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Hermione Granger stacked the last of her files into a neat, towering pile on her desk, her wand flicking effortlessly to sign the final document hovering in midair. It had been another long day in The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and she felt the familiar ache creeping into her shoulders. With a weary sigh, she tapped her wand, sending the signed files into the enchanted drawer beneath her desk.
Five years of working at the Ministry, and she couldn’t say she’d ever truly loved it. Not that she hadn’t made a difference—Hermione Granger always made a difference—but if she were being honest, her decision to work here had been more about proximity to Ron than passion for the role. Somehow, despite every good intention, that decision had never quite felt solid, like a house built on sand.
Noticing the clock, she muttered to herself, “Late again.” Past five. Typical.
Hermione rose, smoothing her skirt and slipping into her coat. With another flick of her wand, the office lights dimmed, and the door behind her clicked shut and locked as she left. Her heels echoed lightly against the marble floors of the Ministry as she made her way to the Auror Department.
When she stepped inside, the usual sound of chatter greeted her, along with the sight of a young, painfully beautiful receptionist perched at her desk like a statue. The woman’s long, glossy hair and effortless confidence radiated through the room, and Hermione inwardly bristled at the way she seemed to draw attention without even trying.
“Can I help you, Miss Granger?” the receptionist said brightly as Hermione approached, but there was a noticeable edge to her tone. The subtle emphasis on Granger made it sound more like a jab than a greeting.
“I’m just looking for Ron,” Hermione said, straightening her posture. “We were supposed to have dinner before the Ministry’s New Year’s Eve party tonight.”
The receptionist’s lips curled into a smile as she tilted her head. Her manicured nails tapped against the desk as if savoring some delicious secret. “Oh, Ron’s already out to dinner,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet. “He left about an hour ago.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “And with whom, might I ask?”
The receptionist shrugged, her smile widening as she added, “I’m not so sure. He didn’t specify.”
Hermione gave her a tight-lipped smile, swallowing the retort on the tip of her tongue. Without another word, she turned and strode away, her heels clicking harder against the floor than necessary. The weight in her chest was familiar, but that didn’t make it easier to carry.
She knew, of course. She’d known for months. The letters hidden in his desk, the late-night work “emergencies,” the way he always seemed to smell faintly of perfume that wasn’t hers. And she knew exactly who it was—Romilda Vane. The name hung bitterly in her mind like the remnants of a bad dream.
For months, Hermione had tried to ignore it, to convince herself that things could go back to the way they used to be. Maybe if she could just forgive him without saying anything, they could rebuild what had been broken. But she wasn’t that naive anymore. The truth was clear: Ron had changed. Fame had twisted him into someone unrecognizable—a man who craved attention more than loyalty, who basked in the glow of admirers with the arrogance of a wizard who thought he could do no wrong.
The truth gnawed at her like a parasite, making her question everything about the life they’d built—or hadn’t built, as it turned out.
Hermione stepped into the lift, pressing the button for the atrium. As the doors began to slide shut, she heard a familiar voice drawl lazily from the back corner.
“Granger.”
She turned to find Draco Malfoy leaning casually against the lift’s polished wall, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a sleek leather portfolio. He was taller now, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored black robes perfectly. His platinum hair was swept back in a way that looked effortless, but no doubt took careful planning, and the faint stubble along his jawline only added to the dangerous allure he seemed to wear like a second skin. Draco Malfoy had aged like fine wine, and the entirety of London’s witches seemed intent on sampling him.
“Malfoy,” Hermione replied coolly, turning her back to him and facing the doors as the lift began its slow ascent. She ignored the faint thrill that ran up her spine at the sound of his voice.
Draco tsked lightly, “Always so formal,” Draco drawled, his voice low and smooth. “A Friday night in the Ministry? How very on-brand for you.”
She didn’t turn around, though she kept her tone clipped when she spoke. “It’s called work, Malfoy. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
Draco chuckled softly, the sound was maddeningly rich, like dark chocolate. “Always quick with the barbs. It is endearing, really.”
Hermione didn’t respond, though her cheeks warmed. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d managed to provoke her.
“Speaking of,” he continued, his tone turning sharper, “How are things with the Weasel?”
Hermione’s breath hitched, but she schooled her expression. “That’s none of your business.”
“True,” he conceded. “But if it were… I might suggest you deserve someone who appreciates what they have. Someone who would not… stray.”
Her heart pounded. “What are you implying?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
Draco’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but there was no malice in his expression—only something darker. “I’m not implying anything, Granger. Just making an observation.”
The lift jolted slightly as it ascended, and she felt him shift behind her. He stepped closer, the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and expensive—wrapping around her. She refused to turn, even as her pulse quickened, her skin hyper aware of his proximity. She refused to turn, though her heart raced as she felt the warmth of his breath, faint against her ear.
“You deserve better, you know,” he murmured, his voice dropping low enough to send a shiver down her spine. “But don’t let me tell you how to live your life.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. What is he playing at? She wanted to snap at him, to remind him that he had no right to comment on her life, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she stiffened, her knuckles whitening around her bag handle.
She opened her mouth to retort, but the lift jolted to a stop, cutting her off. The doors slid open, and Hermione turned quickly, stepping out with more force than necessary.
“See you tonight, Granger,” Draco murmured from behind her, his voice soft but cutting straight to her core. She didn’t look back, but her thoughts swirled, her chest tight as his words lingered in her mind.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she made her way across the atrium, her thoughts spinning faster than she cared to admit. Draco Malfoy. Of all people to notice, to care—or pretend to care—about her relationship with Ron. Was he mocking her? Or was there something else behind those silver eyes, that infuriating smirk?
“What has gotten into me?” she muttered under her breath as she reached the Floo Network station. Without hesitating, she stepped into the green flames and called out her destination: “The Granger-Weasley flat.”
The familiar warmth of the Floo engulfed her, and in moments, she was stepping into the cozy but cluttered living room she shared with Ron. The space smelled faintly of cinnamon and dust, and Hermione felt an uncomfortable knot form in her stomach. This was supposed to be home. But lately, it felt more like a place where she was simply waiting—for what, she didn’t know.
She crossed to the bathroom and turned the shower on, letting the steam billow around her as she stripped off her clothes. The hot water cascaded over her, and she closed her eyes, willing it to wash away not just the tension in her body but the thoughts swirling in her head. Ron. The receptionist. Draco Malfoy’s implications. The hollow ache of knowing, deep down, that her life had unraveled into something she couldn’t control.
When she stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel, Hermione felt a renewed sense of determination. If Ron could find attention elsewhere, maybe—just maybe—it was because she hadn’t been enough for him. The thought stung, but it spurred her on. She would remind him why they were Ron and Hermione. She would make herself more desirable.
She sat down at her vanity, towel-drying her hair with quick, efficient movements. Her wild curls frizzed slightly in the bathroom’s humidity, but she reached for her wand and cast a smoothing charm, taming them into submission. She pulled the glossy strands back into a neat bun at the base of her nape, her fingers working tirelessly. Ron had always hated her hair—complaining that it got in their faces when they slept, even making an offhand comment once about hoping their future children wouldn’t inherit it. The memory tightened her throat, but she ignored it. Tonight, everything had to be perfect.
Hermione reached for the makeup bag she rarely used, applying a light touch of eyeliner and mascara to frame her eyes, followed by a soft, natural shade of lipstick. She examined her reflection critically, tilting her head. Her face was understated but elegant—polished in a way she hoped Ron would notice.
From her jewelry box, she retrieved a small, gold, heart-shaped necklace. It had been his first gift to her, given on the birthday they’d celebrated together during the early, hopeful days of their relationship. She fastened it around her neck, the cool metal resting lightly against her skin. A flicker of warmth sparked in her chest, a reminder of why she had stayed.
She didn’t know when they’d gotten here—when their relationship had started feeling like something fragile, balancing on the edge of shattering. But she loved him. Didn’t she? And tonight, she would try to fix this.
Hermione stood in front of her wardrobe, pushing aside her usual work robes and casual jumpers. She didn’t have much that would fit what she had in mind—something striking, something bold. She reached for a black, floor-length gown she’d worn to last year’s Christmas party. Holding it up to the mirror, she frowned. It was beautiful, but not enough.
With a wave of her wand, she charmed the dress shorter, transforming it into a daring cocktail length. The neckline plunged low, far more revealing than she was used to, but it balanced the deep open back, which was held together by long straps that tied elegantly at the nape of her neck and draped down the back of the dress. Another flick of her wand, and the fabric shimmered with enchanted silver flecks that sparkled like starlight.
She slipped into strappy black stilettos and took a step back, surveying her reflection. For the first time in a long while, she felt beautiful. The person staring back at her looked confident, even if the ache in her chest still lingered.
A soft whoosh from the living room startled her, and she turned toward the sound of the Floo. Hermione made her way to the living room, where Ron was stepping through the green flames. His face was flushed, his red hair slightly windswept, and the smell of something faintly floral clung to him.
Ron barely glanced at her as he dusted off his robes. “I don’t really want to get into it tonight,” he said, his tone tired and dismissive.
Hermione crossed her arms. “Where were you, Ronald?”
Ron froze for half a second before straightening, his face carefully neutral. “Dinner.”
“And with whom?”
“It was work-related,” he said quickly, avoiding her eyes.
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, her heart sinking further. As he looked up, his gaze landed on her dress, and his expression shifted—confusion giving way to something like disgust.
“What in Merlin’s name are you wearing?” he asked, his tone sharp. “Isn’t that a bit… slutty for a Ministry event?”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she brushed one hand over the fabric, refusing to let him see how his words had cut her. “I think I look nice,” she said evenly, her voice steady despite the sting.
Ron didn’t respond. He had already walked past her, heading toward their bedroom. Over his shoulder, he grumbled, “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her arms still crossed. She turned slowly, her reflection in the hallway mirror catching her eye. The confident woman she’d seen moments ago had vanished, leaving someone much smaller in her place.
This isn’t working, she thought, her chest tightening. But she swallowed the words and began counting down the minutes until they had to leave.
Hermione gathered her things methodically, slipping on her coat and charming her clutch to match her dress. The stillness of the flat pressed down on her, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. She was fastening the last button when Ron finally emerged from the bedroom, his expression carefully blank.
He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, as he strode to the fireplace. The silence between them was deafening, the weight of unspoken words and lingering resentment filling the space.
Without hesitation, Ron grabbed a handful of Floo powder, tossed it into the flames, and vanished into the green swirl of magic, leaving her behind without so much as a glance.
Hermione stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty hearth. Her chest tightened, the hollowness inside her spreading further. Taking a steadying breath, she picked up her own Floo powder.
When she stepped into the fire, the bitter thought echoed in her mind: It had never felt lonelier to be alone.
Grimmauld Place was alive with laughter and chatter as Hermione stepped through the Floo into Harry and Ginny’s cozy home. The usual Gryffindor crowd was there—Neville and Hannah chatting near the fireplace, Seamus pouring drinks at the bar with Dean, and Parvati perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair, animatedly talking to Lavender. It was the same close-knit group Hermione and Ron had spent so many evenings with, though tonight, Hermione felt more like a visitor than a part of it.
“Hermione! Ron!” Ginny called out, hurrying over with Harry in tow. She pulled Hermione into a warm hug before turning to her brother. “Happy New Year’s Eve!”
“Happy New Year’s,” Hermione replied with a smile, handing Ginny a bottle of elf-made wine.
Ginny grinned. “You’re a lifesaver. Harry’s been insisting we didn’t need more, but he clearly doesn’t know this lot.” She gestured toward the boisterous crowd.
Harry clapped Ron on the back as Ginny took their coats. “Help yourself—Dean’s just over there making drinks,” Ginny said, nodding toward the bar.
“I’ll get us some,” Ron said quickly, heading toward Dean before Hermione could respond.
As he walked off, Ginny slipped an arm around Hermione’s and tugged her toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon and nutmeg. Ginny leaned against the counter, folding her arms with a knowing smile. “So,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “when’s Ron going to propose?”
Hermione choked. She forced a small laugh, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh, I’m not sure Ginny. I don’t know if now is the right time.”
Ginny arched a brow. “Oh, come on, Hermione! It’s been, what—six years now? And you’ve been living together for nearly three! He’s got to be planning something. Even Mum’s started pestering me about it. Honestly, maybe I should just go and have a word with him myself.”
Hermione fiddled with the edge of the counter. How could she possibly tell Ginny what was really on her mind? That she suspected her brother was cheating? That she’d been sitting on the knowledge for months, unable to confront him, unsure of what to do? Ginny was her best friend, but she was also Ron’s sister. If Hermione told her, it would inevitably get back to him, and she wasn’t ready for that conversation—not yet.
“Maybe,” Hermione said finally, her voice carefully neutral. “We’ll see.”
Before Ginny could press further, Ron returned, holding two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Hermione with a grin.
“Here you go,” he said, taking a sip of his own.
Hermione eyed the drink skeptically, her fingers curling around the stem of the glass. Ron never managed to get her drink right, a detail she’d long since resigned herself to. Forcing a smile, she raised the glass to her lips and downed it in one go, the bubbles fizzing sharply against her tongue. A faint warmth bloomed in her chest, but the taste barely registered.
Setting the empty glass on the table, she frowned, her brow furrowing. “What was that?”
Ron shrugged. “Good, wasn’t it?”
Hermione forced a nod, though the truth was it had been rather unpleasant.
The party carried on, the chatter and laughter growing louder as drinks flowed freely. Hermione found herself on the couch with Ginny and Parvati, talking about Parvati’s upcoming wedding.
“It’s been a nightmare trying to find the right venue,” Parvati was saying, her hands gesturing dramatically. “Everything is either booked solid or outrageously expensive.”
Hermione nodded politely, but her attention drifted to Ron, who was standing near the bar. He was talking loudly, his arms flailing as he recounted some story. His voice carried above the rest of the crowd, grating in a way that made Hermione’s stomach clench.
Her skin prickled suddenly, a wave of heat washing over her. She reached up to touch her forehead, realizing she was sweating. “I think I need some water,” she muttered to Ginny.
Ginny’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Feeling alright, Hermione?” she asked, giggling softly.
Parvati and Lavender exchanged looks, their own laughter bubbling up.
Hermione frowned. “What’s so funny?”
She conjured a glass of water with her wand and took a long sip. Ginny hesitated, then leaned in, still giggling. “Don’t be mad, but… Ron thought you needed to loosen up a bit, so he gave you a dose of Amorous Veritas.”
Hermione froze, the glass halfway to her lips. “He did what?!” she hissed, her voice sharp.
Ginny held up her hands quickly. “Hermione! It’s harmless! Just makes you a bit more… free with your feelings.”
Hermione shot to her feet, the heat now replaced with a burning anger. “Where is he?!”
“Hermione, wait!” Ginny called after her, but Hermione was already storming toward the bar.
Ron turned just in time to catch a face full of water as Hermione threw the conjured glass at him. The room fell silent, every head turning to watch.
“What the bloody hell—” Ron sputtered, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Months, Ronald! Months!” Hermione’s voice rang out, her hands shaking with fury. “Months of you sneaking around, lying to me, and instead of having the decency to talk to me, you drug me? For what?”
Ron’s face turned crimson as he held up his hands defensively. “Relax, Hermione. You’re making a scene.”
“Relax? Relax?!” Hermione’s voice cracked, her laughter bitter. “You don’t think sneaking around with Romilda Vane—or whoever else you’ve been with—is worth a scene? You don’t think I’ve noticed the late nights out, the excuses, or the letters you so cleverly tucked away in your desk?”
She watched as realization dawned on his face, his features slackening with shock. Hermione nodded, her voice rising with fury. “Yes, Ronald, that’s right—I know all about it!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ron muttered, glancing around at the wide-eyed stares of their friends. “This isn’t the time or the place—”
But before he could finish, Hermione’s hand came up, and she slapped him hard across the face. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a collective gasp.
Without another word, Hermione turned toward the fireplace, her chest heaving. She didn’t bother grabbing her coat or even looking back as she reached for the Floo powder. Tossing it into the flames, she stepped in and called out her destination, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall.
“Ministry of Magic.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving the room in stunned silence.
Hermione stormed into the Ministry atrium, her magic crackling faintly in the air around her like static electricity, betraying the depth of her fury. The grand space was alive with the hum of New Year’s Eve preparations—soft music playing from the nearby ballroom and clusters of Ministry employees and guests mingling outside. But Hermione barely noticed. Her face burned with humiliation and anger, her chest heaving as she fought to compose herself.
Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.
She needed a moment. Somewhere quiet. The bathrooms were down the hall, far enough from the ballroom that she could collect herself without the prying eyes of Ministry partygoers. She turned on her heel and made her way quickly, her vision blurring slightly as her emotions threatened to spill over.
As she neared the bathrooms, she heard the faint sound of laughter from a nearby group. She glanced out of the corner of her eye and immediately recognized Draco Malfoy. He stood with Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Theo Nott, all dressed impeccably in their formal robes. They were talking casually, the picture of effortless elegance, but as Hermione passed, Draco’s sharp gray eyes caught hers.
His brow furrowed as he watched her walk past, her anger radiating from her in waves. Without hesitation, he broke away from the group, leaving the others behind as he followed her down the hall.
Hermione could hear the echo of his long strides behind her. She stopped abruptly, spinning on her heel to face him.
“What do you want—”
Draco stopped a few feet from her, his tall frame towering over her. From head to toe, he was dressed in the purest black, his impeccably tailored three-piece suit sculpted perfectly to his lean, athletic build. The high-collared robes draped elegantly over his shoulders, the rich, matte fabric absorbing the dim light and adding to his commanding presence. A silver chain glinted faintly against the black waistcoat, its delicate curve catching the soft glow of the corridor. The sharp angles of his lapels and the subtle sheen of his silk tie framed his features flawlessly, the contrast making his pale skin and platinum hair gleam with an almost ethereal light.
Hermione’s breath hitched, her heart racing as the effects of the potion intensified, sharpening her senses. Every detail seemed magnified—the crisp edge of his cuffs, the way his broad shoulders filled the robes, the fluidity of his movements—and the effortless elegance that seemed to radiate from him with an almost magnetic pull.
He was striking. Too striking. His presence alone made her heart race, her skin prickle. Why does he have to look like that? Her thoughts scrambled as she tried to gather herself, but the sensation of her dress brushing against her sensitive nipples was driving her mad. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, hoping to stifle the overwhelming need to touch him.
“Malfoy,” she managed, her voice coming as more of a whimper, despite her best efforts.
His lips curved into a familiar smirk as he took a step closer, his gaze flicking over her face. “Granger, you are the one who barged in here looking like you have got Fiendfyre on your heels. Why are you here… alone. Where is your faithfulWeaselbee?
Her jaw tightened at the nickname. “Ron is none of your concern,” she snapped, though her voice wavered. The potion—whatever it was—was making her far too aware of Draco’s proximity. The heat radiating from him, the faint scent of cedarwood and something darker, more primal. It was intoxicating. Dangerous.
Draco tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her knees weak. “You’re under the influence of a potion, aren’t you?” His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it. A hint of something… protective? No, that couldn’t be right.
She frowned, shaking her head. “I didn’t take anything. H—He”
Draco’s expression darkened instantly. “Who?”
Hermione hesitated, biting her lower lip. This isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go. But the truth spilled out before she could stop it. “Ron… he spiked my drink.” she admitted quietly.
A sudden fury flashed across Draco’s face, so intense it startled her. “With what, Granger?” His voice was low, dangerous.
She squeezed her arms tighter, hating how vulnerable the admission made her feel. “I-I’m not entirely sure. It happened earlier… at the Potters,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He thought it would… loosen me up or something. Amorous Veritas. It’s supposed to make you—” She broke off, shaking her head, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Draco’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost murderous. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted, understanding dawning. He stepped closer again, and this time, Hermione didn’t back away. She couldn’t. Her body seemed to betray her, leaning ever so slightly toward him.
He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray curl behind her ear. The gentle touch sent a jolt of electricity through her, and her lips parted in a silent gasp. Her breath hitched, and she blinked up at him, struggling to maintain composure.
“Sensitive, are we?” Draco murmured, his smirk returning. He knew exactly what his touch was doing to her. “Where are Potter and the rest of your little gang? Surely they would not leave you alone like this.”
Hermione’s cheeks burned. “I left. After I found out what Ron did, I… slapped him.”
Draco laughed, a rich, dark sound that curled around her like smoke, sending shivers down her spine. “What a shame,” he drawled, his smirk wicked. “I rather miss being the one you slapped.”
She stared at him, utterly baffled. Was he joking? Flirting? With her? This had to be the potion messing with her senses. There was no way Draco Malfoy was actually standing this close, looking at her like that, saying things that made her stomach flutter.
He stepped beside her, his hand sliding to the small of her back. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of her dress, and her entire body seemed to ignite. “Come on, Granger,” he said, his voice low and laced with something that made her pulse race. “Let’s get you to the ballroom. Unless, of course, you’d rather skip the festivities altogether.”
Her heart pounded in her chest. “What are you suggesting?”
Draco leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “I am suggesting Granger, that you let me be your date for the night.”
Hermione’s breath caught. This had to be some kind of trick. Draco had made passes at her for years—teasing, flirting, always toeing the line between playful and predatory. But she’d never believed him. Never allowed herself to. Yet now, with the potion coursing through her veins and his hand burning against her back, she wasn’t sure she could resist.
“You’re joking,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Draco straightened, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “Do I look like I am joking, Granger?”
She searched his eyes, looking for any sign of mockery or malice. But all she saw was… sincerity. And something else. Something that made her throat dry and her skin ache for his touch.
Before she could respond, he guided her forward, his arm firm but gentle. The corridor blurred around them as they walked, everything else fading into irrelevance. All she could focus on was Draco—his presence, his scent, the way his fingers pressed lightly into her waist.
She swallowed hard. This has to be the potion, she thought. It’s just the potion.
But even as she told herself that, she couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through her.
The Ministry ballroom was breathtaking, its ceiling enchanted to resemble a starlit night sky. Glittering constellations shimmered against a deep indigo backdrop, and glowing orbs floated high above, casting a soft, romantic light over the space. It was as if the room itself had been wrapped in magic, each detail meticulously crafted to embody the glamour of New Year’s Eve.
Hermione’s dress sparkled brilliantly under the lighting, the enchanted shimmer she’d added catching and refracting the soft glow of the floating orbs. She felt both elegant and exposed, a contrast that unsettled her as Draco led her deeper into the room.
She could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of her dress. The sensation was intoxicating, especially with the potion amplifying every touch. She glanced up at him, noting how he seemed completely unfazed by the growing number of eyes turning their way.
Had he always been this tall? she wondered absently, tilting her head to take in the sharp line of his jaw, the way his silver-blond hair caught the light. He wasn’t looking at her, but the faint smirk playing on his lips told her he knew she was watching. His hand squeezed her hip gently, sending another wave of warmth through her.
Heads turned. Conversations paused. Guests whispered behind their glasses of champagne, their gazes following them as they walked. Hermione’s chest tightened, her thoughts racing. What am I doing? she wondered. More importantly, what is Draco doing?
“Malfoy,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “what are we doing? Everyone’s staring.”
He finally glanced down at her. “It’s not every day they see me with someone worth looking at.”
Surely, he didn’t want to be seen like this—with her. Walking into this party together implied something. Something significant. And both she and Ron worked at the Ministry; by Monday, this would be widely known, circulating like wildfire among their colleagues. What would Ron think?
But as quickly as the thought came, she pushed it away. Did she really care? He had drugged her and was, at the very least, emotionally cheating on her, if not more.
Draco’s grip tightened slightly as they neared an elegantly dressed woman. She exuded sophistication in a sleek black gown that practically radiated Parisian chic. Her dark hair was swept into an impeccable chignon, and her crimson lips curved into a polite smile. Hermione recognized her instantly: Geneviève Duval, a high-ranking French diplomat renowned for her commanding presence and uncanny ability to navigate even the trickiest international negotiations. She stood at the center of a small cluster of witches and wizards, but her attention shifted immediately to Draco, her smile warming as they approached.
“Ah, Monsieur Malfoy,” Geneviève greeted, her French accent smooth and melodic. “Quelle surprise de vous voir ici ce soir.”
Draco responded in flawless French, the smooth cadence of his voice drawing Hermione’s attention. “Madame Duval, vous êtes aussi ravissante que toujours.”
She wasn’t surprised that Draco spoke the language fluently but hearing it now—his tone confident and unhurried—made her heart skip.
Hermione listened as they exchanged pleasantries, her eyes flicking to Draco’s face. The corner of his mouth quirked into a perfectly white, straight smile as he spoke, and she found herself momentarily distracted by how effortlessly charming he seemed.
Geneviève’s gaze shifted to Hermione, her smile widening as she switched to English. “And who is your friend?”
Draco looked down at her. “This,” he said smoothly, “is my date, Hermione Granger.”
Hermione blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Date? She glanced up at him through her lashes, both amused and confused by how casually he’d said it.
Geneviève’s smile grew even wider, and she looked at Hermione with approval. “Ah,” she said, her accent still heavy but her English flawless. “You must be a very special girl to have broken down Monsieur Malfoy.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly as Geneviève extended her hand in greeting. Hermione shook it, exchanging polite words before Geneviève leaned in, greeting her in the traditional French way with a kiss on each cheek.
“Enjoy your evening,” she said with a wink before gliding away. “Bonne chance.”
Draco’s hand guided Hermione toward the bar, where Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini stood in quiet conversation, their heads bent together as though sharing some inside joke. Blaise’s dark green attire fit him perfectly, the rich hue complementing his warm complexion and polished demeanor. Theo, on the other hand, looked as though he had raided someone else’s wardrobe and somehow made it work. His suit was a dazzling spectacle, the fabric gleaming with an almost metallic sheen that shifted colors under the light. His tie sparkled as if encrusted with actual gemstones, and his dress slides glimmered like they’d been dipped in liquid gold.
It was obnoxious, bordering on ridiculous, yet somehow Theo wore it with such ease and charm that it looked good on him—infuriatingly good. Hermione couldn’t decide whether to be amused or impressed.
Hermione realized she’d never interacted much with either of them during her time at Hogwarts. They had always seemed so distant, wrapped up in their insular Slytherin world, unreachable to someone like her. Yet here they were now, looking perfectly at ease, as though the war and the years since had never left a mark.
Theo noticed them first, his sharp eyes lighting up with mischief. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Golden Girl,” he drawled, his tone teasing. “And Draco, of all people, bringing her to our humble corner. Dare I say hell has frozen over?”
Hermione greeted them. “Nott. Zabini.”
Blaise turned, his gaze landing on Hermione with undisguised interest. “Granger,” he said, his tone laced with curiosity.
Theo’s lips quirked into a knowing smirk as he stepped forward, taking Hermione’s hand in his and brushing a light kiss across her knuckles. “Enchanté,” he said teasingly, his green eyes glinting.
Hermione felt her cheeks flush as Theo’s lips brushed the back of her hand, though she held back a laugh. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, Nott.”
Theo winked. “It’s only polite to make a lady feel welcome.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Easy, Nott.”
Blaise burst out laughing, slapping Theo on the shoulder. “Careful, mate. Looks like Draco’s staked his claim.”
Theo raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin remained. “Wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes, Malfoy. Though I must admit, Granger, you do look dashing tonight.”
Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “I’m going to get Granger a drink. Try not to corrupt her while I’m gone.”
Theo snorted, raising his glass in a toast. “No promises.”
Hermione laughed despite herself, and as Draco walked away, Hermione found herself flanked by the two Slytherins. Despite her initial hesitation, she couldn’t deny they were charming in their own way—dangerously so.
“So,” Theo said, fixing her with a curious look. “What brings you here tonight, Granger? And with Draco, no less. Didn’t realize you two were… close.”
Hermione hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s… complicated,” she said finally, earning a knowing chuckle from both men.
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Theo said, his tone laden with innuendo. “But then again, the best things usually are.”
Theo leaned back against the bar, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He swirled his drink lazily before bringing it to his mouth. “Let me know when he messes it up,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he glanced at Hermione. “So I can take over.”
Blaise snorted, elbowing Theo. “Please, mate. Let’s not scare her off just yet.” He turned to Hermione, arching his eyebrow in curiosity. “So, you finally broke up with Weaselbee? About time. Good riddance, if you ask me.”
Theo tilted his head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “What’s his name again? Weasel or something?” he asked, feigning innocence.
Blaise tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “Weasley.”
Theo snapped his fingers at Blaise. “That’s the one! Weasley.”
Hermione opened her mouth to correct Theo—to insist she wasn’t actually on a date with Draco—but before the words could leave her lips, Draco returned. In his hand was her favorite: a butterbeer daiquiri, the sweet and comforting drink laced with just the right hint of cinnamon. He handed it to her without a word, his fingers brushing against hers as she took it. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt of warmth through her, catching her off guard.
She stared down at the drink for a moment, her brows furrowing. “How did you know?” she asked softly, glancing up at him.
Draco arched a single pale brow. “You always get that, do you not?”
Her chest tightened at the quiet simplicity of his response. He’d noticed. Despite being on opposite sides of countless Ministry events, he’d been paying enough attention to remember what she ordered. The thought sent a confusing wave of warmth rolling through her, settling somewhere deep in her chest.
Draco gestured toward the nearby tables, where clusters of guests sat in animated conversation. “Shall we?”
Hermione followed him as he led the way to a table near the edge of the ballroom. Seated there were Pansy Parkinson and Astoria Greengrass, their stylish gowns fitting seamlessly with the room’s elegant ambiance. As Draco pulled out a chair for Hermione and seated himself beside her, both women turned their attention to the pair, their expressions laced with something like shock.
Pansy arched a perfectly manicured brow, her gaze flitting between Draco and Hermione. “I leave you boys alone for ten minutes,” she said dryly, “and you adopt a bloody Gryffindor. And not just any Gryffindor—the golden one.”
Theo snorted. “Draco brought her as a date.”
Astoria’s eyes widened in surprise, and she turned to Draco. “About time, Draco! I hope the boys don’t scare you off, Granger. We could use an extra girl to even things out around here, Merlin knows we’ve been stuck with this lot long enough.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed as she looked at Draco, her brows furrowing in confusion. He wasn’t looking at her, but she could sense his awareness of her questioning gaze.
Blaise dropped into the seat next to Astoria, slinging an arm over the back of her chair. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, earning a soft laugh from her. Hermione watched the interaction with growing confusion. Weren’t Draco and Astoria once engaged?
She turned to Draco, lowering her voice so only he could hear. “I thought you were supposed to wed Astoria.”
Draco smirked, leaning in closer. “We were,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “But they have been in love with each other for years. It was never going to work. It was nothing more than an arranged marriage.”
Hermione blinked but before she could respond, Pansy interjected, “Speaking of Gryffindors,” she said, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger, “you’re still friends with Longbottom?”
Hermione giggled. “Yes, Neville comes to the Weasleys’ for dinner every Sunday.” The mention of the Weasleys left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she felt a pang of guilt. Would she even be welcome back after tonight?
The Slytherins collectively grimaced at the mention of the Weasleys, and Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. “Ugh. Gross.” She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Tell me, Granger—is he… shagging anyone?”
Hermione choked on her drink, coughing slightly as she tried to compose herself. “Shagging? Neville?”
Pansy shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “What can I say? I have a thing for tall, awkward types. Think you could set us up?”
Blaise wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “Merlin’s beard, Pansy. Have some self-respect. Please don’t make the poor man your next victim.”
Pansy shot him a withering glare. “Oh, please. As if you can talk, Zabini. If Draco’s dating a Gryffindor, all bets are off.”
Hermione let out a laugh, shaking her head. “I’ll… see what I can do.”
Pansy beamed back at her.
The light mood at the table shifted abruptly as all eyes turned toward someone approaching from behind Hermione. She turned in her seat, her heart sinking as she saw Harry standing there, his face drawn with concern.
Theo raised his glass. “Potter! Come to join us, have you?”
Harry ignored him entirely, his focus locked on Hermione. “Come on, Hermione,” he said, his voice pleading. “Ron says he won’t be mad about what happened earlier, but—”
Hermione cut him off, her tone icy. “No, thank you. I don’t quite feel like sitting with people who feel the need to spike my drinks.”
There was a collective gasp from the Slytherins, and Hermione felt a surge of satisfaction at their shock. Harry’s face flushed, his jaw tightening. “You really want to stay here?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, cutting him off.
Draco shifted in his seat, angling himself toward Harry, his voice low and dangerously calm. “I think she already gave you her answer, Potter.”
Pansy snatched a roll from the basket at the center of their table and hurled it at him, the bread bouncing off the side of his head. “Off with you, stray.”
Harry glared at Draco, his jaw tightening, but he wisely chose not to escalate further. With one last pointed glance at Hermione, he turned on his heel and stalked away, the tension lingering in his wake.
Pansy grinned wickedly, raising her glass. “To chaos, then.”
Draco leaned in close. His breath ghosted over her ear as he whispered, “Are you alright?”
She nodded weakly, her cheeks flushing under his intense scrutiny. “I’m fine,” she murmured, though the heat of his touch was making it increasingly difficult to think straight. She smiled up at him.
He whispered, “Careful, Granger. You keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she turned to face him, her breath catching in her throat. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. She swallowed hard, her pulse racing as she searched for the right words.
A slow blush crept up her neck, and she cursed herself for being so easily flustered. Why does he have to be so damn infuriating—and so damn attractive?
Pansy cleared her throat pointedly, breaking the moment. “Well, that has been thoroughly entertaining,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm.
Theo let out a loud groan. “Merlin, save us from these two. If they’re like this now, I dread to think what the rest of the night will bring.”
As the tension gradually dissipated, Hermione found herself relaxing slightly. She took another sip of her drink.
As the laughter around the table subsided, Hermione found herself surprisingly at ease. Theo was wickedly funny, his quick wit making her ribs ache from laughing so hard. It struck her as odd that she’d never really talked to any of them before—not truly. The war was years behind them, and the divisions in the wizarding world had softened, hadn’t they? Yet here she was, sitting among Draco and his Slytherin friends, feeling more included than she ever had with Ron’s usual crowd.
Draco leaned back in his chair, his thigh brushing against hers. The heat of his leg pressed against her bare skin sent a jolt through her, and she froze for a moment, trying to focus on whatever Pansy was saying. But then Draco laughed at something Theo quipped, and his hand dropped casually onto her bare thigh. Her breath caught audibly, and she felt her cheeks burn. His palm was warm, his fingers slightly rough, and the way he gripped her thigh—firm but not too tight—made her entire body tense with anticipation.
He knows what he’s doing, she thought. He’s doing this on purpose.
Draco’s thumb began to move in slow circles against her skin, and Hermione bit down on her lip to stifle a gasp. She could feel how wet she was getting, her knickers clinging to her in a way that was impossible to ignore. She shifted subtly in her seat, trying to ease the pressure building between her legs, but it only made things worse. Every brush of his hand sent electric shocks through her, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of his body beside her.
She suddenly noticed his eyes on her and his lips curved into a faint smirk. “You alright, Granger? You look a bit flushed.”
“I’m—I’m fine,” she panted.
Desperate for a distraction, she grabbed her glass and downed the rest of her drink in one swift motion. The burn of the alcohol barely registered, but the sudden action caught Pansy’s attention.
“That’s the spirit!” Pansy cheered from across the table. “You’re going to need it if you’re keeping up with us tonight.”
Hermione wasn’t sure whether the alcohol would help or make the potion’s effects worse, but she didn’t care. She needed something—anything—to distract her from Draco’s hand still resting on her thigh, his fingers now tracing lazy patterns that were driving her mad.
When the music shifted to something more upbeat, Theo stood abruptly, clapping his hands. “That’s my cue! I’m not letting this night go to waste without a dance.” He extended a hand toward Hermione with a dramatic bow. “Care to join me, Granger?”
Hermione hesitated, but she couldn’t sit here any longer, not with his touch threatening to unravel her completely. Shooting back another drink, she took Theo’s hand, allowing him to pull her to the dance floor. Draco’s eyes followed her as she moved, and she felt the weight of his gaze even as she tried to ignore it.
Theo’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Hermione laughed as he spun her playfully, their movements light and carefree. But she couldn’t stop stealing glances at Draco, who remained at the edge of the dance floor. She knew that if she danced with him, the tension between them would snap—and she wasn’t sure she could control herself if that happened.
After a few songs, Draco finally moved away from the group he’d been speaking with and crossed the floor toward them. His commanding presence made Hermione’s breath quicken, and when he reached Theo, he clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“I’d like my date back now,” he asked, though it was less of a request and more of a statement.
Theo grinned, stepping back with a bow. “All yours, mate.”
And then Draco was there, his arm sliding around her waist. The scent of him—something crisp and masculine—filled her senses, and she found herself leaning into him almost unconsciously. The heat of his body against hers was almost overwhelming, and the proximity sent her thoughts spiraling once more.
Her heart raced. “It’s the potion, Malfoy,” she whispered back, her voice shaky. “It’s not smart for us to act like this. It’s making me act… differently towards you.”
Draco chuckled softly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “The potion doesn’t make you desire people, Granger. It just heightens what is already there.”
Her cheeks burned at his words, but before she could respond, the music slowed to a sultry rhythm. Draco’s grip on her tightened, one hand resting firmly on her hip while the other held her hand. They moved together seamlessly, their bodies swaying in perfect harmony.
Ron’s hands had always been soft, clammy even, but Draco’s were strong and rough, calloused in a way that spoke of power and control. He overpowered her in the best possible way, making her feel both vulnerable and safe at the same time. It was intoxicating.
She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d started dancing. The intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine, and before she could second-guess herself, he leaned down.
The kiss was electric, a spark igniting between them as his hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her firmly in place. Her body melted against his, her thoughts dissolving into the sensation of his lips on hers, the world around them fading to nothing.
The spell was broken by the sound of someone yelling. Hermione pulled back, her heart racing as she turned to see Ron storming across the dance floor, his face pale with anger.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” he snarled, shoving his way through the crowd.
Draco didn’t flinch, his arm tightening protectively around Hermione. His calm demeanor only seemed to infuriate Ron further.
Ron’s face twisted with rage as he lunged forward, painfully grabbing Hermione’s wrist. “It’s time to go, Hermione,” he growled, his voice venomous. “You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself tonight. Let’s leave this bloody snake pit.”
Hermione yanked at her arm. “No, Ron!”
Draco’s hand shot out, grabbing Ron by the collar. “Touch her again, and I will make sure you regret it,” he growled.
Ron’s face turned a deep shade of red, his eyes darting between Draco and Hermione. “You’ve got some nerve, Malfoy. You’re nothing but a whore—”
The insult barely left his lips before Draco’s fist connected with his jaw, the punch sending Ron crashing to the ground in an unconscious heap. The room erupted in gasps and murmurs, but Draco didn’t seem to care. He straightened his sleeves calmly, as if nothing had happened, before turning back to Hermione.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, her heart pounding. And then, inexplicably, she started laughing. It bubbled up from deep within her, uncontrollable and freeing. Draco raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Think that’s funny, do you?” he asked, his tone laced with amusement.
Hermione shook her head, still giggling as she grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, pulling him toward the door. Behind them, people were starting to crowd around Ron’s unconscious body, but Hermione didn’t look back.
Draco followed without protest, his fingers intertwining with hers as they slipped out of the ballroom and into the quiet hallway beyond. The air between them crackled with unresolved tension, and Hermione knew this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.
Hermione tugged Draco’s hand, her laughter still light and breathless as they both jogged down the hallway. Her heart was racing—partly from the adrenaline of what had just happened, partly from the way his grip on her fingers sent shivers up her arm. She didn’t think—she just acted, pulling him toward the bathroom at the end of the corridor.
With a flick of her wand, she locked the door behind them, the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoing in the small space. They stood there staring at each other breathless for a moment and before Draco could say a word, she grabbed the front of his robes, yanking him toward her. Their lips crashed together in a frenzy, all the pent-up tension between them exploding in an instant.
Draco didn’t hesitate. His hands found her waist, pulling her body flush against his. She was so soft, so warm, and the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through him. His fingers moved with purpose, tugging at the clips holding her hair back. One by one, they fell to the floor, forgotten, as her curls tumbled freely down her back.
His other hand slid into her hair, threading through the thick, unruly strands, gripping them firmly. He tilted her head back, exposing the graceful line of her neck, his thumb brushing against her jaw.
Draco’s lips hovered near her ear. “Please, Granger,” he murmured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. “Do not ever wear your hair up again.”
Her breath hitched as his lips found her skin, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her pulse point. A low moan escaped her when he sucked lightly, leaving a mark that made her knees weak. His teeth grazed her earlobe, and she shuddered, clutching at his shoulders for support.
“Malfoy,” she whimpered, her voice trembling with need.
His free hand drifted lower, cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her dress. The sensation of his thumb brushing over her already-hard nipple made her gasp, her hips instinctively pressing against his. He smirked against her neck, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her.
Then, without warning, he spun her around to face the mirror. Hermione’s eyes widened as she caught sight of their reflection—her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, her hair tousled and wild. Draco stood behind her, his grey eyes dark with desire as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “So fucking perfect. I want to ruin you right here, watch you fall apart for me.”
A whimper slipped past her lips as his hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips possessively. She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her back, and the knowledge of how much he wanted her sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
He lifted the hem of her dress, bunching it around her waist before slipping his hand beneath the lace of her knickers. Her breath caught as his fingers brushed over her folds, already wet and eager for him.
“You’re so ready for me,” he said, his lips grazing her ear as he began to rub circles over her clit. Her legs trembled, and she braced herself against the sink, her reflection staring back at her with wide, desperate eyes.
When he finally slid two fingers inside her, she cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder. He moved slowly at first, driving her mad with every stroke, before picking up speed, his thumb never leaving her sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Malfoy, please,” she begged, her voice breaking as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter within her.
He didn’t stop. Instead, he pressed his lips to her neck again, biting down lightly as his fingers worked her closer and closer to the edge. When she finally came, stars exploded behind her eyelids, her body shaking as waves of ecstasy washed over her.
But he wasn’t done. As Hermione sagged against him, trying to catch her breath, she felt him undo his trousers behind her. The sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor made her stomach flip, anticipation thrumming through her veins.
He kicked her feet apart, spreading her wider, and she let out a shaky breath as she felt the tip of him press against her entrance. With one swift motion, he pushed inside her, filling her completely. Hermione gasped, her hands flying to the edge of the sink to steady herself as he began to move.
The rhythm he set was relentless, each thrust driving her higher and higher. The necklace around her neck clinked against the porcelain of the sink, the sound blending with her soft moans and his heavy breathing.
Draco’s hands gripped her hips tightly, holding her in place as he fucked her harder, faster. Just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, he pulled out, spinning her around to face him. Without a word, he lifted her onto the sink, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.
His gaze dropped to where her necklace rested delicately against her neck. Without hesitation, his hand shot out, gripping the chain. With one swift motion, he yanked it free, the fragile chain snapping under his strength and the pendant falling soundlessly to the floor.
His grey eyes locked onto hers, as he positioned himself at her entrance again. One hand tangled in her hair, the other wrapping around her throat, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to make her pulse race.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough with desire.
She obeyed, her brown eyes meeting his as he pushed inside her once more. The feeling of him stretching her, filling her, was almost too much to bear. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her moans turning breathless as he moved within her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he growled, his forehead pressing against hers as he thrust deeper. “So fucking beautiful.”
The words shattered something inside her, and she came undone again, her body convulsing around him as pleasure ripped through her like a tidal wave. Draco followed shortly after, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself inside her with a deep groan.
For a moment, they stayed like that, foreheads pressed together as they caught their breath. Then, slowly, Draco pulled out, fastening up his trousers before helping her off the sink and adjusting her dress carefully. His touch was surprisingly tender now, smoothing the fabric and tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
Hermione reached for her wand, intending to vanish the evidence of what they’d just done, but Draco caught her wrist, stopping her.
“Don’t,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto hers. “I want you to feel me dripping out of you and remember who made you come apart like this.”
Her cheeks flushed at his words, but the heat in his gaze left no room for argument. She swallowed hard, her body still tingling with the aftershocks of their passion.
Draco cupped her face in his hands, leaning down to kiss her slowly, almost reverently. When he pulled away, she was breathless all over again.
“Come on,” he said, offering her his hand.
Hermione hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. The night wasn’t over yet—and neither were they.
Draco’s hand was warm in hers as they stepped out of the bathroom, the cool air of the Ministry hallway brushing against Hermione’s flushed skin. She could still feel him—everywhere—the evidence of their interlude slick between her thighs, a secret that sent a shiver down her spine. He led her confidently toward the exit, and she couldn’t help but glance up at him.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with curiosity.
He smirked down at her, that infuriatingly confident smirk that made her stomach flip. “Back to the manor,” he said, his tone low and intimate. “You are mad if you think I am done with you yet.”
Hermione’s breath hitched, the weight of the moment settling over her like a heavy blanket. Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she tightened her grip on his hand, her heart pounding as they neared the grand double doors leading to the atrium.
Just as they reached the doors, Neville stumbled out of what looked like a supply closet, his face flushed and his shirt slightly askew. Pansy followed close behind, her hand in his, giggling like a schoolgirl.
Neville hastily straightened his shirt, his eyes darting nervously between Draco and Hermione. Pansy, however, didn’t seem fazed. Her lips curled into a mischievous grin as she tugged Neville along by the hand. “Oh, don’t mind us,” she said breezily, her laughter bubbling over. “Carry on, love.”
Hermione blinked, caught between surprise and amusement, but Pansy just winked, dragging Neville back toward the ballroom as if nothing had happened.
Stepping through the double doors, Ron stood with a bloody nose, flanked by Harry and Dean. Their expressions were a mix of confusion and concern, though Harry’s brow furrowed in something closer to restrained frustration.
Ron’s eyes locked on Hermione and Draco, narrowing dangerously as his gaze dropped to their intertwined hands.
“Hermione?” Ron barked. “Hermione?!”
She didn’t even look at him. Not once. Her focus remained on Draco, on the way his thumb brushed against the back of her hand, reassuring, possessive. She kept walking, holding the hand of the man who had just turned her world upside down, feeling the undeniable proof of their intimacy slick against her thighs.
A small, satisfied smile curved her lips as she glanced up at Draco. He looked just as pleased, his silver gaze glinting with something dark and unspoken. Together, they stepped into the Floo, the green flames swallowing them whole.
They emerged moments later in what Hermione assumed were Draco’s private quarters. The room was elegant, tastefully decorated with dark woods and rich fabrics. A large bed dominated one side of the room, its silk sheets smooth and inviting. Across from it sat a cozy sitting area, complete with plush armchairs and a roaring fireplace. French doors led out to a balcony, offering a view of the Manor grounds bathed in moonlight.
Before Hermione could take it all in, Draco swept her off her feet, literally, tossing her over his shoulder with ease. She let out a startled squeal, her hands instinctively gripping the back of his robes for balance.
“Malfoy!” she protested, though there was laughter in her voice.
He didn’t respond, as he carried her into the ensuite bathroom. He set her down gently on the marble counter, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he moved to turn on the oversized tub. Steam began to rise, filling the room with warmth.
Kneeling in front of her, Draco reached for her heels, his fingers deftly undoing the straps. He pulled them off slowly, his touch sending sparks up her legs. Once the first shoe slipped free, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss atop her foot, his lips warm against her skin. When both shoes were off, he lifted her from the counter, her bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. She shivered, but not from the chill.
Turning her around, Draco unzipped her dress in one smooth motion, the fabric pooling at her feet. He placed a single kiss to the nape of her neck, his lips lingering for just a heartbeat before he gestured toward the tub.
“Get in,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Hermione obeyed, stepping into the hot water, and sinking down until it lapped at her shoulders. She watched him intently as he began to undress, starting with his cufflinks. His movements were almost hypnotic, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
First came the shirt, then his pants, each piece of clothing folded neatly and placed on the counter. When he finally joined her in the tub, he settled behind her, his chest warm against her back. Hermione leaned into him, letting out a soft sigh as the water soothed her.
A giggle escaped her lips, unbidden, and Draco’s arms tightened around her.
“What is so funny?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I just… never thought I’d be here. With you.”
Draco’s lips brushed against her ear as he spoke, his voice soft but certain. “I have always wanted to be here.”
Hermione turned her head, her eyes meeting his. There was something raw in his gaze, something she hadn’t seen before. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He sighed, his hands tracing idle patterns on her arms. “It is nothing.”
But she wasn’t about to let it go. Sitting up, she turned to face him fully, her expression earnest. “No, tell me. What is it?”
Draco hesitated for a moment before answering, his words careful, measured. “I have wanted a chance with you for some time, Granger. But you were always with Weaselbee.”
Hermione blinked, surprised by the admission. She opened her mouth to respond, but Draco cut her off with a playful smirk.
“Do not look so shocked,” he said, leaning back against the edge of the tub, running a wet hand through his hair. “I have never exactly been subtle about my thoughts when it comes to you.”
She raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her eyes. “Subtle? You called trying to bait me into arguments subtle?”
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent warmth spreading through her chest. “Worked, did it not? You are here now.”
Hermione splashed him lightly, unable to suppress a laugh of her own. Draco retaliated, flicking water at her with his fingers, and soon they were caught in a playful back-and-forth, the tension easing into something softer, more comfortable.
When the laughter died down, Draco reached for a bar of soap, as he began to wash her. His hands slid over her shoulders, down her arms, his touch firm but tender. Hermione closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the sensation, the heat of the water and the warmth of his hands melting away any lingering doubts.
When they were finished, Draco conjured two fluffy towels, wrapping one around her before drying himself off. He stood in front of her, his hair damp, his body lean and perfect under the soft glow of the bathroom lights.
“Draco,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm, as she reached for his hand. His fingers intertwined with hers. She tugged him gently, leading him toward the chaise lounge that sat before the balcony windows, its dark velvet upholstery glinting under the pale light.
He followed without resistance, his silver eyes never leaving hers. When she pushed him to sit on the chaise, he complied, leaning back casually, one arm draped over the side, the other resting on his thigh. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed how much he wanted her.
Hermione stepped back, untucking the edge of the towel. It fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. The cool night air kissed her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Draco’s gaze. His eyes raked over her, lingering on the dip of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. He didn’t say a word, but the way his lips parted, the way his breath hitched—it was enough.
For a brief moment, her thoughts flickered to the potion. She realized with startling clarity that it had worn off some time ago. The heat pooling in her chest, the undeniable pull she felt toward him—it wasn’t magic. It was her, all her.
And she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.
She climbed onto his lap, slowly straddling him, her knees sinking into the plush cushion on either side of his thighs. His hands immediately found her hips, gripping her firmly, pulling her closer until she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her.
“You are going to ruin me, Granger,” Draco muttered hoarsely, his hands gripping her hips as she positioned herself over him. The moonlight streaming through the glass doors bathed her skin in a silvery glow, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “And I think I am going to let you.”
Hermione smirked, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “Good.” She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
His mouth found her nipples, teasing them with his tongue, sucking lightly until she let out a low moan. His touch was deliberate, calculated—every flick of his tongue, every drag of his teeth sent sparks shooting through her. She arched into him, her hands gripping his shoulders as she ground against him.
“You’re fucking stunning,” he breathed. His hands slid lower, cupping her ass, kneading the soft flesh as he adjusted her position, aligning them perfectly.
Hermione gasped as his erection brushed against her slickness, the sensation making her head spin. She reached between them, wrapping her fingers around him, guiding him to where she needed him most. As she pushed him inside, a moan escaped her lips, long and unrestrained.
He groaned, his fingers digging into her thighs as she sank onto him inch by torturous inch. “Fuck, Hermione…” His voice was raw. “You feel amazing.”
She moved slowly at first, savoring the way he filled her, the way his eyes darkened with every roll of her hips. But soon, the ache became too much, and she quickened her pace, her nails scraping against his chest as she sought more friction, more heat.
Draco’s hands roamed her body, one cupping her breast while the other slid down to tease her clit. She gasped, her head falling back as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. “Yes… yes, just like that.”
He nipped at her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “You are so fucking perfect,” he growled. “Do you know how long I have wanted this? Wanted you?”
Hermione didn’t answer—couldn’t. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she felt herself teetering on the edge. Draco seemed to sense it, his thrusts growing harder, deeper, until she shattered around him, her cries mingling with his whispered praise.
“That’s it, love. Cum for me.”
When the waves of pleasure finally subsided, Hermione slumped against him, her forehead resting on his shoulder. But Draco wasn’t done. He flipped her onto her stomach, her hands instinctively gripping the high point of the chaise as he positioned himself behind her.
“Draco—”
He leaned over her, pressing a kiss to the small of her back. “You are mine, Hermione.”
And when he pushed into her again, slower this time, she let out a soft moan. “You feel so good…”
His hands gripped her hips, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. Each thrust sent jolts of electricity through her body, reigniting the fire that had only just begun to fade. Hermione arched her back, pushing herself against him, desperate for more.
Draco’s breath hitched. “Hermione… you are so fucking tight.” He smacked her ass lightly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “You are going to make me lose control.”
“Then lose control,” she dared, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.
Her words were all the encouragement he needed. His pace quickened, his hips slamming into hers with a rhythm that left her trembling. Hermione clung to the chaise, her knuckles white as she tried to hold on, but it was no use. The pleasure was too intense, too consuming.
“Draco!” she cried out, her body convulsing around him as another orgasm tore through her.
With a groan, Draco followed her over the edge, his release spilling inside her as he collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving against her back. For a moment, they stayed like that, their hearts pounding in unison, their breaths mingling in the cool night air.
Finally, Draco pulled out and collapsed beside her, dragging her into his arms. With a lazy wave of his hand, he conjured a blanket, draping it over them as they lay tangled together on the chaise. His fingers traced idle patterns on her back, his chin resting on the top of her head.
A clock chimed softly in the distance, and Hermione glanced at Draco. “It’s midnight,” she said softly.
He smiled, his fingers brushing her cheek as he leaned in to kiss her. “Happy New Year, Hermione.”
She felt warmth spread through her chest, and she smiled back. “Happy New Year, Draco.”
He chuckled softly. “If this is how we’re starting the year, I think it’s going to be a good one.”
Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, one that spoke of promises. They lay there in silence, the echoes of their passion still lingering in the air. Outside, the world celebrated the start of a new year, but in that moment, all that mattered was the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms. And as they drifted off to sleep Hermione couldn’t help but wonder what the new year would bring. One thing was certain, though: it was off to a hell of a start.