Author's Note and Warning: This story is virtually all smut. Please click "back" if you find filthy stories disturbing, or if you're under 18. Otherwise, read on with the fair warning that the story is plot-light and smut-heavy. Moreover, the story contains pointless swearing and alcohol consumption. Enjoy!
Ron cried. His whole body shook; he huddled on the edge of their corduroy sofa. He lifted one arm and wiped his dripping nose with the arm of his Chudley Cannons jumper. Hermione stood in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for whatever whatever he wanted to admit. The news had to be important - and unpleasant - as he'd told her to leave work early.
"What is it?" Hermione demanded after a five-minute silence, punctuated only by Ron's sobs.
Ron sniffled. "I'm so sorry, 'Mione."
She'd always hated that nickname; it was too cutesy, too childish. Only Ron used it, and only when he'd been drinking or when he bollocksed up. But Ron had never been this upset, and a thread of worry wound through Hermione's abdomen. At first, she thought he'd done something stupid, but ultimately forgivable - quit his job with the Cannons, or forgotten to file his tax returns, or got caught flying his broomstick while drunk.
Now, she suspected it was far worse.
"I'm just so sorry, I didn't mean for it to get this bad..."
"Just tell me!" she snapped.
"Well... I... I got drunk after that big game in Belfast last month... "
Hermione rolled her eyes and stopped pacing for a moment. "You get drunk after every game, Ron."
"Yeah, but I got really drunk at that one. I had really, really bad judgment."
"Because you were angry that Harry and I were at that Muggle conference together," Hermione muttered. "I remember. You know that Harry and I are like brother and sister. Your jealousy's gotten ridiculous lately. But I told you I forgave you and I meant it."
"I know, I know, but... me getting angry wasn't everything." His voice was a trembled whisper now. "I fucked up so badly."
She stared him down in silence, and he shot her a pleading look.
"Lavender just happened to be there, 'Mione. Her brother plays for Belfast..."
Hermione's stomach flipped. She had a nauseating suspicion where this conversation was headed. Her eyes fluttered closed as Ron finished the sentence.
"We slept together." His voice seemed to echo with its finality; after a pause, he began to babble. "I was so stupid, Hermione. I felt jealous of you and Harry, I was lonely, and I was drunk, and I'd just lost the game, and me and Lavender were at Temple Bar reminiscing about old times at school..."
Hermione's head pounded, and she could barely think. Ron and Lavender. Again. It was a horrible redux of sixth year; long-suppressed feelings of uncertainty and ugliness came roaring back to life.
But, given Ron's impulsivity after the war, and how tough he'd taken his brother's death, she at least could fractionally understand. Perhaps, with time, they could get over this. They could do couples counseling - after all, they were engaged, and their wedding was already scheduled for December, and they were in love...
"Hermione, she's pregnant."
It took her mind a moment to process what he'd just said. Hermione felt like she'd been kicked in the gut. It was over. In that one, crashing moment, all of her dreams of red-headed children, a house in London, and growing old with Ron - it was all crushed.
He looked up at her with watery eyes. "Hermione, are you all right? You're just staring at me."
"Ron," she whispered. "Get out."
Draco Malfoy stared down at the parchment from his so-called fiancee.
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
It is with regret that I cease further nuptial negotiations with your family. I have returned all jewellery you have given me as gifts in the past six months; you shall find all pieces and a written inventory in your Gringott's account.
Miss Astoria C. L. Greengrass
She hadn't even the fortitude to give him a reason. Through his sources, he learned that Astoria had been secretly negotiating with Zabini's family for the past month. It seemed that Zabini's name didn't carry the taint that Malfoy did. After all, Draco's father had just been sent to Azkaban, and Draco's mother was from a family of known psychotics. And in this new world of Muggle acceptance, Astoria thought that the Malfoy family had left their golden years behind.
It was galling.
Draco wondered if Astoria knew that Blaise was a poofter; though being a poofter certainly wasn't a dealbreaker for pureblood marriage negotiations. Hell, Draco had often wondered if his Aunt Bellatrix swung toward women; she hadn't liked Uncle Rodolphus much, and seemed to have a sick interest in Granger.
A soft voice interrupted his ruminations. "Hey, mate."
He looked up to see Percy Weasley standing in the doorway to his cubicle. Weasley was a sycophant, and not a very good one, but Draco had built up an odd and unexpected - well, friendship, he supposed - with Percy. Both worked in the Magical Policy Division, Percy as a first-class adviser, Malfoy as an intern.
Not that Malfoy particularly wanted to be a lackey for the Ministry, but he'd been "strongly encouraged" to do so in order to have all charges dropped against him. And while he hated work, he secretly admitted Percy had been undeservedly tolerable to him.
"You all right, Malfoy?" Percy asked.
Malfoy knew he must look like shite, if Percy had noticed.
"You don't look fine." Percy glanced down at the parchment. "It's not as if I'm a gossip, if you want to sound off a bit."
Malfoy sighed. "Astoria Greengrass just dumped me for Zabini."
Percy gawked at him. "But I thought Zabini liked men."
"Oh, he does. But he's rich, and apparently his family's reputation is on the upswing, unlike mine. So I suppose that outweighs the fact that he'll find Astoria as sexually interesting as a doorknob." Malfoy pursed his lips. "At this rate, I'll only be able to contract marriage with one of the heftier Bulstrode girls."
He quickly stuffed the letter in his pocket and began to clear away his workspace. Percy watched him for a moment, as if toying with an idea.
"There's a ministry event tonight. All the managers have been invited - it's a commemorative event for the Knight Bus disaster last year."
"That's nice." Malfoy frowned, making it clear that he didn't find it nice at all.
"Watch your tone, Malfoy. I'm about to send you in my place, if you want to go. I know Goyle might be there, and there's an open bar." He paused. "I'm supposed to sit at Shacklebolt's table."
Draco caught the subtext - that he could probably talk up the Minister and make a good impression, and at worst, he could get totally blitzed with his friend on the Ministry dime.
"Why don't you want to go, Weasley?"
"To be honest, I don't care about the death of seven purebloods who were drunk on a bus and died because they set off fireworks inside." He frowned in disapproval. "Besides, I'm supposed to see a show with Audrey. It might be useful for you, Malfoy, to be on your best behaviour..."
"Fine. All right." Draco sighed, cutting off Percy's inevitable lecture. "And, yes, Weasley, I promise to behave myself. No comments about blood purity or my role in the war. I'll just compliment you and the Minister all night."
Percy seemed satisfied at that, nodded, and headed out the door. "Seven o' clock, at the main floor reception hall."
Malfoy wasn't seated with Kingsley Shacklebolt. It seemed the Minister hadn't wanted to attend the event, either. He'd sent Hermione Granger, Manager of Magical Creatures Division, in his stead.
And Draco knew something was off, because Granger barely looked his way when he arrived and seated himself next to her. She hadn't even mustered up a comment about ferrets.
Watching her for a moment, it became eminently clear who had distracted Granger - she kept shooting frosty glares over at Lavender Brown's table. He idly wondered why Brown was here - she was a hairdresser, not a Ministry employee - then recalled that Brown's uncle had been one of the inbred halfwits who'd offed themselves on the Knight Bus.
Malfoy had not been sorted into Slytherin for nothing, and he noticed several small details about the two young women that most would have missed.
Brown looked terrified of Granger. As the salad course arrived, Brown removed a phial of blue potion - from the colour, either nausea suppressant or foot-growth potion, and he figured the first was the more likely option - and downed it, then glanced guiltily back at Granger. Most interestingly, Brown drank only herbal tea, despite her reputation as a borderline alcoholic.
Granger, on the other hand, was knocking back white wine like water. She'd drained one generous glass, and had gestured to a house-elf to bring another. And, as she brought the glass to her lips, Malfoy noticed something else - Granger's engagement ring, a tacky concoction of pink opals and gold that had been splashed across every magazine when she'd gotten engaged, was conspicuously absent from her hand.
His suspicions were almost unbelievably juicy. Surely the Weasel wouldn't be that stupid? Surely he wouldn't knock up some low-class, mediocre-looking hairdresser when he had Wizarding Britain's Sweetheart as his fiancee?
But as he watched Granger grow a bit more tipsy, watched as her self-control lowered and unbridled rage was reflected in her stare, he knew he was onto something. Something he might use to his advantage.
Her head snapped toward him. "What, Malfoy?"
He nearly flinched at the anger in her voice. He'd never heard Granger so hateful, not even when she was calling him an brain-dead ferret back at school.
"If you keep staring at Brown like that," he whispered so only they could hear, "everyone will know about your little issue by the end of the night. Or, at least, will be suspicious."
There, that was vague enough to confirm his suspicions without committing to any firm knowledge. Granger's horrified expression told him everything he needed to know.
"How do you know? She only found out four days ago, and only told Ron!" Hermione gaped. "Does everyone..."
"Obviously not. If they did you'd be getting pitying glances and Brown would have to hole herself up somewhere to avoid the pro-Granger hordes." He paused. "I'm simply observant."
"So what, are you going to blackmail me now?" she snapped.
He'd considered it. Granger was smart enough to recognize the risk of blackmail. But manipulation came more naturally for him, and he was already two steps ahead.
"What would be the benefit in me blackmailing you with Brown's indelicate behaviour?" he asked. "Soon enough, this will all come out. And when it does, you'll be the victim. You'll be the pretty, young war hero, wronged by some sluttish nobody and Weasley's wandering eye. He can't very well lie about his cheating ways, since he was still talking about your impending nuptials as recently as Monday. No, Granger, it's much better for me to stay on your good side."
"At least your priorities are still in order," she muttered. "The universe hasn't gone totally haywire as long as the Malfoys are trying to come out on top."
She stared down at her plate and poked at some overcooked string beans. Her eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. And Draco realized that Granger was just as bored at this thing as he was. She watched him without comment as he knocked back a shot of whiskey in one go, then ordered a double.
"Are you even a Ministry employee, Malfoy?" she asked after a moment.
"I am. I'm Percy Weasley's intern, and have been for the past year," he muttered, "I thought everyone knew about that shithole my probation officer stuck me in. Wasn't it enough to put magical restrictions on my wand?"
She laughed at that, loudly enough that their table-mates looked her way with open curiosity.
"Magical Policy with Perce." She lifted her glass to her lips. "I never thought I'd meet someone with a job that's more shite than mine, but congrats, Malfoy, you win. I suppose it had to happen once in your life."
"It's not that bad," he muttered, "at least, Percy's not that bad. A bit of an idiot, but... the work itself is horrible." He lifted his glass. "At least we get some alcohol on the Ministry's purse."
In an odd moment of cameraderie, she lifted her own glass and gave him a small nod. Draco downed his double shot of whiskey, and Hermione drained her glass. A house elf brought two more; Draco and Hermione stared at one another for a moment before silently competing by draining them again. The house elf filled the glasses again, and Draco's head started to become fuzzy as he drained yet another glass, and his boredom began to slip away...
...Hermione glanced up at the clock.
"My God, Malfoy," she said, over-enunciating her words, "It's nine fifty! Nearly everyone's gone."
Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever, Granger. I was just trying to drink the maximum possible free booze, but now they've closed the bar."
"Well, I suppose that's it, then, I'd better go home." She stood up unsteadily. "You know, thanks for being nice to me tonight. Your conversation's not half-bad when you lay off the mudblood stuff."
"I'll take that as a compliment, Granger." He paused, wondering if Sober Malfoy would regret what he was about to do. "You want to go up to my office? I bet you've never been in the policy division. And Weasley keeps a bottle of scotch in his desk that we can nip into."
"That's theft, Malfoy!"
"Borrowing," he said matter-of-factly. "I need it. Weasley'll understand."
She shot him a disbelieving look.
"Really," he said. "Weasley knows what shite I've been through lately."
"Really? I suppose... all right then."
Which was how the two of them ended up sitting in Percy Weasley's office, sharing a cone-shaped paper water cup filled to the brim with Glenfiddich. Hermione sat on the edge of the desk, swinging her legs back and forth; Malfoy sat in the desk chair directly in front of her. She wasn't afraid of him, that was obvious; and she actually seemed rather relaxed. Malfoy wondered, raking his eyes across her small waist and long legs, when she'd become so pretty.
"So why'd you need to get drunk?" she asked. "You said you needed this."
And suddenly, that relaxed moment vanished. Malfoy scowled into the cup, and when he looked up, he caught a flash of apologetic embarrassment flicker in her brown eyes. Granger always was pretty tactless, he remembered. He briefly considered lying to spare his pride, then thought better of it. What did he lose to tell the truth? In fact, Granger might even feel a bit of sympathy at his plight.
"My fiancee dumped me for a gay man."
She stared at him a moment, then began to laugh. He tried not to let his embarrassment show, and eventually she quieted.
"You're joking, right?"
He tossed her the letter from Astoria, and after she skimmed it, she dissolved once again into peals of laughter.
"I'm sorry, Malfoy, but anyone who takes one look at Zabini knows he's queerer than a two-headed nail." She handed back the page. "For God's sake, he teaches zumba for a living."
"I know that, Granger. Everyone knows that."
She shrugged. "Maybe she's asexual and she's actually spared you a passionless marriage."
"Somehow, I suspect her passion is fired more by money than anything else." He scowled and banished the letter. "I got dumped by Pansy too. She got knocked up by some stupid rich German who owns a mountain. He had to marry her after that."
She smiled for a moment before realizing the parallels to Lavender Brown and Ron.
"Just like Weasley's dumb bint. All you women are the same," Malfoy continued bitterly. "Money and status. That's all that matters."
"Pureblood women," Hermione said matter-of-factly, "are raised to value those things. Not muggle women. Not to mention, you're generalizing fifty percent of the population."
He rolled his eyes.
"No, really, Malfoy. I've never dated for money or status..."
"That much is obvious. Krum? He couldn't mumble out a word of recognizable English. Weasley? I don't even have to comment, he speaks for himself."
Hermione protested, "Ron's not such a bad guy..."
"Ronald Weasley is a man-child, without a sense of responsibility or conviction." Malfoy paused. "Much as it pains me to admit it, he's your inferior."
"He's a pureblood," Hermione said slowly, intently watching Malfoy's face. "And I, as you've reminded me a thousand times, am not."
"He's your inferior." Malfoy repeated, taking a swig of whiskey, then throwing up one frustrated hand at Hermione's puzzlement. "For fuck's sake, Granger, nobody was quite sure what you saw in him. He's not as intelligent as you. He's not personable. He's not ambitious. He's not on par with you in the looks department, so what is it?"
Her face flamed. Had Malfoy really just complimented her intelligence and looks?
"Oh, stop looking at me like you've seen a three headed troll," he snapped. "The alcohol's doing the talking."
She ignored that, and hesitantly answered his question. "What was it about Ron? He's sweet and easy to understand. I suppose nobody else really ever had much interest, and he really is my friend even if he can be a bit dim and impulsive..."
He snorted. "Weasley had plenty of competition. There were several boys who desperately wanted in your knickers at Hogwarts. Don't give me that look, it's true."
She rolled her eyes. "Name one. And not Goldstein, he wanted in every girl's knickers."
She shot him a mischievous smile. But, as his eyes darkened and his brows drew together, her grin vanished. His expression became hard. She recognized it as the same intensely resolute expression he got before a Quidditch game. Perhaps her ribbing had gone too far; been too familiar for someone she barely knew. Had assumed - wrongly - that he'd changed.
As he moved, she realized she'd misinterpreted his expression as menacing.
He reached out and settled one hand on her hip, gently, lightly, and she recognized that he was giving her the opportunity to flee. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest, but the only reaction she could manage under his hard gaze was to lick her lips. His other hand settled on the other hip. After a pause, he tightened his grip and pulled her toward him. It was an unspoken command for her to slide forward and onto his lap. She hesitated.
"Live a little. Come on, Granger." He paused. "Hermione."
"Only if you promise you're not going to sober up and start shouting 'mudblood' at me."
He chuckled throatily. "If I do, consider it a cover for the fact that I've wanted to shag you for years."
That convinced her, and she threw caution to the wind. It was Malfoy, but it was also a Malfoy who was complimentary, drunk, and bizarrely honest. And pretty fit.
She slid into his lap, facing him in the desk chair. He snaked one arm around her waist to keep her from sliding off; she was precariously perched on top of his thighs. His other hand slid up her spine and to the nape of her neck. He pushed her head closer to his. His eyes fluttered closed, and hers did the same.
His lips met hers. He knew what he was doing, and took control of the kiss; his fingers laced through her hair, gently stroking that sensitive bit of skin beneath her ear. His lips parted, and before she had the time to think it through, his tongue was inside her mouth. He tasted of whiskey and butterscotch candy. She responded in kind, her lips caressing his. As she did, she felt him harden against her thigh.
When his hand slid down from her neck and rested on her breast, she didn't protest. His thumb searched for her nipple, and when he couldn't find it, he muttered, "Fuck, what are you wearing under this blouse?"
"Hmm," she said, feeling incredibly un-virtuous, "there's nothing stopping you from finding out."
The momentary look that flashed across his face was priceless - a mixture of gawping and thankfulness. And then excited fingers were at her buttons, fumbling as he tried to undo them. After a moment, he swore and decided just to yank the two sides apart. Round pearls rained down onto the tile flooring. The silky blouse fell open, revealing her black lace brassiere. His eyes stayed locked on it for a moment. Experimentally, she wriggled a bit on his lap, in turn, rubbing her thigh against his protruding hardness.
"Granger, I hope you're not a tease," he mumbled, "you're as sexy as I imagined you'd be. Better... I'm going to laugh my arse off next time someone calls you a prude, or a bookworm..."
She cut him off with another kiss. His hand pushed up her bra, and she felt his thumb rub the very peak of her nipple. Growing more confident, he pinched it, and she let out a moan. Her hand reached down and rubbed between his legs, and she cupped his sac through his wool trousers.
"Am I getting shagged tonight?"
Her snort turned into a gasp as his mouth latched onto her throat's pulse point. "I... ah... should think that was rather obvious."
With that, he was a flurry of movement. He lifted her off his lap, stood, and shoved her back onto the desk. She let out a startled squeak. His hands shaky with uncoordinated hurry, he reached for his fly and, after some effort, freed himself. His trousers dropped to the ground, and she could see the outline of his cock straining within his briefs.
She knew this would be no slow and romantic coupling. No, this was fucking, alcohol-fuelled and urgent. He grabbed her skirt and pushed it up to her waist. He paused at the sight of her fluorescent pink thong, and ran one finger over the cotton. The feel of his hand through the fabric sent a jolt through her, and she whimpered.
He said nothing, but smirked as he felt the damp spot. With one hand, he yanked the thong down to hang halfway down her legs. His hands clamped around her thighs, pulling her forward so that she lay on the desk, and he stood at the edge, his cock lined up to fuck her while he stood. She felt the straining, thick head butting between her legs.
"I've imagined this..." he muttered, and shot her a questioning look.
She answered the unspoken question by wrapping her legs around his arse and nudging him inside. He was in no mood for gentleness, and he responded by grabbing her hips and thrusting up hard. She let out a startled squeak at the intrusion. His cock was larger than she had taken before, and she winced as her walls stretched to accommodate him. When she looked up, his eyes were closed, and his mouth hung slack, enjoying the sensation.
"God, you're tight." He sighed after a moment. "I'm moulding you to me."
He slid out. The friction felt unbearable, and her only thought was that he must, must keep moving.
She had nothing to worry about; he slammed into her with a grunt, pulled out, and slammed back in. He kept up this unyielding force, unyielding pace, all the while pinning her hips to the desk and using them as leverage. She could feel the fire curling between her legs, and let out a desperate mewl. He smirked, clearly pleased with the reaction he was eliciting.
His hand released her hip, and began mauling her left breast. Two fingers rubbed lightly over her hardened nipple. She arched her chest up into his hand, and with more confidence, he pinched it. From her throat ripped a desperate, strangled moan. He grunted and picked up his pace. He pinched her nipple hard, and a thrum of pain arced to her core. It sent her over the edge.
She let out a yowl as she came. Her body tensed, and she flailed violently against him. Her walls clamped tight around his cock, milking it. She had never felt anything as violent, as primal, in her previous sexual encounters, and she lost herself completely in a fit of pleasure.
It sent him over the edge. She heard him grunt loudly, like an animal, and grip her hips tight as he thrust one hard, final time deep within her. She felt his release, warm and wet, deep, flowing inside of her pussy. He collapsed atop her, panting heavily. When he looked up, his silver eyes were heavy-lidded with exhaustion.
For a moment, she worried. Would he now go back to calling her names, like the Malfoy from her childhood? Would he call her a whore, or a mudblood? Would he consider this an awful, terrible mistake?
"Granger," he finally said, and his lips quirked into a small smile. "You're an incredible fuck."
Though his words were crude, there was no vitriol to them; in fact, he sounded almost awed. She relaxed, knowing he would not turn on her.
"Malfoy." She smiled back. "You were pretty fucking incredible yourself."
With a regretful wince, he slipped out, leaving a wet trail across her thigh. He offered her his hand to help her up off the table. Her legs trembled. He noticed, because he glanced at them and smirked once again.
She laughed softly. "I didn't even get your shirt off."
"Well there's always next time," he said, then froze, realizing the implication of what he'd just said. "I mean... never mind."
She picked up her thong and slid it on, then began wriggling down her out-of-place bra and skirt. Malfoy slid his trousers back on, then picked up her blouse. He flipped out his wand, and Hermione wondered what he was doing.
"Accio Hermione's buttons." They flew into his hand, and pointed the wand at the blouse. "Reparo."
The buttons neatly stitched themselves back on, and he handed the blouse to her.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Oddly, she felt more exposed as he watched her dress than she had when they were fucking. There was nothing lascivious about his gaze, but he intently watched her fingers as she buttoned up her blouse.
"Are you okay to get home?" he asked.
She smiled as she slipped on one shoe that had fallen off during the encounter. "I walk home alone every day after work, Malfoy."
"I know, but it's different..." His cheeks pinkened, and he looked at the floor. "Anyhow, it's probably best if you're not seen with me. Especially... well, you look a bit rumpled."
She felt a pang. He didn't want to be seen with her. She moved to the door.
"'Bye Granger..." he called out. "It was... good seeing you again."
She nodded mutely, and walked out, leaving him alone in Percy's office.
Draco flopped into Percy's chair and rubbed his eyes. After a moment staring at the door, he reached for the whiskey bottle, and poured himself another.
Author's Note Again: Hey, this is my first dirty story, so concrit is helpful. Alternatively, just post happy reviews - I like those too! :)