A/N: This story was written for the Dramionelove Valentine's fest 2013. I'm finally getting around putting it up. RL *rolls eyes* … don't ask.
This was the prompt:
Draco and Hermione are married, but not happily and not to each other. During his anniversary party which so happens to be at Valentine's Day he sleeps with Hermione (lemon, lemon, lemon!) in his house study. They disregard their encounter as a drunken mistake but afterwards he's being tortured by his memories of their tryst. He wants more and from what he can see, Granger wants him too. A Malfoy always gets what he wants and unfortunately for her, Granger is not an exception.
Epilogue Compliant. Everything happens the year Hugo and Lily start at Hogwarts, two years after the epilogue. Angst, tears and heart break. Adultery. Angry sex. And yes a happy ending for our beloved couple. Harry will be mad but he'll eventually forgive her.
Listen here, people: as already indicated in the bolded part above, there's going to be some EXPLICIT part. So consider this a warning. Don't like, don't read. And above all - don't send me "reviews" to point out what is blatantly obvious to everybody who can read.
I apologize for a mix-up with names in the story specification in a previous posting, misleading you to believe it was a Ron/Hermione story. Those of you who ever posted a story can attest, this mistake is easily done.
But do not complain that you read something you don't like when it's clearly marked as such, alright?
So, for those of you who enjoy a good Dramione story, keep on reading. Those of you who don't like Draco and Hermione doing the deed, turn around AND STOP READING NOW!
"Tell me again why we're here."
Staring at the face in the gate's wrought iron, shivering in the cold and swallowing heavily on bad memories, Hermione couldn't help but whine in view of her childhood enemy's home.
Ron Weasley sighed at his wife's sharp tone. "Because I was invited. And you as well. They are celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary and the fact that their son was conceived on the wedding night. Astoria Malfoy is a major benefactor of the 'Bring-more-magic-into-your-dreary-life'-campaign of the Ministry to which, as you well know, I was assigned as chairman by the Auror department. We work closely together and thus, I and a guest were invited to her most private celebration."
"Ah, Astoria Malfoy," Hermione snapped, trying not to snort over the ridiculous excuse to throw money around on lavish celebrations, just to show that one could. "Well, then we have to step inside. We do not want to disappoint her."
Ron huffed angrily. Hermione's recent bouts of irritability were nothing new, but he didn't need her to annoy other people. He rather liked his life uncomplicated and he had enough of her moods each night when she got home without her embarrassing him in public.
"Don't start. We have a strictly professional working relationship, so don't make this difficult. I know you don't have good associations with this house, and neither have I. But I need her connections if I want this campaign to go anywhere."
Hermione snarled, "Let's just get this over with."
Personally, she thought if Ron would start clearing up the dreary life at home, it would be a great start.
The gate dispersed into smoke as soon as their wands touched the metal. With her long halter-necked silky-red ballroom gown swishing around her legs, Hermione trudged next to her husband along the long walkway up to the entrance.
How ironic, she mused, deep in thought. Just when she had put her own aspirations for a promising sex-life on ice she was invited to a party celebrating the very marital virtue of conceiving and having children, a side effect of having a love life per se. Invited by traditional purebloods and on Valentine's Day, of all days, to celebrate 'lurve' and the traditional way of living a married life. She felt like gagging, right on her red silky shoes. Piffling.
But the campaign Ron was chairing had good reason to exist. People had picked up their lives after the war, but it had taken a decade for them to get back on their feet. Ten years of their lives lost to turning around at every unexpected sound and sudden flash of light, lest Death Eaters be attacking your family. The next decade was spent showing their children that there was a life worth living; something her generation had extreme difficulties with.
Thus, lacking proper role models in these times of uncertainty and new beginning, many had looked for security in the traditional roles of the wizarding world, trying to make Voldemort's regime disappear as if it had never happened. Others had turned their life upside down and left their world entirely. And all of them were seeking directions, high and low.
Many had turned to her after the war, looking to the beacon Muggle-born, the brightest witch of her age, for clues. Now that Harry had retired, having done what he was supposed to do, it was as if she had the recipe for salvation, was the new saviour. Hermione had done her best to bridge the old and the new, trying to pick up the best, and some traditional, pieces of Wizarding conduct and rejecting others. She had tried to build upon the traditions without imbibing them as the ultimate truth, preserving societal rules she picked up from the elders without letting them rule her life.
But it had been hard. There had been resistance to her efforts, and apathy. At times, Hermione had felt as if somebody was always pulling her in one direction or another, on top of her professional and family duties.
Harry had totally withdrawn from public life, living a quiet life with Ginny and their children, all of whom were now at Hogwarts with her children. Hermione had no doubt that Ginny would make Harry savour the time they had together now. Harry was somewhat pliable that way, she had to admit with a small smile. It helped that they both adored Quidditch to a point of obsession and enjoyed flying together.
Both she and Ron had likewise expected to have more time together, but it hadn't materialised. And her job, which had enriched her life for the longest time, had become dull, mostly because she had reached the pinnacle in her department. The only way up was to become Minister for Magic. Therefore, she was at a dead end in her Department for Regulation of Magical Creatures, buried in bureaucracy. Having taken all major hurdles on her way except for the stone walls that were insurmountable, she was stuck in a rut.
On top of that, lively conversation was in rather short supply. Ron had taken rather too well to the telly, which Hermione had installed one day. Thus, when she came home to vent her frustration over her challenge-less work-life, there was a husband who wanted nothing but a warm meal and a warm wife. Not only did her complaints fall on deaf ears, but he scarpered to the living room to connect with his "friend" and asked her to tell him when dinner was ready.
For the past few months, Hermione felt she was going out of her mind. There had to be something that could make her life more interesting and, well, lively. There was a wild energy building in her. It felt like an excess with no specific purpose, but instead of using it for tiring undertakings like translating the entire literature about house-elves from the previous century from ancient Greek to proper English, she felt short-tempered, on edge and rather intolerant.
In her desperation to liven up her complacent life-style she had tried to do the opposite of the usual, instead of tidying up she had left things out in the open, instead of setting things straight she set them askew. She even tried to invent new patterns for their decorative pieces in the living room. The result was that their house looked a little messy and Ron was not happy with her. Still it wasn't enough to calm her inner demons, which required more chaos, more unpredictability, something out of the ordinary – a challenge for her overactive brain, a thrill for her nerves.
Hermione had a particular repugnance to cooking. She had never been able to match up to Molly Weasley. But she had done all right, she thought, with cooking spells. Only they became cumbersome when your husband swallowed everything without discretion. And in her latest state of restlessness she couldn't bring herself to be the little housewife cooking her husband's meals when she came home from work – hours after him, she wanted to add.
Trying to get rid of this restless energy, last month she had tried to invigorate their sex life, which had fallen a little by the wayside because of the children. It was only natural. But when, after a spectacularly bothersome day at work, she had been looking for relief and tried to tell her husband one of her fantasies–the one with the stranger in the disco dancing up to her and when things became heated taking her against a wall- in the hope, that they could, perhaps, replay it to liven things up, Ron had gotten red ears and exclaimed,
"Blimey, Hermione, can't you warm up to something like this? Perhaps by cooking a romantic dinner first? Seduce me?"
She had taken a shocked second, felt like she was standing under an ice-cold shower, and then exploded in his face.
"I don't want to cook you dinner first. I'm not your mother. I'm your wife; your woman, to be exact, not only the mother of your children. I thought you had figured that out by now, after living with me for 18 years. I have needs. I don't want to seduce you. I want you to seduce me. I want you to take the initiative. I want you, for once, to know what I want and take the pressure off me."
To which Ron had shaken his head and, as usual, escaped to the next room. When Hermione had made little rumbling noises like an active volcano and walked to the back of the house, Ron had simply inquired from the living room: "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to take a bath, to relax," she had huffed back.
When he asked, "Does that mean there won't be any dinner tonight?" she had slammed the door shut behind her, secluded herself in the bathroom, and lay back in the hot bath.
Seeing that she wouldn't be getting any relief from her husband, she had masturbated to another favourite fantasy, the one with the intruder in her house who surprised her in the bedroom when she was about to get dressed. After she had climaxed twice to thoughts of the sweaty stranger with the smouldering gaze, who looked somewhat like Brad Pitt in his younger years - or one of the Hemsworth brothers, didn't matter who - taking her against her bedroom wall, where a returning Ron would have seen them the moment he opened the door, she had sulked in the cooling water, sated but saddened and buried her sex life in the back of her mind.
All of which hadn't really contributed to a pleasant mood in the past week.
Pity was, being fair-minded – and a loyal Gryffindor to boot - , she actually understood Ron's point of view. If she had been raised by a woman who made it her job to be the perfect mother and cook and always be there for her family, she likely would have expected nothing else for her own life. Judged by seven children, she was pretty sure that Arthur and Molly had a healthy partnership, but she was equally certain that Ron had never surprised his parents - the benefits of magical alarms and confounding charms to keep your children away. Lacking imagination, he wanted to live what he had grown up with.
But Hermione was not the kind of woman whose sole focus in life was to take care of her family.
She had two beautiful, extremely smart children who had started Hogwarts, leaving her, at 40, free to take care of herself again. And her husband wasn't helping.
She and Ron had never been an explosive couple in the bedroom, and Hermione was okay with it. When you choose your partner for life, you didn't go with bedroom skills. At least, she didn't. You fell in love, naturally, and when he turned out to be good husband material, you married him and had children, didn't you?
Yes. Bedroom skills were a bonus but not a pre-requisite. There were many other things to cherish in your husband and those were the ones to build a life on, together.
And led you to bury your sex-life at 40 and to deal with constant tingling between her legs – an itch she couldn't really scratch. Perhaps more prudence in the selection of her husband wouldn't have gone amiss. She bit her lip. Too late now.
Right then, they had reached the front doors of the Manor, and entering the hall cut Hermione's thoughts short.
The entrance hall was filled with people in subdued traditional coloured robes, black and blue, dark green and grey, some mingling and some lining up to be greeted by the man of the house. Hermione snorted mentally at the image, which briefly flashed her mind: of her as the only one in red setting this entire stuck-up lot alight like an open flame.
Sighing, Hermione stood next to Ron in the short queue, glancing at the people around them.
Ah, there was Walpurgis Featherstone from Regulation of the Export of Exotic Magical Plants – REEMP, in short, and for practicality reasons, they took care of the import as well; especially since exotic plants were in short supply in England, of all places - of course, he wouldn't miss a single opportunity to better his standings, she thought. Being invited to Malfoy Manor had surely given him shivers of delight. She sniggered imagining the dry and boring man shivering in delight.
She knew she was being unfair and that the poor man couldn't help being so one-dimensional, any more than she could help her contumeliousness.
A sharp drawling voice she'd almost forgotten ripped her out of her deliberations.
"Weasley. And his missus. Can't imagine what you might be doing here. This is a private celebration, you know. Invite only."
Next to her, Ron bristled. "Malfoy. We are invited. Astoria gave me the invitation personally."
The owner of the house sneered causing Hermione to think that, even though he had certainly grown into his looks over the years and looked better now at almost forty than he did in his youth, Draco Malfoy's sneer would always look the same and remind her horribly of their school years.
"Snippy," Malfoy said. With a poof a little house-elf materialised next to its master. Hermione inhaled sharply. The elf was dressed in a clean linen toga with the Malfoy crest.
Malfoy noticed her sharp glance. "He's being paid, Granger, thanks to your legislation. I had to beat him into submission so he would accept a day off every other week, though. And to accept a uniform of sorts."
"It's Weasley." Ron tried to correct the fact that Malfoy had called Hermione by her maiden name, but he was ignored by them both.
Malfoy turned to his servant instead. "Snippy, bring me the guest list, please. There must be a mistake if Weasley here has been invited."
The house-elf was back before anybody could say anything, and thus saved the world from bad karma in the form of yet another Weasley-Malfoy spat.
Unrolling the parchment, Malfoy confirmed their names on the list with a single glance and offered his unwelcome displeasure.
"But this can't be right. Why in the world would my wife invite Ronald 'poor blood' Weasley?"
Hermione had enough. She didn't want to be here, but now that she was, she certainly wasn't going to be insulted; not even through her husband. As if her mood wasn't bad enough already.
She took a step forward and, disregarding Malfoy's wincing and miserable retreat of one small step, put her face right up to his, and gave him fire by speaking sharply.
"Believe you me, Malfoy; I don't want to be here any more than you want us in your house. But we've been invited by your lovely wife because she works with my husband for some insipid reason. Now, be a good chap and go get her, so we can confirm this and get the 'pleasantries' out of the way and us from your doorstep. Because as homely as your entrance is, I'd rather see the Drawing Room again, and you know how pleasant my last visit there was."
Ron looked like he wanted to sink into the hardwood floor. Hermione didn't care. If he was too timid to get entrance to a house he was invited to, how was he ever going to achieve anything in life and stand up on his own? She ignored the fact that she wasn't achieving anything either at the moment and focused her fuming entirely on the reluctant host.
Malfoy, on the other hand, held his stance after the first shock. He took up the challenge of her impetuousness and snarled right back.
"No need to become hot and bothered, Granger. Not that I'm surprised. Holding your temper like a lady was never your forte. I seem to remember a certain slap in third year … Ah, but here comes my lady."
Hermione harrumphed. Thank goodness, indeed there was Astoria, joining her husband's side and inquiring sweetly, if not entirely warmly: "What's this, darling? Why are people lined up in the entrance hall?"
Malfoy spoke sharply: "Face check. I don't want every Tom, Dick or Harry using the opportunity of your party to walk the halls of my ancestors."
Astoria, to her credit, looked slightly perturbed, but answered with perfect composure, "Draco, darling, surely I told you why I invited Ron Weasley and his guest. Ah, he brought his lovely wife. Mrs Weasley." Astoria greeted with a nod.
Hermione returned the nod. She didn't like Astoria, a typical, vapid, blonde, pureblood housewife who had nothing to do but spend her husband's money – as it has always been with these pureblood wives. But if she got them out of this situation Hermione would hold her tongue for now.
Her plan went up in smoke when she heard Malfoy say exasperatedly, "I'm not a master in my own house anymore, if poor morons are invited."
Hermione huffed. "I'm not surprised at all, given the current host."
Malfoy sneered with a heated glance at her. "Manners, Granger. Your destitute life situation aside, don't bring your discontentment into my house. It may be contagious."
Hermione bit back. "I should say the same thing about your manners. Didn't your mummy teach you to welcome invited guests graciously?"
Ron and Astoria looked as if they would rather be miles away. The heated exchange between their respective spouses made the air ripple and churl, and not in a pleasant way. Fortunately, the other arrivals were distracted by the house elves bringing them refreshments. Before more unpleasant words could be exchanged, Astoria grabbed Ron's arm and pulled him into the house, away from the entrance hall, with a gracious "Please, follow me, Mr Weasley. I'll show you to our splendid ballroom".
Ron managed to grab Hermione's hand and pull her with him. Hermione sent a last scathing look in Malfoy's direction before she was pulled around a corner, and found him staring hotly after her.
She didn't see him again until after all guests had arrived and he and Astoria welcomed them formally to their celebration of "life, tradition, and the continuation of magic through offspring", as they put it.
Hermione snorted into her champagne glass. This again. Would they ever give up their blood purity ideas, passing from father to son? Wasn't that what she and Harry fought for, the dis-continuation of stupid traditions that were detrimental to life and to magic itself?
Their perfect pureblood manners didn't make up for the fact that their welcome was as warm as a cooling summer cocktail. Not unpleasant, but certainly nothing you expected when looking for a warm drink on a cold February night. Hermione longed for a hot chocolate and to cuddle up to a warm body on her sofa with a good book.
After the welcome speech, whilst mingling with the other guests, Hermione could feel Malfoy's piercing gaze on her from time to time. He was enraged over her provocation and now he wouldn't let her out of his sight, she understood. But it incensed her even more and made her blood boil. How was she supposed to react when he couldn't control his insidious urge to insult her?
After several circles around the grand ballroom, and watching her husband speaking amicably but very professionally with Astoria Malfoy, who introduced him to other guests, Hermione slipped out to find and use a bathroom. A house-elf just outside the ballroom showed her the way. She sent it away, lest he wait for her, explaining that she could find her way back on her own.
After her bathroom visit, she leaned against a wall and relished the silence in the empty hallways. She could not bring herself to return to the crowded and noisy ballroom where she was forced to smile in the face of cold boredom.
From around the corner, she noticed a light coming on. Drawn to its warmth, she went and found a deserted study with bookshelves over three walls. Smiling for the first time all night, she closed the door behind her and made a beeline to the closest shelf. Letting her fingers glide over the back of the bindings, she felt the knowledge and ancient magic exude from the tomes. As usual, it gave her peace of mind to be in the presence of written knowledge. Ah, how wonderful it had been when she'd had time to open a book to read for the pure lust of gaining knowledge that wasn't immediately applicable. Those were the days.
A voice behind her caught her unawares. She stiffened a little when it drawled, "Watch out, Granger, some of these books bite."
Without turning, she snapped back, "Do they bite everybody or just Muggle-borns? And it's Weasley."
Hermione liked correcting people. She really did. And so she corrected Malfoy about her name, even though she hadn't minded it earlier in the entrance hall. Face-to-face with her childhood enemy she felt rather more secure with her own name. It reminded her of times when her life was still going smoothly. As Granger, she had always stood up to him, and he acknowledged her under this name. As Mrs Weasley, she felt somehow limited.
She heard the sneer in his voice. "Everybody but the rightful owner."
Hermione knew she would have to face her host when he continued their reluctant "conversation", as a common act of courtesy.
She turned around and found Malfoy lounging in an armchair she hadn't seen when she came in. "What are you doing here, Malfoy? I thought you had to be at your anniversary."
He smiled sarcastically in reply. "I thought I had made it clear that it's not exactly my party. And it is not uncommon to find me in my own study. The real question is what are you doing here?"
She hesitated for a split second too long. "I took a wrong turn coming from the bathroom and then saw the light here."
He snorted, easily detecting her lie. "Aren't you afraid of the house when you wander its hallways unattended? No husband protector, no person to account for your whereabouts, no witnesses? For all you know, the house may not be friendly towards Muggle-borns."
Hermione smiled thin-lipped, navigating around his direct questions. "And you, Malfoy? Weren't you afraid that this Muggle-born would taint your ancient halls when you allowed my entrance?"
He growled, "No more than everybody from this gaggle of people my lovely wife insisted on inviting to this utterly unnecessary celebration."
Hermione folded her arms in front of her chest. "And why, pray tell, is such a lavish party unnecessary?"
Malfoy leaned back in his chair nonchalantly. "Granger, are we on such close terms that I would tell you my private dealings?"
"Fine, don't tell me," Hermione snapped coldly back. "I don't want to know."
Malfoy sneered and hissed maliciously, "Let's just say that if my wifehadn't insisted on inviting you, I wouldn't have to scourgifyevery nook and cranny tomorrow."
Hermione felt her anger boiling in her, the flames licking at her stomach. Why did he always have to insult her? Always the fact that she was a Muggle-born, for her achievements and her looks at school, and for the fact that Ron didn't come from a rich snobbish family and they didn't sit on piles of Galleons. A fact that, even though it was true for him, didn't make Malfoy any more sympathetic. She therefore had no scruple in taunting him about his discomfort.
"And now you find your home run over by riffraff and other low-lives? Poor Malfoy, having to deal with such ragamuffins, instead of his elitist purebloods. I find them suspiciously absent, you're former friends from Hogwarts," she said spitefully.
When his eyes snapped to her and narrowed furiously, she recognized that she had hit a nerve. Oh, but it felt good to give out the insults for once. She felt her restlessness focus into her sharp wit and felt right again after such a long time. She added a further insult.
"And even your private study intruded by a dirty Mudblood, ah, the shame. Tainted. How will you ever clean it again when spells are not enough?" she jeered.
"Don't, Granger," her host growled.
"Don't what, Malfoy?" she snarled. "Don't call myself a Mudblood? Who if not I can call myself a Mudblood? Certainly not you. Does it remind you of the bad times when Voldemort was around?"
She ignored Malfoy's shudder. Some people were still not ready to say Voldemort's name aloud.
"Do you miss it?" she kept poking, enjoying his obvious discomfort while taking a step closer to him. "Do you miss being able to say what you want without consequences? Yes, I can imagine that the Ministry has clipped your wings as a result of your involvement in the war. You were lucky to have escaped Azkaban, but life can't have been easy with your lot being shunned by the public."
This was what had enraged him. With sudden clarity, Hermione saw that he didn't like either Ron or her in his house, as reminders of his losses in the war. The Ministry had filled its coffers with reparations from purebloods like him. The Malfoys hadn't been able to take a breath without the Ministry knowing. His sumptuous wedding to Astoria Greengrass had done nothing to improve their standing. And so they had lived in obscurity, under close scrutiny, and their former bravado had been extinguished. Lucius and Narcissa had done the only sensible thing and fled to the continent and were currently residing in France in one of the family properties. Draco must have had a reason to stay.
"Shut up, Granger. You have no idea what you're talking about," Malfoy spat at her.
Hermione laughed derisively. "Oh, but I think I do or you wouldn't be so upset. Does my presence remind you of the lost good times?"
It felt good to rub salt into his wounds. At least, something was moving in the stagnant rut that counted as life. Gleefully, she watched him squirm.
Malfoy bit his lip and did his utmost not to reply to her insinuation while his eyes shot cold fire.
She went to his armchair and bent over him. With her own frustration over her hapless life spilling over into this dispute, she became ruthless in her attack. Thinking of this man's relentlessness in putting her down during their youth, she wanted to see him defeated; flat on his back with her wand to his throat in the ultimate threat. The same way she wanted to scream out her frustration of her life, floating in a pool of complacency, with no way to solve it because the other people involved would not budge. This blond man and his lot were at fault that so many people sat back, seeking directives and let their lives pass by while she struggled to move something.
"What's wrong, Malfoy? Can't even defend yourself to a simple Mudblood because the Ministry has your balls in a vice and as soon as you raise your wand against me, they'll ship you off to Azkaban?"
With a swift move, he pushed himself up out of his armchair in agitation making Hermione move back into the middle of the room if she didn't want to bump heads with him. It would have been intimidating, but Hermione was just the right amount of incensed to be unaffected. Her own indignation stood up against his, like clashing clouds, causing chaos and thunder. In fact, she was glad he was finally reacting. Her defeat of him would be so much more satisfying. A sitting duck, with clipped wings, was no worthy target.
"Careful, Malfoy. If you come any closer, you may catch my Mudblood germs," she breathed in his face with a provocative sneer.
"Don't you dare make fun of me for the fact that I can't shit without the Ministry asking for texture details because of my parents' involvement in that stupid war," he growled in her face.
She leered back. "And what about your involvement, Malfoy? Dare you deny that you did your utmost to stop Harry, Ron, and myself, that you put obstacles in our way wherever you could and tried to get us expelled? That you led Death Eaters into Hogwarts?"
"I didn't know you were so vulnerable that you carried grudges over a misguided and extremely pressured boy's immature actions, oh Granger the Great Gryffindor. I thought you were bigger than that," he sneered at her.
"I am," she exclaimed, eyes wide in outrage. "I am bigger than that."
"I see no proof," Malfoy hissed at her. "All I see is that you try to kick a man who's already down."
"Oh, boohoo, Malfoy. You lead such a miserable life. Beautiful wife, money out of every orifice, a mansion where you could easily fit every single war orphan in its own room, a generous lifestyle…"
"Shut up, Granger," he hissed, stalking forward so that she had to move backward if she didn't want his spittle in her face. She went until she felt the bookshelf poke in her back. "Shut the fuck up, for Merlin's sake!"
He pushed her up against the bookshelf as a threat. "You don't know a thing about my life, Granger. Not a single thing."
His body heat pressing into her drove her own temperature, and with it her temper, up.
"It's Weasley. And what would be a thing to know about your life? Care to enlighten me? Are the house-elves not cooking your favourite dishes to perfection? Is your arse not being sufficiently powdered? Does your wife not spread her legs wide enough when you shake a sack of Galleons?"
If looks could kill, she'd be frozen and burnt up at the same time, skewered and grilled over a spit-fire and crucio-ed until her heart gave out. Malfoy's eyelid twitched because he was obviously trying very hard not to strangle her.
Her heart was doing overtime, working against the discrepancy of the body heat and the ice-cold anger coming from the enraged blond in front of her. She didn't know if she shivered from the cold or trembled from the heat.
She laughed derisively in spite, while looking at his closed-off face, and – because it was at her eye level – his mouth. She had never noticed his lips before. They had always been distorted in a sneer or a smirk. The perfect swing, she thought while looking straight at them, slightly parted to let the agitated breaths through. How unfair. They look like precision instruments of verbal torture – but also as if they could kiss the life out of you. Better than Ron's slobbering meat bulges.
"Do not talk about my wife, Mrs Weasley," he growled in her face. His body shifted even closer and he raised his arms to cage her against the bookshelf at her ear level. Hermione wasn't concerned. This was nothing she couldn't jinx herself out of. But it added to a certain thrill in the air and she liked the feeling of an explosion coming. Perhaps it would resolve her balled-up frustration.
"Is your married life as perfect as it looked tonight? Where you can't stand to be in your husband's company for more than two minutes before being bored? Where you'd rather go exploring a stranger's house, where you were tortured the only other time you visited, than enjoy yourself in the company of other people? What reason do you have to be angry, Ms House-elf Liberation Legislation, Ms War Heroine, Ms Best-Friend-of-Harry-Effing-Potter?"
Not kissing, biting, definitely biting, she thought, staring at his moving mouth. She was a bit surprised at the accuracy of his observations and struck back. "You're not a stranger. And do not insult Harry," she hissed at him.
He overplayed his surprise at her words and went for her admonition. "Then do not tempt me to consider a sentence in Azkaban because I laid a finger on your precious Mudblood neck for insulting me, Ms Perfect-Boring-Life."
Feeling his breath flow over her face and her neck from his agitation, she stood trembling from her own excitation. Provoking Draco Malfoy in his own house, Hermione, what's gotten into you? She couldn't explain it any better than her pent-up energy finally finding an outlet, rubbing against his barely hidden anger. For a moment, she was surprised that she didn't actually see sparks.
There was a crackle in the air, like an unfinished spell where the energy was still hovering, expelled from the wand but unfocused because it hadn't been directed yet. They were both ready to snap. Something had to give any moment now.
Hermione, unable to stand the suspense, dared him in an angry whisper: "Go on. Touch a Mudblood. It wouldn't be your first time, would it? I mean, I hit you in third year, didn't I? So, you've been contaminated before. Seems you survived."
Draco Malfoy felt as if he was drowning in a magical backlash. Everything about Hermione Granger reflected suffocating aggression and provocation: her dress, her sassy mouth, her rosied cheeks, her angry eyes. Doused in reddish light which reflected from her stunning dress, there was energy to spare, angry, wild, abandoning energy clashing with his anger like two angry dragons. He felt it in the way the little hairs on his arms stood up. It made some of his muscles contract involuntarily. He couldn't explain any other way why he bent forward as if to claim the pair of red lips that a rosy tongue had just moistened.
While staring at those plump red bows where her air huffed through, smelling of the champagne that was served in the ballroom, he only thought about how he could possibly squeeze those delicious fruits until they burst and red juice ran out, running over her chin, ruining the fruits forever. In mere minutes, Granger had dragged up everything that was wrong with his life, the same way she'd always done: his social isolation, his lack of actual friends, the Ministry's monitoring, his wife Astoria. From their first year at Hogwarts, she had flaunted in his face everything that was wrong. And on this day, she had done it again.
He couldn't hurt her because indeed he would be locked away in Azkaban if he attacked a Muggle-born.
But he wanted to punish her so badly that he almost felt he had no choice but match his painful existence against pain put on her.
Without a second thought, he moved sinuously like a snake with the strength of a predator cat and pushed her further backwards against a bookshelf, trying to smash her spine against the wood. With bared teeth he attacked her lips; only to stop cold when she angled for his and sucked frantically on first his lower, then his upper lip, which she captured between hers, and licked and pressed and nipped fiercely before his teeth could find a hold.
His breath caught. Granger's ministrations on his lips shot an impulse right to his groin that he had never felt before. Astoria was more the "lay-back-and-let-my-husband-do-what-he-must" kind of woman. An impulse of arousal from a partner's action was new. He felt something stirring.
He changed tactic in mid-movement, grateful for being a flexible Slytherin, and pressed his lips back against hers. Perhaps if he pushed hard enough he could still burst these ripe red fruits. He could almost taste the sweet juice already.
But they moved too quickly. Her head wouldn't stay still long enough to put enough pressure on. Whenever he tried to capture one lip between his, she pulled it out and retaliated by taking his between hers. When he used his tongue to still her lip for better capture, she moaned and held her tongue against his, which in turn shot another impulse to his groin. When he used his teeth to capture her plump muscles, she whimpered and took his lip delicately between her teeth and nipped. A delicate sensation that, to his surprise, made him tremble and breathe heavily in excitement. And, feeling frustrated, he nonetheless found himself playing the same game in no time, nipping, sucking, licking, pressing his lips and tongue against her, trying to get the upper hand, moaning for a release of the ever escalating energy building up inside.
A small part of his brain processed the fact that he was snogging Hermione Granger and that he shouldn't be doing this, but since he was, how he could use the fact that he was doing it.
But a bigger part of his brain had forgotten why he shouldn't be doing the snogging and gave into her sweet smell and velvet tongue and lips and resolved into the delightful sensations that made all conscious thought stop and focus solely on the heat and actions coming from her body and how it shot to his prick and excited movement.
The niggling small part of his brain cautioned him that he should stop before Granger hexed him to the next room. But the male part of his brain was gearing up to carry this to the end. The way things were going, this frantic energetic build-up had to resolve in an explosion; an explosion of a very specific kind. He felt his lips pull into a smirk and his hands move down to her plump bottom.
Three impulses invaded Hermione's brain at the same time when she felt his lips on hers. The first was to pull back and knee him in the groin, the second was complete, paralysing astonishment and the third was the realization that she was pushed hard against a bookshelf and kissed out of her senses quite thoroughly. And that she liked it quite a bit.
Sure, at first it hadn't felt like a kiss at all, but with her corrections the windows in the study would soon fog up. Who would have thought that Malfoy was such an enthusiastic kisser?
Snogging heatedly, the thought crossed her mind that she had never been kissed like this and that she couldn't get this from her husband. This made her anger swell up again like a tidal wave.
Angry at Ron and at herself for missed chances, her kisses turned fierce and ruthless and she began to insert bites into the kisses she received, the same way Malfoy did. She liked it. They sucked and knocked their teeth against each other, enjoying and punishing their indiscretion and each other at the same time.
While her lips moved frantically with his, her brain took door number three and overrode the impulse to flee and hex him. Instead, she raised her arms to sling around his neck for leverage and to thread her hands in his hair.
He pushed his body closer against hers to inhibit her movements, pushing his groin against her centre, and took her lips between his teeth. She gasped at the delicious sensation and was flooded with an exciting smell.
His smell was sharp and spicy and contrasted nicely to Ron's earthy smell. It was familiar. He had always smelled like it and she was used to it, but it always reminded her of a basement cellar and rotting food. She'd tolerated it because it was Ron. But this new one was delicious and she wanted more of it.
And perhaps, in a very tiny part of her brain, she was trying to pay her husband back for not keeping her from this restless state. This state that drove her insane.
Thoroughly turned on by this unexpected arousing treat, Hermione felt her hips moving, seeking friction aimlessly, when they found purchase in the front of his trousers. Recognising an erection for what it was, there was a powerful surge through her, knowing that she could get Malfoy to want her, something her husband was very reluctant about. She pushed her hips forward again, hitting the spot exactly and heard him whimper. Sweat broke out on her forehead at the sound.
After a few more attentions to his arousal and subsequent moans, she was pleased to hear him growl madly, "Fuck, Granger, I have to impale you."
She sniggered breathlessly, ready to admit that his suggestion was the only suitable solution to her pent-up dilemma. "Impale away, Malfoy."
At his renewed growl and lifting under her bottom, she participated by slinging her legs around his waist and lifting her arms back to hold onto the shelf behind her. Her dress parted in the middle and fell away and left the access to her body open.
He did a swift job with her underpants, she suspected a non-verbal Evanesco, and with his own clothes, and then he was in. And Hermione had to bite her lip not to squeal in delight. She closed her eyes and let her head sink back on the shelf with a guttural moan.
She couldn't, however, suppress a broad grin at the glorious feeling of being so filled. So good. She felt her inner walls flutter in bliss.
After a while she wondered why nothing else happened and opened her eyes again to see what Malfoy was doing; only to find him staring at her and trembling from head to toe.
Alarmed, she started to say, "Malfoy, what…" but was interrupted when he grimaced and closed his eyes.
She didn't have time to work out his actions because Malfoy ground out, "Shut up, Granger, just… shut up." To underline his words, he shut her mouth with his and, shoving her backward against the shelf, he started moving.
While Hermione had thought the feeling of him in her was good, she soon learned that his moving in her was better.
Aroused from their heated snogging, the friction of his movements had her writhing in no time. This was what she dreamt about, in her fantasies. Hearing him groan with every shove because he was in her, was a sign that it felt good and catapulted her higher; and feeling him rub over her most sensitive zones, she soon had to voice her delight.
"Oh, Merlin, Malfoy, don't stop, please don't stop."
She heard his whimpered reply and enjoyed the feeling coiling in her belly; the unruly energy in her winding up and focusing on a specific point now. When it sprung, all this diffuse energy bogging her down would release her and she would be free again.
And so, she bit him again, right on his chin, and then licked soothingly over it, and he pushed hard and angled to bite her earlobe.
She felt it blooming in her. Doused in heat, which seemed to stem from somewhere where their bodies touched, it unfolded like a flower in sunshine, stretching out to the all-consuming heat. Even though he appeared to try to harm her by hammering into her with utmost force – which she enjoyed tremendously- and she wondered how to bite him painfully, she felt her muscles tense.
This was the same feeling she had when dreaming about her Brad Pitt fantasy in the disco. But it couldn't be, she couldn't seriously be … she never had …
Before she finished the thought, Malfoy had put his hand there, exactly there, and while hammering away, he pinched her clit two, three times and she exploded in thousand pieces with an incredulous scream, scattering her pent-up frustration into space.
"Oh my god, oh my god, Malfoy, MALFOY!"
Trying to keep a hold on her sanity, she quickly ran through the facts that this was the first time she had ever exploded while having a prick in her. Ron got her up by using hands and tongue, always as a foreplay and while she enjoyed having the prick in as soon as she orgasmed, Ron had never made her come once he was in her. Every time they'd tried, she ended up not coming at all.
And this, this was IT! It was so strong that she literally clamped down on him. She could hear by his sounds that he was coming close as well, and she felt the friction over her clamping muscles and it added a second climax on top. She clung to the bookshelf behind her with her hands and felt Malfoy squirting hot liquid into her centre while grunting: "Ah, ah, ah, Granger, GRANGER!"
Tightening her legs around his waist for dear life, pulling him deeper into her because it felt so bloody darn good, she felt her inner muscles pull on him for good measure.
This was what she had wanted after her frustrating work days. Was that too much to ask of her bloody husband, just to help her with a bit of relief?
Soothing warmth submerging her, she felt Malfoy's tension subside and his body slump against hers. She rested her head on the shelf behind her and blinked for focus.
She wasn't worried about becoming pregnant. She took precautions because she didn't want any more kids, with Ron or anybody.
But there was something niggling into her conscience through the haze of bliss and peace: the thought of her husband. Who was not the one breathing against her neck nor the one whose spunk was dripping out of her.
"Oh God, oh God, what have I done, what have we done?" she squealed when it hit her.
"Don't go all guilty on me, Granger," came a muffled reply from her neck. "'Impale away' was the instruction if I remember correctly. And I do."
Upset by her guilt and newly angered by his nonchalant reply, Hermione screeched, "Malfoy, let me down this instant!"
To his credit, he did - immediately and without any further snide comments. He even scourgified her, eliminating the liquid that was just starting to run down her legs, before he did himself.
Sorting her clothes, she hissed at him, "It goes without saying that this can't get out."
Malfoy replied snarky, stowing his equipment away in his pants. "Your admonition is completely unnecessary. Do you think I want to be shunned even more because I shagged you? Not to mention enduring your revenge should you think I had anything to do with it getting out."
Hermione huffed, whether in further upset or relief over the agreement, she wasn't quite sure. "Good. I shall be going then. Thank you for your… hospitality."
The blond man she had just shared bodily fluids with replied with a perfunctory nod and a frown. "Thank you for coming. Your visit was certainly… entertaining."
She ignored the jibe and stepped out with a responding nod, closing the door behind her. She didn't hear when he hummed a malicious "Happy Valentine's Day, Granger" after her.
Within five minutes she had found her husband and convinced him that she had done her duty with her presence at the party and was returning home. Ron looked somewhat disappointed, but acquiesced with a nod.
At home, Hermione took a shower, ridding herself of all bodily fluids and smells that came from her sexcapade. Because that was all it was.
Lying in her bed afterwards, she thought she would have to talk to Ron soon. This couldn't continue.
She had given in to her desire and let herself be shagged by Malfoy, of all people. Ron was going to kill her.
On second thought, Hermione wasn't sure if he was going to kill her because she'd cheated, or more for the reason that she'd cheated with Malfoy.
Ron hated Draco Malfoy with a passion. He had never forgiven him for his role in the war as a perfect excuse for his jealousy of the other man's riches. Hermione was smart enough to recognize her husband's anger as badly disguised envy over the fact that Malfoy could buy everything he wanted. Ron and she were comfortable with their double income, but they would never aspire to Malfoy's level of money. She personally didn't need that kind of wealth, but Ron was still smarting from the fact that Malfoy had been able to taunt him.
She was quite aware that her cheating was a symptom of an already diseased marriage. But she wouldn't be a Gryffindor and Hermione Granger, now Weasley, if she wasn't going to try and salvage it. Her friends and his family would never forgive her if she just up and went without a fight. Harry, she wouldn't be able to look Harry in the eyes ever again, if she simply abandoned his best mate because she hadn't been satisfied.
But it was dreadful. She was so tired of working herself to the bone because other people expected it of her.
Talking about disease, she felt quite fevered. She wasn't possibly coming down with anything, was she? Hot flashes, shivering, tingling all over her body – while a strong mind could deny anything, Hermione was smart enough to realize that she was re-experiencing the pleasurable shivers of shagging Malfoy. God, despite her anger and her spite, it had been good. She wanted… she needed more of that to keep her balanced. Moreover, she deserved it, in a way.
To her own surprise, she didn't feel very guilty. For Morgana's sake, she was a witch, she had been instrumental in saving the world with Harry, she had brought children forth, and she had been an indulgent faithful wife for almost twenty years, she deserved a reward, for Gryffindor's sake, didn't she? It had felt entirely liberating to give in to the urge to cross the threshold from aggravation to intimation. It was the same thrill she'd had when going with Harry on one of his "strolls" at night in the castle.
Enjoying the satisfied tingling of her body, she thought, even if never again with Malfoy - that had been an accident never to be repeated - she had to do something to save her marriage before somebody came to harm. She couldn't go around shagging men like Malfoy to seek satisfaction.
Tomorrow, she would talk to Ron.
When Ron came back, two hours later, she pretended to be in a deep sleep.
Draco Malfoy gave into his thoughts that night in bed as well. Utterly relaxed over his mind-blowing climax into Hermione Granger, he'd been especially nice to his wife for the rest of the night. With the gates of desire opened, he had tried to put a move on his own wife, to expand a little on this mind-blowing feeling of utter explosion and subsequent satisfaction.
Nevertheless, he had not really been disappointed when Astoria had claimed a headache and retreated to a separate bedroom after the long party had finally come to an end.
Business as usual. Astoria was never up for intimacy. Not that he was seeking real intimacy with his wife of 15 years. However, a little romp in the sheets occasionally would have been nice when the fancy struck. They were married after all.
Draco tried not to feel bitter over the utter uselessness of his marriage. And then he had to go and celebrate in public its reason, something as redundant as a perfunctory union to continue a "pureblood" Malfoy line. It wasn't that he didn't love his son, he did, but he would have preferred if Scorpius grew up in a more loving environment. It was difficult to hide the fact that Draco could barely stand Astoria's prattling. His son was simply too smart.
Oh, his life was comfortable; Granger had been entirely right - but it lacked anything worth living for.
Draco was quite certain that the entire rebuilding of the wizarding world had been paid out of his pocket, with his friends disappearing on the continent and taking their money with them –he was sure that the Swiss banks had experienced a bank spring. So, between the ministry's monitoring and annual punishment payments and watching other people from his generation picking up the pieces of a war they never wanted, Draco felt he had all right to feel thoroughly disgruntled.
There should have been at least some family ties, some safe haven at home, but his parents had scarpered and Astoria was about as warm as Fortescue's newest creation, which made coming home about as welcoming as the Dark Lord's meetings in the Manor.
Fortunately, Astoria had been extremely fertile and conceived on the wedding night, so, they had stopped pretending to enjoy sleeping with each other a long time ago. Well, he had two healthy hands. Somehow, a mistress wasn't that easy to come by with his reputation in shreds.
On the other hand, he would rather stay at the Manor despite its bad memories than bugger off as his parents had done. He liked Scorpius going to Hogwarts, it was a good school and he would rather stay alone in Malfoy Manor and under scrutiny of the Ministry than abide living with his parents.
He had already enough contact with his father through their business dealings.
He wouldn't be able to stand his mother's smothering love and his father constant criticism and Astoria's simpering in their presence for more than a fortnight. Living with them, they would all be dead in a month, succumbing to the urge to strangle each other.
If he didn't have his work and his son, he would have done away with himself a long time ago. However, he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys only went out with a bang. He owed it to his family legacy to keep living until a better cause for the exit came along. Like being Avada'd by a certain Dark Lord.
Well, that opportunity had passed him by. He was still here. And dreaded every single day.
Then Granger waltzed in and pointed everything out precisely. Why couldn't she leave him alone? Why did she have to drag up everything that was wrong with his life in a single, fairly one-sided conversation? Gosh, he hated her guts.
And then she had to turn his world upside down by being the best shag he'd ever had. How perverse was that?
Who would have thought she had such a hot pussy? He knew it was wrong on so many levels, but that was the beauty of it, somehow.
After trying to salvage the Malfoy reputation and legacy for the past twenty years, it had felt good to do something that was so totally unexpected and out of line with his usual conduct – like shagging a Muggle-born. It was liberating.
Reliving the titillating sensations of her smell, her sounds, and just the feeling of her around him, he shuddered when his prick twitched expectantly.
He was sure that Granger would have some marks on her back from his thrusts.
He couldn't help a cruel little smile. Even though she was a great shag, that didn't mean he had suddenly overcome his dislike of her. She was still the insufferable know-it-all. Severus had had her number, all right.
But he had to admit that she was a witch and a healing charm was surely second nature to her. An excellent witch, actually. Energetic. Loud in her enjoyment.
Who would have thought that of all the witches he knew, Granger would be willing to be shagged wildly against a bookshelf? He had never had a chance to see that side of her; had never expected he would. A little smile stole its way onto his face. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to get a semblance of equilibrium, to no avail.
Hot. Merlin, it was hot in there. He pulled his bed sheet aside and felt the cool night air on his sweaty skin.
Merlin, when he had entered her he had thought he would pass out over the blissful sensation. Only Granger's nagging voice had brought him back from the brink of immediate explosion. How could this woman fit so perfectly?
Hot. It had been hot. Steamy and passionate.
With Granger. Who belonged to the Weasel.
While mulling over the fact that sex with Granger was more than enjoyable, Draco Malfoy had to admit – not too loud - that with all his riches he had been beaten by Ronald Weasley in the woman department. Figure that.
He couldn't let that sit. He wouldn't be a Malfoy if he accepted defeat like that. Something had to be done.
A plan of humiliating Granger, and the Weasel as well, formed in his mind. When the time was right, he would let drop what they had done in his study. He only had to see how to get the most profit out of the situation; perhaps by getting rid of his wife as well.
Perhaps he should repeat the deed, so she couldn't wave it off as an accident or coercion. Twice she couldn't deny.
Yes, that sounded like a plan. He would find a way to get her again and then let the Weasel know that his wife was shagging him, Malfoy, rather than her own husband. Let her try getting out of that one. He only wished he could do it in front of the Weasel.
Now, how to entice her into letting him in her pants again? She couldn't be coerced, she wouldn't enjoy that and that was no fun. Boring sex he already had at home.
Well, until he could think of something, Granger's secret was safe with him. But beware when the right occasion came along.
A/N: Many thanks to Rumaan for Brit-Picking and sensemaking and Mccargi for beating this story and for more sensemaking. I appreciate the extra time
you invested in shaping and polishing this work. Your work makes a huge difference. I cannot thank you enough.