an eye.
— Keep going, — she whispered breathlessly.
— Hermione! — her roommate's voice sounded outside the door again. — Are you in there? The door won't open!
— Go away, Romilda!
Another knock on the door.
— I need my pink ribbon!
— Transfigure a new one! — Hermione shouted, while Draco resumed moving. Something shifted behind her back, and the tapestry crashed down, covering her head. Draco pressed her against the wall to throw off the heavy fabric with one hand.
Hermione inhaled greedily, glad to see again—especially Draco's flushed face, who didn't stop, moving harder.
— I can't transfigure satin! — Romilda wailed.
Draco groaned quietly:
— Satin... is... out of fashion...
— Satin is out of fashion! — Hermione shouted, then lowered her voice: — Draco, I'm close... Please...
— But not taffeta satin! — Romilda persisted.
— What's going on here, Romy?
Even Cormac McLaggen's unpleasant voice couldn't break through the fog of passion enveloping Hermione. Her right hand sought purchase on the bare stone wall in vain. Maybe she should install small ledges here...
— Why are we standing here? — Cormac asked. Draco gripped Hermione tighter, not breaking rhythm.
— Keep begging me, — he whispered in her ear, hot breath burning her skin. — Beg a Slytherin to make you...
— Please, Draco... You know what I want...
— Shall we try Alohomora? — he asked, one hand sliding down. — Like this, two circular motions and a pinch...
— Hermione! — Romilda wailed again. — Were you screaming? Are you okay?
— That didn't even sound like a human scream, — Cormac said.
A shiver ran through Draco's body, and he came. Hermione clung to his sweat-slicked shoulders. She listened to the muffled discussion outside the door, giving her time to take several much-needed breaths. She and Draco slid to the floor onto the crumpled red-gold tapestry.
The door shook.
— Okay, Romy, I broke the protective charms, — Cormac said.
— Hermione, I'm coming in!
— NO! — Hermione screamed. — Please don't! I'm fine!
— But she screamed, — Cormac said, reminding her of Goyle with his bewildered tone.
— I'm reading a scary book!
— A book? — Romilda sounded skeptical. Draco giggled.
— Yes! — Hermione pushed sweaty curls from her face, thinking fast. — When... when Bridget Wenlock tried to develop her Septenary theory, she forgot to include planetary movements, and she had to redo five years of work!
— Seems she's fine, — Cormac said. — What's Sanitary theory?
— Let's go, Cormac, — Romilda ordered.
— But I thought we were going to...
— Let's go, Cormac.
Silence followed Romilda and Cormac's retreating footsteps. Draco released Hermione so they could sit side by side against the wall. Hermione was still in her green robe, while Draco sat completely naked.
— Five years of work? — he asked.
— A real tragedy.
He chuckled slightly but said nothing, just wound a long wet lock of hers around his finger. This display of composure gave Hermione the courage to ask a question.
— When did you realize? — she asked quietly.
— About Sanitary theory? No one but a know-it-all...
— Septenary, — Hermione corrected, resting her head on his shoulder. — When did you realize that I... that you like me? That it's not just...
Draco chuckled again.
— Perverted, wicked lust?
— Exactly.
He looked up at the peaked ceiling, thoughtful.
— The night of the Ravenclaw party, — he finally said. — You danced with me, smiled, and chattered incessantly about... — his voice broke off.
— About what? — Hermione tried to remember, but only jazz melodies and the warmth of his hands surfaced in her memory.
— About my future. There it is. Draco tensed, his sharp profile still turned toward the ceiling, and Hermione decided to be honest too.
— I realized even earlier, — she admitted. — That I wanted more.
Draco looked at her.
— When?
— The night I transported into your bed, and you... — she cleared her throat. — You fell asleep reading a book. In glasses.
His eyes widened.
— In glasses?
— You let me touch you, — Hermione continued thoughtfully, — so... open, like a flushed milky-white flower...
— Flower?
Hermione sighed.
— Flower.
Draco was shocked.
— If that's not an example of perverted, wicked lust, I don't know what is.
— Oh yes. What I wanted to do to you that night was even a little scary.
The wizard frowned.
— As I recall, you refused to do anything.
— Oh, but I wanted to so much... — Hermione rolled over, straddling him. — Now open up, — she whispered teasingly. He was delightfully flushed...
— Not another word about flowers, — Draco said.
— I promise. — Hermione began kissing her way down his chest.
— Fine. You may continue.
— I wanted to take off your pajamas... — Hermione said, — and do like this... kiss all of you, every inch... — The third-years were right. Draco really was like a flower—pink, sweet, with skin delicate as petals, veined with fine lines, and smelling of sex and that rich perfume...
— You were so open that night... — she whispered, kissing his skin. — Open only for me. For no one else. And I wanted to protect you, cover you... — her fingers closed around his already hardening cock, — and give you whatever you want...
Draco moaned her name, throwing his head back, and Hermione continued showering his body with kisses, going lower and lower.
— I wanted you to let me in... — her lips slid lower. — I was ready to beg you to let me in... — She ran her tongue over his cock, then looked up at Draco's relaxed face.
— Let me in, Draco, — she said. — I won't get tired of you.
— Yes... — he breathed.
— I won't get tired of you. Say it.
— I won't... you won't... you won't get tired of me... gods, Hermione...
— Right, — she whispered approvingly. — Very good. — And leaned down again, taking him into her mouth.
This time everything went much better—the dark wood wand helpfully cleaned up the mess. Then they settled together against the wall again, and the wand summoned Hermione's favorite chipped mug. When they had drunk several mugs of water, Hermione took off her robe, and she and Draco stretched out under it on the crumpled tapestry. They silently watched the October sunlight fade and long shadows creep across the room. Outside the window, the wind whistled, the fire crackled in the fireplace, and the golden clock on the mantel ticked quietly.
— You'll come to me tonight, — Draco said after a while.
— Yes, — Hermione replied, though she hadn't fully thought through how exactly. Repeating the Vanishing Spell was out of the question, and unauthorized portkeys were always tracked by the Ministry. She could cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, but with Nott's sharp eyesight, crowds of first-years, and those damn pythons...
A sharp knock on the door made them jump.
— Fuck, — Draco muttered. — They're back.
Hermione jumped up, wrapping herself in the robe.
— Just a minute! — she shouted, tugging Draco's hand. He got up reluctantly, and she pushed him toward the bed.
— What are you... Ow! — He flopped inside, and Hermione grabbed the dark wood wand and closed the curtains just as Romilda entered the room.
— Hermione, — she said, — I know Draco is here... yes, here's his robe! And boots! That's amazing! So I can bring Cormac?
Hermione frowned, and Romilda slapped her forehead, her dark eyes wide.
— He won't tell anyone! He can make a Vow!
— No, Cormac shouldn't know, — Hermione said. — Draco is leaving.
— I'm definitely not leaving! — Draco's bare legs stuck out from behind the curtains.
— Draco! — Hermione squealed.
— Pfft, like Vane hasn't seen it all...
— Accio Draco's clothes! — Hermione squeaked, and various wardrobe items, including the heavy cloak, flew through the slit in the curtains, slapping Draco in the face. He scowled, pulling on boxers and shirt. Romilda still stood in the middle of the room, clearly enjoying the proceedings.
— You know, — she said, — you could just continue if Cormac could...
— NO, — Hermione interrupted. — Can Draco take your broom?
Romilda pouted.
— Fine. It's in the corner. — She headed to the wardrobe and took out a taffeta satin ribbon, which she began braiding into her hair.
— This is outrageous, — Draco grumbled, dressing. — I flew through a storm, and this is my reward?
— You already got your reward. Several times, — Hermione reminded him. Draco didn't look pleased, so she stepped closer, touching his swollen lips with her fingers.
— Sorry, Draco, — she whispered, — but it wouldn't be fair to Romilda, right? Besides, we're hiding.
Draco muttered something indistinct under his breath.
Hermione snorted in response.
— You're not one to complain about anyone's roommates. — She handed him the cloak, warm and dry.
— Just imagine, — she added, — if we told people about us, I could go down to the dungeons right now and...
— NO, — Draco cut her off sharply. — Fine. I'm leaving.
He summoned his wand into one hand and weighed Romilda's broom in the other.
— You're so cute, — Romilda said. — Seriously, Hermione, you're being irrational.
— You're wrong. Remember the official... — Hermione began quoting the Cohabitation Agreement she made Romilda sign. — We both violated the Male Guest Clause at least once, but that's no reason to abandon all... — She continued in the same vein until Draco tugged on her robe, getting her attention.
— I'm flying off, — he said. — And I must say I feel used. — He touched his lips to hers. — Don't forget. Tonight.
— But how do I... — Hermione began, but Draco just waved his wand, throwing open the window and letting in a gust of icy wind. The ribbon tore from Romilda's hair, and S.P.E.W. parchments swirled around the room.
— Draco! — Hermione and Romilda exclaimed in unison.
The wizard jumped out the window with a casual wave of his hand. Hermione ran over just in time to see him drop like a stone... and vanish.
— Draco! — she screamed again.
— He's fine, Hermione, — Romilda returned to the mirrored wardrobe. — Close the window! Oh, my hair!
Hermione obeyed and surveyed the wrecked room. The astrarium still stood on the desk, to her relief. But next to it now lay two new items—a ring with a large emerald and a silver card propped against it.
Hermione walked closer. In elegant handwriting, only two words were written on the card: TOUCH ME
Hermione rolled her eyes. Have to be so cute, huh, Malfoy?
— Romy! — Cormac's shout drowned out his loud knock on the door.
Romilda flinched, then with a quick wand movement fixed her disheveled hair—it instantly turned into two smooth black sheets framing her face. Hermione was impressed.
— Romy!
Romilda tossed the ribbon aside and grabbed her bag.
— He likes it loose anyway. And look, don't let Draco sneak... — Her face suddenly lit up. — Oh, I have an idea!
Hermione nearly shuddered. Now she understood why Harry and Ron winced when she said those words.
— Draco can give Cormac a master class! How to be a Death Eater! — Romilda exclaimed enthusiastically. — Well, Cormac tries, but he just can't get that... menacing aura. — She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. — You know what I mean.
Hermione knew, Merlin witness. That lazy walk, that heavy gaze from under half-lowered lids, all that gloomy, mysterious, overwhelming...
— Actually, Draco owes me at least this much, — Romilda continued. — He could show Cormac... — she made a circular motion with her hands, — ...that signature cloak turn of his. Cormac keeps trying to make his black cloak billow or at least move, but it just slaps him in the face every time!
Hermione stared at her beaming roommate. A sudden knock on the window saved her from having to answer, and she rushed to open it to let in a large barn owl. The bird dropped an envelope and settled on the floor lamp.
— Just think about it, — Romilda said. — Okay?
Hermione nodded—just to get her out of the room—and Romilda slipped out, rosy and smiling again. Unfolding the envelope, Hermione read: Dear Miss Granger and Miss Vane,
We have received information that an unauthorized portkey was created in your place of residence today at 4:23 PM. Please provide written explanations for this security violation via Ministry owl. Also consider this an official warning under Paragraph 4 of the new Security Statute administered by the Auror Office.
Sincerely, AUROR OFFICE Ministry of Magic
Hermione groaned. Unlikely the Aurors would accept an explanation like: "my secret Death Eater boyfriend created a portkey to deliver me to his bed because his illegal Vanishing Spell was broken."
She went to the desk and took out parchment, trying not to touch the ring—whatever was written on the card. The barn owl hooted impatiently. Dear Auror Office,
I apologize for creating a portkey without proper authorization. The spell was applied during independent research on portkeys as part of an advanced Charms course:
— Are there objects that resist being turned into portkeys? — Is it harder to enchant larger objects? — Do magical objects react differently to the Portus spell? — Can portkeys themselves be transfigured?
Hermione stopped writing, carried away by her own fictional research. The questions were actually interesting. Perhaps Professor Flitwick... Hermione, focus. She resumed writing with her quill: I apologize and promise to refrain from creating unauthorized portkeys in the future. Please note that the portkey was created by me solely, and Miss Romilda Vane not only did not participate but was unaware of its existence.
Best regards, Hermione Granger
She sent the owl, hoping the Ministry wouldn't demand the portkey itself and subsequent explanations of why Hermione Granger had a men's Slytherin ring with an emerald.
Done with that, Hermione went to the mirrored wardrobe and tried to repeat Romilda's spell on her hair—with mixed success. Her curls straightened instantly but continued to stick out in different directions like porcupine quills, so she had to take her third shower of the day to tame them. Finally dressed, with hair gathered in a neat ponytail, she settled on the sofa, intending to work on an essay about Felix Felicis before dinner.
But she couldn't focus—she kept writing and crossing out the same paragraph over and over. Hermione was almost glad when the Ministry owl returned. This time the bird brought a signed permission to create three portkeys in her room with a pink sticky note from Harry asking her not to create extra work for him. Hermione gave the barn owl the last remaining crumpet, let it out the window, and returned to the sofa.
However, she never got around to studying. Instead, she stretched out on the pillows (which still smelled of Draco) and stared at the peaked ceiling. Hermione stretched, pleasantly tired after a day filled with staircase maintenance and vigorous sex. That tall, warm, amazing man—so spoiled and capricious, the perfect object for her care. Plans for him swirled in her head, but she had to tread carefully. Draco was unpredictable when it came to his past or future.
Hermione was already making plans for her own future too. As for the past... Her thoughts returned to how she was a few weeks ago: drinking, smoking, drifting, forgetting to eat. A sleepwalker. She was imprisoned in a tower, bound by nightmares, memories, and regrets.
And then appeared... Draco.
For weeks she had been angry, believing this wizard had taken her prisoner, that his dark charms forced her to return to him every night. But Draco hadn't imprisoned—he had saved her, despite his stupid motives and even stupider wands. (Hermione didn't regret the broken hawthorn and harlequin one bit.) Now her relationships with friends were mending, the astrarium planets spun cheerfully in their orbits, and she looked forward to the moment when she could create an updated NEWT preparation schedule for herself and Draco.
Hermione stared dreamily at the star-strewn ceiling. The light from the crystal chandelier blurred and dimmed as her eyelids grew heavy. Her consciousness calmed, whispering tender words—a new mantra: Everything is fine. You are safe. Ron came. Harry came. Dobby came. Draco came. His body before yours. The touch of warm hands and lips. Breathe.
Read upto the end on patreon :-
patreon.com/Vikiiiii