I am so excited to share this one-shot Dramione. Wrote it on a whim. Rated M.
Summary: Draco Malfoy falls off his broom at the Quidditch pitch. A certain curly-haired bookworm comes to his rescue. Oneshot Dramione Rated M for a reason!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I will not make a profit from this story.
Hope you like! ^_^
Thank you Waymay for editing this for me! Also special shout out to Frogster for catching my age errors! FIXED!
"Screen" by Twenty One Pilots
Draco Malfoy has never been in so much pain before. His shoulder burns with it, and as he tries to sit up, he notices the numbness in his left arm below the elbow. It takes everything in him not to cry out, instead clamping his jaw tightly as he hisses breath after ragged breath. The rain beats down against his face, slapping harshly thanks to a gust of icy wind. He turns his head to the side, seeing the broom a way off, snapped in half. Great. Just fucking great. His father will hear about this and be irate. After all, that was a new Nimbus model he just ruined. He's less worried about his arm and more along the lines of what his father will say should he find out about the broom. Perhaps he can mend it…
"Malfoy? Oh my goodness!" he hears a soft, feminine voice shout from the edge of the Quidditch field, but he's in too much pain to put the pieces together and figure out who it is. His body reacts instinctively, jerking at the sound of this girl's voice, and it sends another stab of pain into the rotor of his shoulder joint.
"FUCK!" He screams out, throwing his head back against the wet earth of the pitch. He can hear footsteps approaching, but his eyes are shut from the onslaught of pain. Someone steps next to his head. The rain stops. He allows his eyes to open once more to realize an umbrella has been dangled over his head, resting on the shoulders of a witch with mud-colored curls that scatter down her shoulders and frame her delicate face. She's dressed in a silly yellow raincoat with matching goulashes, a look of concern written across her brows. Even though the pain keeps his vision blurry, Draco would know this witch any day. It's the one he's internally pined over for the past six months. Before he can control himself, he instinctually snarls out, "My fucking luck. Hermione Granger."
She ignores his quip, kneeling down beside him. She's soaking her knees and skirt with mud but doesn't seem to mind. Her focus is on his swollen shoulder, and her lips purse together as she asks, "Can you move it? Your shoulder?"
She reaches to touch it, but Draco whimpers in anticipation and her hand falls to her side. To counter his grave mistake of weakness, he sneers, "If I could move it, I wouldn't be underneath you right now, would I?" He knows it's unhealthy, the way he continually attempts to tear down the one person he's madly in love with. And has been since they arrived back at Hogwarts to finish up their seventh year. He can't explain it. Hermione Granger is simply a constant, unyielding force in his life – a current beneath his feet, sparking something within him to try to do good in this world. Even when the world turns their nose up at the scarred mark adorned on his left arm. Maybe it's because she was the first to visit him after his trials, simply to check in and make sure he was emotionally stable. Maybe it was the way her lips dipped at the top in an adorable cupid's bow. Draco would never be entirely sure why he knows she is the witch for him, if only he could stop being so goddamn mean, suck it up, and tell her already.
He watches her eyebrows un-knit from atop her forehead and her lips pull back in a smirk that rivals any he could produce. "Somehow, I don't believe being underneath me is your problem, Malfoy." She untucks her wand from the collar of her shirt. Was it just resting there? Against her breasts? Oh, how he suddenly envies that wand. He watches her levitate the umbrella to float on its own above them, and then she lights the tip of her wand with a, "Lumos. -It appears to be dislocated."
"Oh, great. I had no idea we had such an expert healer in our midst," he growls.
Hermione frowns. "I can very well forget I saw you here if you'd like." Her voice confirmed her resolve, and, reluctantly, Draco shook his head.
"N-No," he mutters, shivering as another gust of wind blows ice right into his bones. "D-Don't. Help me." With his good arm, he reaches out and strums his fingers down her arm. "Please, Granger."
Hermione's cheeks tint red, and he lets his arm fall back to the muddy terrain beneath him. "This is going to hurt. You might want to avert your eyes." Draco nods, turning his head away from her, body tensing up. "Relax," she tells him, "Or you'll make it worse. Listen to the sound of my voice."
It's difficult not to. It is a symphony of melodic chords at just the right vibration to stir a pool of warmth in his stomach. He'd never allowed himself to be this close to her before -not even in Potions when they'd been paired together not two weeks ago. Draco was always afraid to let go, to allow himself any bit of happiness. He was sure he never actually deserved it. It's what kept him from asking her to the House Unity Ball next month out. She'd never want to go with him anyway -why would she? The War had seen to that.
"What were you doing out here in the first place?" she asks, positioning his arm in just the right way to prepare to push it back into joint. It's uncomfortable, but the numbness in the lower parts of his arm make the agony an easier pill to swallow. He's just about to answer when
Pain. Immense pain! "AHH! FUCK!"
"There you go," she chirps, running her wand over to check her work. "You should be able to move it now, though it's going to hurt like a son-of-a-troll. Well, like you." Lightning claps above their heads and Draco turns his head back around, staring her in the eyes. She tilts her head gently, observing him. "Are you crying?"
"No." He wipes his face with his wet sleeve. "It's raining."
"Sure." She offers a hand out. "We should get you back inside. You need to be looked over by Madam Pomfrey."
"Hmph." He sits up straight, pushing himself up with his good arm. He flexes the bad one, making sure there aren't any signs of further damage. There doesn't seem to be. "Great job, Granger. Perhaps you didn't muck it up like I initially thought you would."
"If that's your idea of a compliment, you might want to rethink it."
"Why would I compliment you?" And there it was -that defense mechanism he used so much of his life when he feared what came next. As a Malfoy, he was systematically designed to have a need for control at all times, and, when the situation took an unpredictable turn, he would lash out at the closest living thing. This time, it just so happens to be the one person he craves more than anything. Stupid, stupid Draco. Not only would he never have the opportunity to confess his feelings, but he would make her hate him by the night's end at this rate. And after she came to his rescue…
Hermione frowns again, this time pushing herself up to stand. Mud drips off her skirt as she, unexpectedly, thrusts a hand out in front of his face. Draco flinches and closes his eyes, expecting her to smack him across the cheek, but instead finds it stasis in front of his nose. A peace offering. A helping hand. He pries his eyes up to hers and stares inquisitively. "Before next Christmas would be excellent," she tells him, motioning to her hand.
Draco, not wanting to upset her further, slips his good arm up and grasps her hand with his own. She is stronger than she looks, and she pulls him upright with barely any struggle. The umbrella still hovering above their heads, Draco glances down to their fingers, which have somehow managed, in the short time it took to yank him upright, to interlace. His heart beats against his sternum, and he coughs, pulling his hand away and rubbing it nervously down the side of his robes. She takes it as a dig towards her and turns her head off to the side, noticing his broom.
"It's a wonder you didn't break anything," she mutters, more distant than ever. Draco scratches the back of his soppy, wet tresses and agrees with a nod of his head. He pulls himself out of the umbrella's protection, earning Hermione's attention as he walks the pitch and retrieves his splintered broomstick, now in two severed pieces.
"Fuck…" he says, yet again.
"Malfoy, get out of the rain!" Hermione calls out to him. "I'll walk you to the infirmary."
"No way." He looks back to her, rain dripping down the tip of his nose. "We'll both be given detention for being out past curfew."
"We're nineteen," she reminds him. "Curfew is for those underage."
"Eighteen. I'm eighteen," he corrects her. "Still," he shakes his head, "I'm going to go clean up in the locker room." Bravery has never been his strong suit, but there's never a time like the present to try something new, so he adds, "You can tag along if you'd like."
"Why in Merlin's name would I want to do that?" she asks, her voice carrying across the wind.
Draco shrugs, bravery falling short like a plank that's too short to cross the length of a rooftop and bring him to the other side. He checks his back pocket for his wand, finds it intact, and gives a massive sigh of relief. Thank Circe he didn't break that, too. He casts a Lumos spell of his own and turns away from her, fearing the worst. He hasn't been exceptionally pleasant to the woman, even when she did come all the way out to the pitch to make sure he wasn't dead. But why was she out in the rain in the first place? She'd had an umbrella -surely she couldn't have predicted this out-of-left-field storm that appeared out of nowhere?
He's just about made it to the men's locker rooms when he hears the slop-slop-slop of rain boots in mud, and the ever familiar voice of Hermione Granger shouting, "Malfoy, wait up!"
He smirks, his back still turned to her, and unlocks the door with a quick alohomora. He steps inside and turns to face her, watching the surprise take her face as he props the door open with his heel. She smiles graciously to him and shimmies her umbrella closed before stepping inside. Candles still burn at their wicks from when Draco set foot in here not two hours before to prepare for practice. There wasn't a reason for his nightly adventure, other than he couldn't sleep. That exercise seemed like a fleeting idea rather than a human body function lately. Closing his eyes meant nightmares. He never much cared for those.
He sits the pieces of his broomstick atop the benches, cursing silently at his dilemma. There is no way his father will be happy to hear about this.
"How's the shoulder?" Hermione asks out of nowhere, and he turns his head over his shoulder to steal a glance at her. Her brown curls drip droplets of water down onto the floor, and, from her knees down, she is covered in mud. A dirty, muddy girl. How fitting.
"It's fine," he lies, knowing damn well it still aches every time he moves. "I'll be fine, Granger. No worries." He turns his face back around, fearing she might see the red tint in his cheeks. "Showers are this way if you want to get cleaned up."
He makes to move, but she speaks before he can even step a toe away. "Why were you out on the pitch in this storm?"
He counters her question with one of his own. "Why were you?"
"I… saw you sneak off after dinner," she admits, "And curiosity got the best of me."
"You? Curious. Would never have guessed." He smirks, turning around to face her. "Out of curiosity, what were you curious about?"
"Where Draco Malfoy would go on his downtime." A drop of rainwater drips down her bangs and settles on one of her eyelashes, weighing her eyes closed for a moment before she wipes it away with the back of her muddy sleeve. It only makes the situation worse by smearing mud across her pretty face. Her eyes come back open, and she growls in irritation as she tries to rub the mud away with the other sleeve. "Oh, for the love of house elves!"
Draco can't help it -a laugh escapes his lips, and he sniggers into the back of his hand. Hermione's eyes dart lightning-fast up to his, and she glares at him.
"What's so funny?"
"You… you're covered in mud."
"And, well… I used to call you 'mudblood.' It's just… now you're literally covered in mud, and…" Her disheartening expression makes his laughs die away instantly. Shit. That definitely came out wrong. "Sorry- I didn't mean-"
"No, I think you did." Her face falls, and she tightens her grip on her umbrella. "I should go."
"No. Granger. Wait." The words sputter out of his mouth, and he crosses the space between them in seconds, his fingers wrapping lightly around her arm. "—I didn't – you misunderstood –"
"What is there to misunderstand?" She snaps, shaking his hand off her. "You know, I thought maybe, after everything that's happened in the last year, that perhaps you'd changed, but – oh, but I was so wrong!" She fumes at him, eyes like shards of glass that cut right into his heart.
Well, he's already taken the piss tonight and mucked everything up. He might as well put all his cards out on the table. "You're correct. You are wrong, Hermione. But about the wrong matter. I have changed." His eyes drift down, hopelessly, to her parted lips. If he can only tell her the way her eyes make his brain spin around like a carousel, or how every time her name comes up in conversation, his heart flutters in his chest… but men didn't say things like that, did they? Especially not to someone who would quickly dismiss his confessions for some sadistic prank.
He is just about to give up entirely when she says, "You called me Hermione."
"You've never said it before. My given name."
"Never had a reason, before now."
Did he mistake it, or were her cheeks tinted a shade of magenta? That could be out of anger, but, then, why were her pupils as large as ink blots? Captivated by the thinning ring of her irises, he finds his face drawing closer to hers. Merlin, is she ever a cute witch. Soft, smooth skin. Long, curling eyelashes that need no mascara. Straight, sparkling teeth that glisten when she smiles. Even her mane of unmanageable curls beg to be tugged by his long fingers, her lips beckoning to be kissed. But Draco knows he can't do this because there will never be a day on Earth when Hermione Granger finds Draco Malfoy attractive. Not that she wouldn't find him handsome, like most witches. But it isn't simply her lust he wants from her. He's a lone wolf wanting to devour her heart the way she has devoured his.
"Reason?" she asks, poised to move back should he grow closer. Draco knows his limits, so he stalls his movements, opting for losing himself in her eyes instead.
He makes up an excuse quickly. "Erm… yeah. You did manage to play Healer and set my shoulder straight." Damn it. Another lame attempt at conversation flubbed up by his fear of rejection. He takes a few steps back, turning his face to the side to grant her personal breathing room. To his shock, she takes a step forward. Draco, unsure, takes a step backwards. She repeats her motions, as does he until he smacks his shoulder blades against the lockers. Why is she doing this to him? Doesn't she understand what messages she's putting out? His hormones have kicked in, being pinned up against a wall by Hermione Granger without a single bit of physical contact. His breathing is staggered. He wants nothing more than to throw her up against these lockers and have his way with her, muddy knees and all.
"What… are you doing?" he asks, fearing the worst that she might hex him for the misunderstanding moments ago.
"I'm assessing you," she says simply, squaring up toe-to-toe with him, searching his face with great interest.
"Bloody stop, would you?" he sneers, but doesn't mean it. He can feel her breath ghost his chin as she draws closer, and he can't get enough of it.
"You don't look much like yourself."
What's that supposed to mean? A horrifying thought blasts through his mind that he might have sullied up his face upon his fall from the broomstick this evening. His hand darts up to his nose, checking for any broken cartilage, but Hermione's hand comes up and guides it back down to his side.
"Your face is fine, Malfoy. I simply mean you look less troubled… more approachable."
"Maybe I am…" he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. Hermione's lips curl up in an unassuming smile, and she pats him on the cheek.
"Maybe you are." She steps back from him, then, glancing down to her muddy legs before resting her eyes back on his. "You shouldn't go out to the pitch alone. There's safety in numbers." She points to his shoulder. "You're lucky that's all you walked away with." She shakes out her umbrella, walks over to the door, and swings it open. "Goodnight, Malfoy." And with that, the door swings shut behind her, leaving him muddy, confused, and hornier than he's ever been in his entire life.
The shower to follow has Draco gripping his cock in sexual frustration. Thankful that it was his left shoulder and not his right that was dislocated, he wanks off to the image of Hermione Granger pinning him up against the lockers and shoving her hand down his pants. As he comes down from his orgasmic high, his face shrouded in water, he tells himself he won't be a coward a moment longer. Somehow. Someway. He will make Hermione Granger his before the end of the year. If for no other reason than to keep his sanity intact.
Four days pass before Draco gathers the courage to look Granger in the eyes again, passing her in the hallway on the way to Advanced Herbology. To his delight, she smiles at him as she passes before turning her attention back to Ginerva Weasley, who is, ironically, on her last year as well. The Battle of Hogwarts has a lot of seventh years repeating their terms, Draco and Hermione included. Thankfully, Potter and Weasley opted to start in the Auror program, so Draco hasn't been forced to put up with their sorry arses a moment longer. He hasn't taken the time to attempt to make friends outside of his House this time around. No one wanted to be friends with a Death Eater, and he could hardly blame them.
He remembers he's going to try a bit of Gryffindor bravery when it comes to Hermione, and with a heavy sigh, he sluffs off his emotional depravity long enough to turn on his heels and call out down the hall, "Granger!"
Her head spins around at the sound of her name, and her eyes connect with his, sending a bolt of electricity down his spine. He feigns confidence that he doesn't possess as he curls a beckoning finger, enticing her to approach him. He can't bring himself to go to her. As a Malfoy, he had his limits as to how pathetic he appears. She raises an eyebrow in response, reproachful, but crosses the hallway all the same. Draco lets his signature smirk plague his lips to cover up the fact that his knees shake. Thank Merlin for flowing robes.
"I'm going out to the pitch tonight," he says casually, pausing as a group of fifth year Slytherin girls pass by, tittering as they lay their ravenous eyes on him. He's still attractive to most of the female population, even if he is a reformed Death Eater. It boosts his ego enough to relax his posture.
"Alright." Hermione blinks at him. "Great. Thanks for sharing?"
Would he need to spell it out for her? "You said it yourself," he leans closer, resting his arm against the side of the wall next to them. Merlin, it hurts! Stupid, Draco! That's his still sore shoulder he's supporting his weight on! He tries his best to not look pained as he continues, "I shouldn't go out on the field alone. Join me."
The bridge of her nose scatters with blush (it's beautiful,) but her voice is confidence as she replies after a moment of contemplation, "I suppose someone has to make sure you don't bust your skull wide open. What time?"
He's as surprised by her forwardness as she is; he can see it in her widening eyes that she is embarrassed at how easily she kowtowed to his request. Did he think his confidence grew at those silly girls blushing in his direction? Because that is nothing compared to the way Hermione's eyes dart off to the side, near his hand, as she hugs the book in her hands against her chest like it is a life preserver.
"Chicken?" Shit, there goes that goading again.
It works. "Ten it is. See you on the pitch." She ducks under his arm and leaves without another word. Draco turns, staring off at her as she approaches her best friend and takes the corner around the hall. Somehow, he's managed to entice Hermione Granger out onto the pitch, alone. Today is fucking fabulous day.
It's ten fifteen on the pitch, and she still isn't here. Draco flies about the field, letting the wind in his ears distract him from the sullen feeling in his chest as he comes to the conclusion: she isn't coming. Well, what had he expected, really? Did he honestly believe she'd show up? What a stupid notion.
He's about to touch down and retreat back to the lockers when he spots a movement out beyond the field, close to the edge. He leans forward on his broom, picking up speed, and sees, with glee, that it is her. She carries a satchel over her shoulder and two thermoses in her hands. His chest soaring with confidence, he flies up next to her and slows down, dancing circles around her on his broom. "You're late," he teases.
"I was stopped by a Head Girl on the way here," she tells him. "She literally threatened me with detention for being out past curfew, even when I reminded her I was nineteen."
"She didn't know who you were?" Draco asks, hovering his broom in front of her, stoic in his expression.
"Oh, she did. I think that's why she gave me such a rough go of it."
"Must be hard, being Gryffindor's Princess."
"Don't call me that," she snaps, though it is half-hearted at best. Gone are her galoshes and rain gear, and here to stay is a grey sweatshirt and classic black slacks ensemble that makes Draco's sense of fashion cringe. Why, of all the witches in the world, did he like the one who couldn't even manage to piece together an outfit? "Anyway, I brought us some hot chocolate and snacks, should we get hungry."
"Mighty kind of you," he replies with a hint of snark. He's not sure why she's come all the way out here for his sake again, but he'll take what he can get. Just being around her brightens his mood tenfold. Though, he can't let her see it. "Should I grab you a broom from the lockers?"
"Me? Oh, no." Hermione shakes her head. "No, no, no. I don't fly."
Draco scoffs. "What sort of witch are you?"
"The kind that doesn't fly." She glances at his broom, apprehensive. "I don't much care for heights."
This hits Draco like a quaffle to the chest. Of course he would fall for the witch that didn't have a sense of fashion and who also feared flying on a broomstick; two of his talents. Sensing his Slytherin quips begging on the tip of his tongue, he opens his mouth and finds himself saying, "Then why did you come at all?"
She narrows her eyes, holding up a thermos like a ball that she'd very much like to throw at him, but catches herself at the last moment and stays her arm. She glances at the thermos, defeated, and places her hand back down at her side. "I have no clue, if we're being honest with each other."
They stare into each other's eyes, waiting. Waiting for one of them to break the deafening silence that's resounded on the pitch. Draco touches down without a word, holding his broomstick out to the side. "Even still…" He clears his throat. "It's… pleasant to see you."
"Is it?" she asks, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Draco forces himself not to reach out and play with it. He isn't a creep, and he most certainly doesn't want to come off that way to her. "How so?"
Draco shrugs. "No clue." Because he's desperately in love with her, and seeing her gives him great joy. "Don't muck it up by asking stupid questions." And boom. Another prideful sneer, right on schedule. He glances to the broom and back to her. "If you didn't come here to fly, what did you come here for?"
"You asked me to," she said simply, "That, and, while I absolutely detest flying, I find I like watching it a bit more."
This is enough for him -he nods once and motions to his new broomstick; its shiny, new, and completely his own. This time, he didn't write his father for a new one. Rather, he used a bit of money he had tucked away and purchased one himself. It was his way of saving face with Lucius Malfoy, who hardly approved of anything Draco did these days. Going back to school being at the top of the list. His father feared rejection for his son, but Draco had been primed to meet it since his first day back. He no longer wanted to tuck himself away like his parents before him; he simply wanted to live life.
It's how he had allotted himself these feelings for Hermione, which, if he were being completely honest, he harbored from the time of puberty. It wasn't until arriving back at Hogwarts, however, that he had really begun to notice his adoration for her.
It sings within him now, but he beats it back with a metaphorical stick.
"Notice anything new?" he gestures, again, to the broomstick in his hand.
Hermione tilts her head, eyes following to it. "Oh, you got a new broom, then. Do you like it?"
Was she not impressed? It was the latest model! Barely on the shelves a month! "Yeah, s'alright," he mutters, defeated in his attempt to impress her.
"Right. Well, as long as you like it, that's what counts." She smiles sweetly to him. "I'll go make my way to the stands."
"I could fly you there," he offers, a bit too eager. She raises a cautious eyebrow, glances over the broom, then shakes her head.
"No. Thank you. No. I… I'll scream."
Draco likes a screamer. "Nonsense." He mounts the broom and flies up next to her, patting the back of it. "You'll be perfectly safe."
"No I won't. Those are death traps."
"Are not." His face sours.
"You nearly got yourself killed the other night riding one of these things."
"In a storm. Chasing a snitch. By my own stupidity," he scoffs.
Hermione stares in wonder at him. "Did the great Draco Malfoy just admit to a moment of stupidity?"
"You'll never be able to prove it," he smirks, daring a flirtatious wink. It's received well enough. No glowers. No death threats. It's a start. "Come on, Granger, before my arse goes numb waiting on you."
"How do I know you won't try to purposefully knock me off once we're in the air?"
He can't blame her for wondering. His younger self would have died for a chance. "Because, then I'd have to hide your body, and clean up the blood, and it's all too much of a headache to go through with." He pats the broom again. "Come on. Up you go."
Hermione sighs, slipping her thermoses into her satchel before tightening the strap and, reluctantly, climbing on behind him. Her arms wrap tightly around his torso, hugging him and latching her hand around her other wrist for a buckle. Draco chuckles. It's adorable to feel her shake against him, and to know that she's allowing him this small bit of trust.
"Ready?" he asks over his shoulder. She shakes her head against his back. "Great." With a kickoff, he launches the broom up into the air, perhaps a little quickly, but he sensed this might be the best approach to getting her over her fears. "Are your eyes shut?"
"YES!" She squeaks behind him as the ascend, and her grip around him tightens, nearly cutting off his breath. He doesn't care. She's touching him, and that's all that matters. He waits until they're about fifty feet up before he hovers the broom.
"Granger," he says, "Open your eyes."
He reaches up and overlaps his hand around hers, rubbing his thumb up and down to coax her. "You're not going to fall. I have you." He squeezes her fingers, and, to his joy, she squeezes back. "Open your eyes, Hermione."
He can sense she does, even before he hears the gasp that escapes her lips as she stares off, beyond the pitch. Hogwarts twinkles back at them, adorned in a night sky filled with stars. It's the reason he loves coming out here -to stare off at the wondrous school that he will, eventually, be forced to leave. And then he will face the real world. And that… that was a scary thought, indeed.
"I like to come out here, when all the light in the sky has faded," he admits to her, "It's peaceful. It allows me to pretend that there wasn't so much… bloodshed… last year."
Hermione sits pensively behind him, fingers still tight in his. She shifts, sitting upright, after a moment. She rests her chin against his shoulder and whispers, "That's quite a fantasy."
He nods. "Indeed." He trails his eyes down to her hand, brushing his thumb against her knuckles in gentle strokes. He's worried saying anything else will muck it up, but if he sits in silence he might drive himself mad. "You have soft hands." Doi! What? What did he just say? Was he going mental? Soft hands? Really?
"Erm… thanks. Lotion," she replies dully, her grip loosening. Shit, now he's gone and done it. Hermione Granger, with her hand in his, and he had to say something to ruin the moment. He lets his hand fall down to his leg, releasing her from his grasp. It's too much. He's let too much through, and she nearly saw the real him. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, willing himself to close off. That is, until her hand slides up his torso and rests directly over his heart. "You still have one of these, don't you? Despite all that transpired."
Can she feel how his heart slams against his chest at her touch? Does she know how vulnerable he feels in this moment? Can she sense his longing to turn around and kiss her full on the lips? "What kind of question is that?" he sneers, rolling his eyes. "Of course I do."
"Sorry, Malfoy, I didn't mean to-"
"-Forget it." His mood is ruined, and he flies them over to the stands, touching down on the front row. Hermione carefully climbs off, thanking him. "Nothing to it," he replies, ice in his tone. He takes off, away from the stands, anxious to release the anger flooding his vision. He flies high up into the air another fifty feet before releasing all control and dive-bombing towards the ground.
"Malfoy!" Hermione shouts from the stands. "Draco!"
Draco isn't concerned. This is his favorite way to burn off the excess adrenaline coursing through his veins. He's performed this move a thousand times, knows it like he does the back of his own hand (two freckles, near the third knuckle). As the ground begs to meet him, he closes his eyes for a second, inhaling, before pulling up at the very last moment and gliding gracefully across the pitch, three feet off the ground. He checks his pulse, but it's not quick enough for his taste, so he repeats the process two more times. Each drop has Hermione screaming bloody murder, but by the third one, she claps, impressed. He chuckles under his breath, testing his heartbeat once more. It's raging in his throat, and he's elated to be alive and kicking. His anger subdued, he flies back over to the Slytherin stands and lands next to her.
Instead of cheers, he's met with a swat to the arm. "OW! What was that for?"
"For scaring the bejeebers out of me! That's what!" She swats him again and again. "You could have died, you know!?"
"Aww, Granger. I didn't know you cared." He flashes her a victorious wink as her face turns as red as a strawberry.
"I… well, of course I do," she says bitterly, crossing her arms. "It's not on my agenda to watch anymore people die in front of me."
The mood shifts, and Draco looks down at her, suddenly feeling very guilty for making her worry. He shrugs it off and takes a seat on the bleachers. "You said you brought snacks?"
Hermione, despite her sullied mood, nods and points to her satchel. "Raisins and chocolate."
"Raisins? How old are you? Seventy?"
"They're high in antioxidants."
"I happen to love sugar," she says, taking a seat next to him to fish out the snacks. They're wrapped in foil, and Draco happily takes his without complaint.
"I love sugar, too," he admits, jostling her in the shoulder. "I was only fucking with you. I like raisins."
She smiles at him. "Oh… well, good."
Draco pops some snacks in his mouth, chews, swallows, and then says, very sincerely, "Sorry." She turns her head to him, perplexed. "For making you worry out there. It's… just how I get my frustration out."
"No, I… I understand. -I scream into a pillow, when it gets a bit rough."
"Do you?" he smirks, unable to resist a good quip. "Do you like it rough, then?"
She shoves him in the shoulder so hard he nearly falls over. They both laugh and eat their snacks. All is well with Draco Malfoy. It has been another good day.
The next time they meet, a week from the date, Draco brings the beverages: bottled butterbeer and some blueberry fizzy drink he's been meaning to try that supposedly can turn the whole mouth blue with just a swig. He doesn't tell her, and when he roars with laughter in the stands, Hermione can't figure out why. Until he tells her, which earns him another swat to the arm.
The third time they meet is two days later. Instead of watching Draco fly, they do their Herbology homework together. Hermione is surprised by his knowledge, but she shouldn't be, he thinks. "I've always been this intelligent, Granger. You've just been wedged too far up Potter and Weasley's bums to notice."
"Hermione," she says, "I rather liked it when you called Hermione."
"Hermione." He smiles, pride welling in his chest. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Shall I call you Draco, then?"
"Call me whatever you like." He'd gladly answer to it.
They meet nearly every night they can after that. Some nights she watches him perform his tricks on the broomstick. Others they simply talk while eating sweets. It's peaceful. Approachable. There's not a lot riding on the moment, so it plays out naturally. Draco looks forward to each encounter. Nearly a month goes by like this, and his confidence grows.
"No, no! This is too high!" Hermione squeaks in Draco's ear as he takes her seventy feet up. "Too high! Too high!"
"I have you, Hermione," he assures her, reaching up and squeezing her hand.
"Hands on the broomstick!" She shouts. "I don't want to slip and fall!"
"You won't," he rolls his eyes. "This was your idea."
"Was it? I don't see why I ever suggested it."
"Something about facing your fears. All that."
"All of that trite nonsense has gone out the window now!"
"Where's your Gryffindor spirit?"
"Oh, shut it!" She smacks him hard on the chest before tightening around him once again. "I take it back! I don't want to!"
"Hermione." He says her name with conviction and determination. "Close your eyes."
"Listen to the sound of my voice. Feel my chest breathing up and down. Relax. Alright? I have you."
She inhales deeply, timing her breathing with his own, and he reaches up, pulling her hand across his chest, to his beating heart. "You have me?" she asks, needing assurance.
"Yes." He turns his head over his shoulder, and is surprised to see her brown eyes glistening back at him. "I do."
"Alright." Her eyes do not leave his. "Do it. Before I change my mind."
Draco smirks, turns his head back around, and ascends them high, building momentum before releasing at the last moment and plummeting them down, down, down towards the pitch below. Hermione screams against his back, but at this moment, in the plunge, it's music to his ears. He laughs as they fall, and he reaches out, lacing his fingers between hers.
"Woo!" he shouts, and closes his eyes, like he does every time. The wind whips in his ears. He can smell the grass from the field below. This is home to him -not some dusty old Manor with his father's disheartened glares or his mother's worried gaze. Not Hogwarts, where he feels more of an outcast every day. Right here. On the pitch. Hermione nuzzled against him as they fall. It's everything.
He opens his eyes and straightens them out, coasting them across the length of the field with two feet to spare. Hermione has stopped screaming, changing pace with a set of vicious pants. He slows down to a crawl before touching down in the middle of the pitch, and she rolls off and smacks her back into the ground, laughing like a wild woman. "Oh my GOODNESS!" she shouts, throwing her hands over her face as she barrels out laugh after laugh. "I did that! I actually did that!"
"Yes, you did." He hops off his broom and tumbles down next to her. They lay against the grass, chests heaving and smiles across their faces. Draco finds the stamina to lace his fingers through hers again, though this time they are side by side. She lets him, for a moment, squeezing his hand firmly. But then she stares down at their hands, frowning, all laughs died away. "Something wrong?" he asks, afraid to move.
She does it for him, carefully unlacing their fingers as she sits upright. "Draco. We… we can't." She brings her knees up to her chest, casting an apologetic glance at him. He's confused, but he tries to pretend it's indifference that sullies his mood like a bad high. Not the fact that her eyes tell him everything he needs to know. She's seeing someone. Of course she is.
"It's Weasley, isn't it?" he whispers, tearing his eyes away from hers to stare up at the sky.
"It isn't exclusive," she replies meekly, "But we've talked about a future once we're able to… live closer… to one another."
"I see." Draco doesn't dare give himself away. He remains expressionless, like the stars above his head. "Do you love him?"
He watches her chew her lip out of her corner of his eye. "Yeah."
"I… suppose I do." She pats her collarbone, mulling over her own words. "I've always loved him."
Draco can feel his heart tearing in two. "Are you in love with him?"
The moment drags out painfully slow, like razorblades against the cuticles of his nail beds. He's so close to snapping -can feel it burning in the back of his throat like acid about to erupt. He's just about to make some awful quip when she says, "I don't know."
And just like that, the burning is cleansed as a new wave of opportunity washes over him like the ocean. He dips his toe in, just to test the waters. "Is he in love with you?"
"We've never said it."
His confidence peaks. "So," he leans up, scooting closer to her, "If I were to kiss you…"
His words catch her off guard, and her head spins towards him -she didn't know he'd be so close. Their faces nearly touch by the nose as he stares patiently into her eyes, taking a chance and resting his hand over hers against the field grass.
"You're in my personal bubble," she whispers.
"You're in mine," he replies, leaning closer and tilting his head. He lets his breath tickle her lips but doesn't go in for it. He's wading in the water now, and is merely waiting for the current to take him the rest of the way. And, like a crashing wave, her lips find their way to his, stealing all of his resolve to stay put. Draco is, for all intents and purposes, in awe as he realizes Hermione Granger is kissing him. Kissing him. Draco Malfoy. On the pitch. Out in the open, in real life, and she's here, and she's real and…
His hands come up to the sides of her cheeks as he beckons her to deepen the kiss with a caress of his tongue across the part in her lips. Hermione, to his relief, complies almost instantly, absolving herself of any doubts as she opens her mouth and brushes her tongue against his. She tastes like the salt-water taffy they'd munched on before she'd gathered the courage to suggest they spiral to their near-deaths for shits and gigs.
Draco, already surprised, doesn't say shit when she pushes him down on top of the Quidditch turf, breaking the kiss only momentarily to pull her shirt up over her head. Merlin! This escalated quickly! He doesn't complain, especially not when Hermione's lips trail down his neck, his collarbone, up to his ear to nibble at his earlobe. A moan finds its way out of his throat, and before he knows it, he's sitting upright to rip his own shirt off and then reaches around, unclasping her bra. Draco has only gone this far a handful of times with other girls, but he's sure in his approach as he discards the bra across the pitch and captures a nipple gingerly between his lips. Hermione moans, and it's the most harmonious sound Draco's ever heard in his life. It thrills him in ways he didn't know he could be, and when she reaches down for the buckle of his trousers, he doesn't argue. Her fingers shake as she undoes the loop, and then the zipper. It dawns on him that she might not be as experienced in this as he is, despite her provocative touch.
Carefully, he presses his lips to hers, slowing her down, rendering her still.
"Is this.. your first…?" he asks, searching her eyes. Hermione's entire body flushes with blood, and he has his answer. "We don't have to." He rests his hands on her hips, above the hem of her skirt. He doesn't regret the words, but his pulsing prick reprimands him for possibly ruining the opportunity. "We can stop here."
"You'd do that?" she asks quietly. Draco nods. And is shoved back against the turf once more, forcefully this time. He's vaguely aware of Hermione's hands as she shoves them down his pants and removes his cock -he's entranced by the fortitude and lust in her eyes that bore down into his own. Their kiss, this time, is slow and meaningful, even as they awkwardly fumble around to remove her underwear. Draco doesn't bother with the skirt -it's too much of a process to try to take the damn thing off, and besides -there's more pressing matters at hand. Like the way Hermione straddles him, aligning the tip of his cock against the slick lips between her thighs. Draco's high as a kite as she sinks down onto his length, slow and testing. He's tempted to throw his head back, wrapped up in the feeling of her as she constricts around his erection. But he doesn't. He wants to watch her when she's taken him whole, and he's glad he's willed himself to stare -because that look on her face, with the crinkle between her brows and the way her eyes fall closed in pleasure…
"You're beautiful," he whispers, gripping her hips and guiding them to move forwards and backwards. Draco rocks her into a steady rhythm, loving every tender gasp, moan, and sigh from her mouth. If he hadn't asked her about her virginity moments ago, he would have known it by now -by Merlin, she's tight. The sweet scent of her arousal mixed with the grass on the Quidditch pitch makes him ravenous, and before long he is grunting and groaning right along with her. Hermione's nails scrape across his chest, and she closes her eyes, lost in the sensation of his cock filling her up again and again.
Here, on the pitch, Draco Malfoy is in ecstasy. Every time Hermione's tits bounce above him, he loses a bit of his soul to her. Every sigh, a shard of his heart. She's given him the one thing he thought he could never obtain; her first time. Even if she never spoke to him again, he would be a defining part of her life -her last step out of innocence.
He's so glad he wanked before coming out tonight, because it means he'll last longer, and he's determined to make her come. It would be the Pièce De Résistance of the evening, if he can get her there. He leans upright, cradling her in his lap. Her legs wrap around his torso, and he rocks them, slow, steady, building her up as her clit rubs against his pelvis as he angles himself just so –she cries out, lost in the moment, and he knows he's found the correct path. He takes control, grasping at her hips and rolling her forwards, and then backwards, and the forwards again. Her breath comes in pants, now, and her legs quiver around him. She's tightening around him, and she's so close… so very close…
"Mmh.. I'm… I'm gonna…"
"Come," he whispers in her ear, seductive and commanding. A soft mewl is his reply, her body sent over the edge as her walls clench around his cock in waves. Her lips crash down on his, hungry as the sweet feeling of relief takes her. Draco can't take it any longer -he comes, right along with her, moaning her name into his mouth as he attempts to kiss her. She's rocking him now, milking him of the last of his cum as it fills her to the brim. They'll need to cast a contraceptive spell later. But not now. Right now, Draco kisses her possessively, too far gone to care if she's promised herself to someone else. He's in love, damn it, and he never wants another soul inside of her the way he's been tonight. The thought of another man kissing her, touching her, making her laugh -it's all too much, and as the sweat glistens off his forehead, he mounts his courage and says, "So about that dance…"
Hermione pants in his ear. Draco remembers hearing somewhere that a woman's orgasm lasts longer than a man's. Maybe that's why it takes her a moment to come to her senses, pulling back to meet his gaze. Her lips are puffy from all of the rough kissing, and her cheeks are flush pink, but she's still the most beautiful woman he's ever laid eyes on. And she's here. And she's real. And he's taken her virginity on the Quidditch pitch. Could this night get any more spectacular?
"Dance?" she asks, finally, breaking her silence.
Draco smirks, his confidence soaring. "Yeah. You know. Fancy dresses. Uncomfortable dress robes. The works."
"If that's your way of asking me-"
"-Hermione, will you kindly shut up and go to the dance with me?" he interrupts her, stroking the back of his fingers down her cheek.
Hermione stares evenly down at him, weighing his words with his merit. He's about to give up, to call the whole thing off in a fit of embarrassment, until he sees the smile spread across her face as her own fingers trace his jaw.
"I'd… love that, actually."
Draco smirks, claiming the win with a less-than-graceful fist pump to the air. Hermione laughs, and he tumbles them around until he lays on top of her, spreading her curls out in a random display around her head. He's half tempted to counter with his feelings, but he holds them back, knowing it's too soon. But he will tell her, one day. He'll be damned if Weasley will ever get his chance again. This is his Hermione Granger. And nothing, no one, will ever come in the way of that again.
Tonight, it's just him, her, and the pitch. And, for now, that's all that matters.
I really hope everyone loves this one-shot as much as I did! Please leave a review, and feel free to recommend to friends! Also, a favorite would mean the world to me if this touched you in some way. (Following oneshots, unfortunately, will never give you an update lol)