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“Okay, everybody! Let’s do one lap!”

A million tiny little screams.

Hermione and Ginny watch as Malfoy flinches minimally before taking off from the gaggle of three through four-year-olds that he is coaching. They clamour after him, chunky legs falling one in front of the other as they attempt to keep up with his slowed stride, chasing him through the grass at the breakneck speed of a litter of kittens.

“It’s annoying really,” Ginny says through her smile. “He’s so good with the kids.”

“Who would’ve thought?” Hermione muses, watching Draco’s pert arse as he models high knees. Some of the children try to copy him, losing their balance and falling down.

It really is annoying, Hermione thinks as she bites her lip, watching the fabric pinch under one cheek. Her head tilts, appraising and imagining what his thighs look like underneath.

Three weeks prior, her Saturdays had been her own. She would rise early, take a cup of tea on the balcony and overlook the city, basking in the peace that her days now afforded.

No one expected anything of her, and it was pure, unadulterated bliss.

She loved having no responsibility—it was the first time in her life that it’d been the case. Since she matriculated from Hogwarts post-war, falling into a cosy position at the Ministry, Hermione Granger could finally just be.

It was lovely.

It was so short-lived.

Ginny had asked Hermione to join her for one of James’ quidditch practices, citing needing adult company from someone that treated her like she wasn’t just a mom. It’s not that Ginny didn’t love the other parents, she’d said over the floo that fateful morning, it’s just that that’s all those people were. Parents.

All they talked about were their children and it’d made Ginny’s eyes twitch.

Ginny loved being a mom, but she also desired to be her own person. So she held fast to her friendship with Hermione—who was neither a mother nor in a committed relationship that she could use as an excuse to get out of the said practice.

‘I dunno, Gin–’ Hermione had started, looking out the backdoor to where her tea was going cold.

‘Just this once and then we can do something else on– actually Tuesday is no good, because Lily’s got ballet—well, I just—ugh.’

‘Why don’t we just go for drinks after?’ suggested Hermione.

‘No, no. Harry’s got the water class with Artie until late and Mum’s got her hands full with little Rose,’—Ron’s newborn with Lavender—‘so really, this is my only free time.’

And it was hardly free.

Hermione couldn’t imagine anything free about sitting in the cold, casting copious warming charms while children tried to operate toy broomsticks in unified positions. But her heart did kind of break for her friend, who gave a small sigh as she anticipated another refusal to attend.

It had not been the first time that Ginny had asked for Hermione to join her. Hermione had used every excuse in the book.

Vet appointments. Head colds. Tooth aches. Visits to her parents in Melbourne.

And each time Ginny had done that sad little sigh and bid her adieu.

So she’s not even sure why on that Saturday, she agreed. As she bundled a scarf under her neck and gave Crookshanks one solid scratch underneath his chin, she tried to put herself in a good mood.

She liked children. They were the next generation. They were the most vulnerable people on earth, mere sponges at the mercy of the hustle and bustle of humanity, they were the ones everyone should be protecting. Hermione knew all of that logically. She would never say she disliked children—never ever. How could you dislike something so innocent?

She just wasn’t around them enough to know how to interact with them.

From the moment they’d thrust a diapered newborn James into her arms and reminded her numerous times to support his head, Hermione or no like this, Hermione or that’s just spit up, Hermione, it means he likes you, she’d determined that children, or perhaps motherhood in general was something she was resolve to categorise as Not For Her.

The category was small. She could do all sorts of things. She’d done all sorts of things.

Newborn James shitting out the sides of said diaper and onto her jeans just put it all into perspective.

Children were one thing she was not good at.

So, with the anticipatory promise of spending time around several children, Hermione plastered on a smile and apparated to the coordinates Ginny had excitedly prattled off earlier that morning when she promised to show face for just a bit.

And then her apparation had put her right on top of Draco Malfoy.

‘Oof!’ they grunted in unison, falling down to the ground as her face went into his chest.

‘Merlin’s saggy fucking nut,’ Hermione grumbled against the fabric, pain shooting from her left arm, which was somehow under Malfoy.

‘That a bad word,’ a small voice said to her left.

Hermione smoothed her hair out of her face to see a miniature version of Malfoy, smaller even then when she’d known him in his youth. The little boy had a furrowed brow as he looked down at the woman atop his older doppleganger.

‘Right you are, darling,’ Malfoy grunted from where he lay underneath Hermione.

Darling?

‘Daddy says no bad word.’

Daddy?

Malfoy nodded solemnly, bracing his hands on either of Hermione’s shoulders and pushing her up and off him. Her arm got stuck so she braced her other hand on his chest which was – oh gods, so…broad. Rippled. The muscle was evident even through the thin cotton of his long sleeve.

‘Fuck a really bad word.’

‘Scorpius, buddy—gods,’ Malfoy rasped, a surprised laugh floating out of his lips as he looked at the little boy who slapped a hand over his mouth. Scorpius’s eyes started to well with tears.

‘I– I–’ Scorpius stuttered on a watery throat.

Malfoy blew out a sigh before flicking his attention back to where Hermione sat perched atop him.

‘Granger, I—do you mind?’

Hermione realised she was still bracketing his hips, one hand on his chest, as she froze with her other underneath him. She started mumbling an apology when Malfoy braced a hand on her hip, then rolled them so she was partially on her side. Her arm slid out easily, though Hermione couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the grind of their pelvises against one another.

Tears started to spill over the little darling’s eyes and down his cheeks.

Hermione scrambled off, putting space between her and Malfoy’s cores. He sat up with ease, bracing on his knees before he was kneeling in front of the little boy.

‘I know it was an accident, buddy, don’t cry,’ Malfoy whispered.

‘Daddy, I–’

‘I know you just wanted to tell the lady which word was bad so she wouldn’t say it again, right?’

Scorpius nodded, tears still falling as he looked at his father with matching eyes. Malfoy nodded back, before he looked over his shoulder at Hermione who was, for lack of a better word to describe it, gaping at what was unfolding before her.

Malfoy was a father. A soft-spoken father.

‘What do you say, Granger? No more bad words, right?’

Hermione’s jaw was still slack, and then Malfoy raised his eyebrows at her, and she was nodding back, closing her lips as her gaze flickered to the little boy who was staring at her with wide eyes.

‘Yes– yes, I – I am so sorry for saying bad words, Scor–’ stuttered Hermione.

‘Scorpius,’ Malfoy supplied.

‘I am very sorry, Scorpius. Do you think you can forgive me?’

Scorpius sniffed and then quickly ran a hand over his eyes. When he looked back at Hermione, his cheeks were pink.

‘Yes,’ he said simply, nodding once and then fixing his face into a very serious look.

Malfoy remained looking at Hermione for just a moment longer before he turned back and cupped his son’s face in his hands. He hauled him forward and then proceeded to make exaggerated kissing sounds until the little boy erupted into giggles, limbs flying as he dropped the serious stance.

Hermione watched the display for a moment, feeling her lips tug up as the giggling grew louder until she realised she was staring at Draco Malfoy. She averted her gaze away.

Just a moment after her eyes left them, the boy still giggling, Malfoy pushed off his knees and stood to his full height. Hermione, in the years that passed since she’d last seen him, had forgotten how tall he had been—a full head above her, and now in those years she’d missed, he’d bloomed wider, becoming a man, shoulders stretching and defined through the fabric of his t-shirt.

She swallowed thickly.

Malfoy had pressed a hand to the side of Scorpius’s head, instructing him to go run to meet the rest of the team, and the little one took off, pumping his legs as hard as he could and not gaining much speed as he aimed for his destination.

Then Malfoy was levelling his attention on her.

‘Hermione Granger,’ he drawled, pushing his hair back from his eyes.

‘Hullo,’ she huffed, standing up. She dusted her pants off, trying to tug all her clothes where they’d gone askew in her tackle of him upon entry.

‘Hello,’ he echoed, syllables drawn long as a smile tugged on his lips.

‘I– er, I’m sorry about—well, all of that.’

Malfoy’s grin grew wider, and he looked off, shrugging his shoulders up.

‘Quite the potty mouth,’ he tutted low.

Despite herself, she let off a laugh.

His smile was disarming—wide and warm, and his cheeks and tips of his ears were dusted pink. Hermione knew she was in trouble as her own lips twitched.

Just like that, her Saturdays were no longer hers.

“Still on for the game?” says Hermione as she reaches across the table to grab the glitter glue. Ginny watches, shifting Lily in her arms, an amused glint brewing in her eyes.

12 Grimmauld Place is cosy this Tuesday evening, a light rainfall pattering outside though spring has technically sprung in Islington. Hermione floos over once she’s wrapped up for the day, meeting Ginny at her home, where she’s recently taken to stopping occasionally every few weeknights. James belts out her name when the flames clear, tumbling against her legs upon her entry. It’s a welcome tradition, one that always makes Hermione let off a laugh as she greets the little boy.

They’d grown closer since she started routinely showing up to practices each Saturday, then going with Ginny, James and a few other parents and coaching staff to grab some lunch. Though at the lunches, she didn’t see much of the little boy with his dishevelled and sweaty hair, as he sat at the other end of the table with his teammates, flicking mash and peas while the adults exchanged jokes about the other parents on the team.

Normally, she found herself pushed between Ginny and Malfoy, though Ginny had recently started bringing Arthur Jr. along so she’d step away to breastfeed. This meant that Hermione was usually turned to face Malfoy, their heads quite near—to hear over all the chatter, of course!—as he explained in his low timbre about a very loose strategy to take the little ones on the team to their ultimate glory—or at the very least ensure they got a pizza party at the end of the season.

Sometimes, Scorpius, overwhelmed by the nature of the other children, would squish between them in the booth, deciding that in spite of her potty mouth, Miss Mione, as he’d taken to calling her, was an okay person after all. He’d shoot her little mischievous grins, or point at his colouring page and ask her in a conspiratorial voice if she’d be up for a game of noughts and crosses.

He was a sweet boy.

‘Very sensitive,’ Malfoy had admitted once, as they stood together on the sideline after practice.

It was cold, dreary weather and they were close together, nearly huddled, shoulder to shoulder as they watched the leftover children bumble about on legs that could barely support their body weight. Scorpius watched a ways off, kneeling down and picking at the grass as the rest of the children giggled.

‘Just like his father then,’ she’d chided, knocking an elbow into his side.

Malfoy huffed but bumped her back with his hip as he laughed with her.

‘I wasn’t sensitive, Granger, gods.’

‘You were incredibly sensitive, Malfoy.’

‘Maybe I just didn’t fancy punches in the face.’

‘I’ve apologised for this,’ she responded quickly, rolling her eyes with a flick of her wrist.

It was true. She had apologised for that, and Malfoy had apologised for every other thing that was sour between them. He’d leaned in – in a similar fashion to his son, though he was taller and when he came into her space, unlike his son, his lips were near her ear, and his cologne was cloistering her senses. When he whispered that first apology – as there had been many, many to follow, the low thrum of his voice had caused a flurry of goosebumps to spill across her spine.

‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said that first time, voice a smoky rasp, half-muffled over the chatter surrounding them as his head leaned in towards her. ‘I keep trying to find a time to say it but…never feels right.’

She had had to suck in a few gulps of air before she could manage any coherent response. But she had responded, and even worked up the courage to tilt her head towards him. His eyes caught the light, twinkling as she made some quip she couldn’t even remember now.

So, things were good between them, she thought. Past in the past and all that.

‘Ah,’ he’d sighed as he stood next to her on the pitch, pulling her from the memory, that silly grin still plastered on his face. ‘I’m just giving you shit, Granger.’

‘Hopefully he doesn’t tease girls like his father one day,’ she’d laughed in response.

‘Well, like his father, I’m sure he’ll only tease the pretty ones.’

And before the words could sink in, a tiff exploded on the field. James had taken Yue’s chocolate frog, and it was all so very serious that there were many tears and Malfoy was off to get them all to make nice.

While she watched his arse where he was bent across the field, head tilting as her teeth found her bottom lip to gnaw on, his words sank claws slowly into her brain.

It was nice, Hermione had once admitted to herself—very late at night and when she was alone under the steam of her baths—to have conversation on Saturdays, and well, Malfoy was very good at that sort of thing—conversation that is—and making Hermione feel like she was a part of the team, despite only being a tack on to the Potters.

Hermione is coaxed from her thoughts by the clearance of a throat.

“Yeah, Mione, the game is still on,” Ginny responds, a knowing grin tugging on her lips.

Hermione, hearing that little flicker of something in Ginny’s voice, looks up from her creation, catching Ginny’s smirk with a furrow of her brow. She releases her bottom lip from where she’d been gnawing it between her teeth and looks pointedly at her friend. “What?”

“Oh, you know what,” Ginny teases with a giggle.

“What?” Hermione repeats, blowing a curl out of her face.

“Hermione, please just…take in what you are doing right now.”

She pauses, looking down.

What is Ginny on about?

Hermione’s eyes flicker over the several cardboard boxes that she’s cut to spell out ‘Hampstead Hodags’. They looked rather grand, if she could be honest, and Malfoy had been excited once she suggested the idea for the parents to hold them at the upcoming game. She’d spent the last two hours ensuring they were all even, as even with magic she was struggling to ensure they’d remained the same height. Coated in alternating shades of blue and gold to represent the team colours, she was about to start adding the glitter glue to catch the shadows, but she wasn’t sure whether the team was going to be facing east or west, as she’d forgotten to mention it to Malfoy at the last practice. They’d gotten distracted chatting about James’ new broom, and anyhow the direction would affect the shadows and frankly how the sun reflected off of them so maybe she should just—

Her eyes look up to find both Ginny and her daughter looking at her, though Ginevra has a shit-eating grin hung plain on her lips.

“Oh,” Hermione exhales simply. “Oh. Oh, no.”

Ginny giggles. Lily nods her tiny head in solidarity.

Hermione, horrified at herself, lets her forehead drop against the still-wet paint with a dull thunk! uncaring as it smears against her head, a low groan tumbling from her chest.

“Granger, wait up!”

She pauses instantly, whipping around to find Malfoy jogging her direction. He has a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, matting his hair there.

She sucks in a breath.

“What is it?” she responds evenly.

“Scorpius was wondering if you wanted to go for ice cream.”

Hermione’s mind tilts as his words hit her.

“I—”

She looks over her shoulder at where Ginny is struggling to wrangle both Art and Lily off the stands. Her attention turns back to Malfoy, and she gives him a sheepish smile.

“I should—I should help Gin, she’s—” Hermione motions in the general direction and Malfoy turns.

“Oh, I mean, invite them too,” Malfoy says, still looking over his shoulder as the scene descends into further chaos.

“I’m not sure–”

“One sec,” Malfoy huffs, not glancing back at Hermione as he goes to Ginny, offering his arms out to take Art.

Ginny doesn’t even pause, just passes the little one to him. He bounces him against his chest as he slips his hand in Lily’s, the toddling girl shaky on her legs. Then Malfoy is leaning down and picking her up in his arm– just swooping right up and both of the youngest Potters are leaning against either shoulder as he strolls back to Hermione.

She blinks slowly.

“Yes, so, as I was saying, I think Scorpius would benefit from hanging around more children so invite the Potters,” he says easily, as Art tries to insert a hand into his mouth.

“Do you want me to take one?” Hermione asks, mystified, but Malfoy chuckles, only hiking them higher against himself. Malfoy mocks biting at Art’s hand which makes both children erupt into a peel of laughter.

“No, no,” he says, looking at Lily with a smile. “To be honest, I always wanted more than one. It’s almost fun to juggle them.”

“This…is…fun for you?”

He glances sidelong at Hermione, face still turned towards Lily who’s got her hand over his nose. It makes him sound like a clown as he responds, “Sure. Kids are great.”

A great fireball explodes inside of Hermione. There’s a nostalgic sort of sadness dripping down her spine that then spreads around and settles square in her midsection. It’s like her ovaries are clenching repeatedly as she watches him happily jostle the two little ones. On the second clench, it blooms up – taking residence in her heart, and she has to press a hand to her sternum as she’s overcome.

Gods, he looks so bloody hot.

She’d considered herself a feminist. Always. But the sight of him behaving competently with kids unleashes some deeply buried yearning she’d not thought herself capable of.

She should not find it hot for him to behave competently with children. That was terribly…misogynistic? misandrist? Practically putting the bar in hell for things men could do to be impressive.

And yet, as he makes the children erupt into another peel of giggles, she’s overcome with a distinct urge to take him into a dark corner and show him just how great she thinks this attribute is.

“Oh,” Hermione responds dumbly, pushing down the thought like she’s pushing in on her chest.

Malfoy turns his head to look at her fully now. “You alright? Look a bit peaky.”

“Fine, I– I’m fine.”

“So ice cream, then? My treat,” offers Malfoy as he gives her a crooked grin, right before Lily squeezes on his nose again.

The laugh that Malfoy lets loose makes that primal, terribly sexual, unknown thing clench inside of Hermione again, and then she’s nodding yes and Malfoy’s lips pull up even higher, and nothing at all makes any bloody sense.

“Oh bollocks, I forgot about Sammy’s birthday party,” Ginny says as she takes a hurried bite from her strawberry cone. “Come along now, come on. Say goodbye.”

The kids, who have engaged in a game of some sort of tag that also requires the participants to be holding a blade of grass of a particular length in order for amnesty if caught, follow James’ lead when he lets off a loud groan.

“But–but…I wanna play with Scorp!”

“Baaa!” war cries Lily as her gaze flickers from her mother to her brother.

Art babbles as he is plucked from Malfoy’s arms. Scorpius flushes and nods profusely, but doesn’t say anything to undermine the adult.

Ginny shoots her eldest a serious look. “I know, we had a lot of fun hanging out with Scorpius today but we will have fun with Sam–”

“No, I wanna play with Scorpius,” cries James, tears pricking at the corner of his vision. He takes a half-step to the side and slings an arm protectively over the little blonde boy’s shoulders. He challenges his mother to a stare-off.

Ginevra Molly Potter (née Weasley) takes an early lead, furrowing her brow.

James Sirius Potter, knowing his strengths, juts out his small chin as he pouts his lips.

The Dark Horse out of left field: Lily Luna Potter, spinning so quickly without direction that Ginny’s gaze falls to her, if only in time to take a sharp intake of breath as the little girl roughly connects with the ground. Ginny blinks to keep from screaming, and the toddler – totally fine without an intense reaction from her mother – ambles up and starts to totter away.

The adults all let off a shaky sigh of relief as Ginny brings her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes and losing the game. James, it appears, knows that he’s won. He beams next to his friend and starts to shake Scorpius’s shoulders as he tells him all about the birthday cake they’ll devour.

“Ugh, Malfoy, I don’t suppose you’ll let me steal your son for a few hours. They’ve got a muggle bouncy house scheduled and loads of sugar, it’ll be a fun afternoon.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows draw together.

“My thanks Ginevra but I’m not sure they’d take too well to you extending the invite to me–”

“I can take him,” she scoffs like that much was obvious. She’s fastened Art into a swaddle at her chest but looks back up, catching Malfoy’s expression. Then softer, she adds: “He’s such a sweetie, Malfoy. He’d probably be a better influence on my kids than their own father.”

Hermione and Ginny snicker, but Malfoy remains paused.

“Are you– are you sure…I don’t think he’s ever…been without me,” Malfoy says slowly, watching as Scorpius and James begin running around once again. He raises a hand, and Scorpius seems to instantly alert to it, shuffling over as he runs with locked arms at his sides.

“Mrs Potter offered to let you go to a birthday party with James. Would you like to do that?”

Scorpius immediately begins nodding, a look of joy crossing over his features.

“I won’t be there,” Malfoy tacks on, slowly and deliberately like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb.

Scorpius’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second, but then James is screeching his name and asking him to come back so they can finish their game. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder then back to his dad.

“You’ll be good, won’t you?” Malfoy asks, and the little boy nods so hard his hair shakes.

“No bad words. No lying. No yelling. And you listen to what Mrs Potter says even if James says not to.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Ok, my darling,” Malfoy says as he shuffles the boy near to him. He plants a flutter of kisses on his head and into his hair before he releases him. “Have fun, okay?”

Scorpius nods, cheeks pink, as he turns and walks back to James, who is not hiding his excitement but rather dancing in some silent mimicry of his father.

“Let me just grab my stuff–” Hermione starts to say, getting up to join Ginny. Though she hadn’t intended to attend a party for a five-year-old today, she figures Ginny could use the extra hands what with the addition of Scorpius.

“What are you doing? Shoo! I don’t need you.”

“What?” Hermione sputters, but Ginny is giving her a mean look, one brow lifted up high as her gaze flickers between Hermione and something over Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione follows the path and sees Malfoy in Ginny’s line of vision, looking off as he watches James teach his son how to (poorly) dance.

“If you don’t climb that like a tree, so-help-me–” Ginny hisses in a whisper.

Hermione’s head whips back, aghast. “Gin – Art is right there!”

“Hermione, gods, he’s a baby. He has no idea. But if it makes you feel better,”—Ginny uses both her hands to create ear muffs over Art’s ears, who begins to giggle and coo at the touch—“I implore you to spend time alone with him and discuss his broomstick.”

Hermione goes a flushed colour, not too dissimilar from the sorbet she’d just inhaled. She licks her lips, a faint taste of the sweet concoction lingering still and briefly wonders how she looks.

“And I know you’ve seen those thighs,” Ginny adds, which makes her friend grow heated and unbalanced under the insinuation. She has noticed his thighs. And his arse. And his rippling pectorals through the fabric of his dri-fit muggle shirts he wore for practises.

She should really just solidify her depravity and start barking at him to get her point across.

Ginny seems to sense this (that is—Hermione’s imminent and swift spiralling) and releases the baby’s head, reaching out and running one pass over Hermione’s hair.

“Just…ask him for coffee or something. It’ll all fall into place.”

“What if he says no?”

Ginny barks a laugh, which garners Malfoy’s attention as he steps back into the conversation.

He asks, “What?”

Meanwhile, Ginny states plainly, “No way.”

Hermione is left stuttering on her words. And she remains silent, masticating her inner cheek right through the moment Ginny disappears with the four-under-four in tow.

“Wow,” Malfoy says on exhale. “She almost makes it look easy.”

“Yes,” squeaks Hermione.

Then she’s turning over her shoulder and is preparing to say something—hoping and praying that anything comes out, when her eyes connect with his and it’s like she’s been punched in the chest.

“Do you–” Malfoy starts to ask.

At the same time, Hermione finally lets loose a “I should really be–”

They both fall silent.

And it’s so awkward, and not how it's been between them in the recent months they’ve spent more time together, that after a three-second-long interlude of shared silence, they both erupt in a laugh.

“I was going to ask if you’d like to come back with me.”

“Oh!” Hermione cries, because that was quite a step from where she’d been trying to evacuate the situation.

“I think I owe you for all the hard work you’ve put into the team these recent months.”

Hermione gulps.

“Oh?” she repeats, with enough inflection for Malfoy’s lip to twitch.

“Yeah. Let me help you relax, Granger.”

“Oh.” Hermione nods profusely, cheeks heated. He got straight to the point, didn’t he?

“C’mon then. This will have to be a quickie.”

Hermione, having gone certifiably insane in the last minute of her life, feels like she is going to pass out. But Malfoy slips a hand into hers, and she does well to ignore the flip of her stomach, then the park disappears in a whirlwind of colour as he apparates them away.

She doesn’t know why she expected Malfoy Manor’s looming facade when the world slipped back into view. She and Malfoy had enough conversations to know he’d long moved away from there — rather residing in a manor in Whitecroft. Malfoy had described it to her once, talking about how there was a large yard for Scorpius, and it didn’t feel like the memory of Astoria lingered too heavily in the ley lines of the foundation.

Not that Malfoy wanted to forget his wife, but—he’d always paused—moving on was the only way he could be a good example for Scorpius.

So they’d moved and Malfoy threw himself into everything else; volunteering to coach the little league team, organising bake sales, hosting luncheons, donating wealth and time, trying to be a good person and a better father, keeping Astoria’s memory alive in a way that didn’t dampen the light in Scorpius’s eyes.

“Granger,” says Malfoy, squeezing her hand.

Hermione shifts, the world coming back into view, and feels her cheeks flush.

“Sorry I—I’ve never seen your home in person.”

“Now is as good a time as ever.”

Are they really going to do this? A quickie while he finally has a babysitter? Hermione tries to pull on any sense of rationale but comes up short.

She definitely wants to fuck him. She just hasn’t anticipated it being today, that is, right now.

Had she even shaved this morning? Then, a half second later, she remembers the whole magic coursing through her veins thing and sardonically pulls from memory about a hair depilatory charm.

“Let me give you a tour,” Malfoy hums to her silence.

He keeps a firm grip on her hand, pulling her through a front door that swings open without any command from him. The foyer is cosy, the crackle of fire soundtracking the motions of Malfoy releasing her hand and pulling off her coat for her. He hangs it from a hook, smiling at her all the while as he takes off his own clothes.

His jacket. As he took off his jacket, he smiled at Hermione.

Merlin.

Malfoy presses a hand into the small of her back, pointing out rooms and describing things in brief. Hermione tries to listen, but all of her focus is caught up on how she shouldn’t be focusing on the point where his body connects with hers. She is frankly losing on that front.

When they enter the kitchen, he pulls his wand out and conjures a bottle of wine. He gives Hermione one of his signature smiles, the kind that meets his eyes and creates a crease at the corners.

“I know that you like white,” he starts.

“Oh. How?”

“Ginny said—“ then he pauses, swallowing his words.

“Did you—did you and Ginny plan this?”

“What? No. I—I asked her a few weeks ago, just to see. You know? So I would have what you liked at my house if ever you came by—not that I thought you’d come by! I meant, with the Potters, of course. I also asked what Ginevra liked, but she told me she drinks whatever is strong enough and within reach so…” Malfoy trails off.

Hermione blinks at him.

“Right.”

“Right,” Malfoy agrees, crossing to the bottle and beginning the silent task of opening it. She wonders if he has a house elf or if he does all the work himself.

“Yes, we have a house elf, Granger,” Malfoy says without turning to look at her.

She sputters. “Did I—have I said that bit out loud?”

He laughs, a cheeky grin visible in his voice, even with his back still to her. “No, Granger. I know you well enough to predict what you’re thinking.”

That is quite terrible news. She thinks of all the compromising positions she’d thought of Malfoy in and swallows sharply.

“You don’t know my thoughts.” Hermione whispers, because she was really just an idiot, she guesses, as this response only serves to rile Malfoy, who turns over his shoulder and meets her eyes.

“I’m afraid I do. Your face does little to hide whatever’s got your attention,” Malfoy starts, then turns back for just a moment to pluck the glasses up in each of his hands, and crosses towards her. He extends one, which Hermione accepts, trying to manoeuvre in such a way that their skin doesn’t collide, but it does, and there’s sparks. She bites her lip.

Malfoy sucks in a breath. “And then you do that.”

Hermione looks up at him, realising how close they are—how the scent of him hangs in the space all around her.

“What?”

“Bite your lip. You’re always biting your lip.”

“I’m…sorry?” she offers.

Malfoy pauses, eyes flickering, brewing, something bubbling behind the scenes. He blows out the breath, escaping his chest in a wan chuckle.

“Drink the wine, Hermione.”

She takes a sip.

They finish the bottle quickly. Malfoy’s taken her into the living room, smiling as they drop onto either end of the couch. The worry and hesitation she had felt has quickly melted into the familiarity that she’s come to ache for with Malfoy.

She’s relieved at least that the promise of sex won’t shake whatever their comfort is with one another. Maybe she could do the whole friends with benefits thing.

Though it looks more convoluted since Scorpius is involved. She really does like the kid and doesn’t want to make anything confusing for him.

And for some reason, Malfoy’s not making a move off the couch. She keeps waiting for him to lean into her. Every time he reaches across towards the coffee table, Hermione finds herself licking her lips in anticipation—like he might just spring on her in surprise.

He doesn’t. Instead, topping off her glass and then his own. This little dance happens each time, until the bottle is empty and then Malfoy is leaned back—wiping his fingers at the corner of his mouth like he’ll be able to wipe that grin that lays there.

“Granger, you’re going to kill me,” he says with a little laugh.

She thinks the same.

“We don’t have much time,” she responds, out loud. Trying to have some courage. She’s a grown woman. She could fuck a man and not have it mean anything.

His gaze shifts to the clock, and he seems to register something.

“Right, I guess I should get going.”

“What?”

Malfoy looks at her, eyes wide at her outburst, and sits up from his lean against the cushion.

“I imagine Ginny wants me to pick up Scorpius now?” He says it like a question. Like even he’s unsure if it’s the normal procedure. It’s so endearing that she wants to rip his head off.

“You’ve…you said you wanted to relax. For—" she swallows, “—a quickie?”

“Yes, well, we’ve had the whole bottle.” He looks away, towards a bar cart against the far wall, then back at her with a sheepish gaze. “Did you want another?”

Another?

Something significant snaps in Hermione’s mind, and then she’s laughing. Like a truly mad woman cackling on Malfoy’s lovely sofa. She throws her head back, because of course, of course he hadn’t intended for the same kind of quickie as Hermione had. Of course, he was keeping them neatly in their predetermined boxes for one another.

They were friends. Nothing more.

And Hermione, insane fucking Hermione, thinking he’d want to bend her over this lovely sofa the second he had an inkling of freetime—oh gods, she laughs some more. She is utterly ridiculous. Hopeless.

“So…no?” asks Malfoy as her behaviour edged manic.

Hermione rights her posture, bringing her freehand up to wipe a tear from her eye.

“Oh, Malfoy.”

He tilts his head at her. “What?”

“I thought,”—another laugh bubbles up and she grins at him—“I thought you meant another kind of quickie.”

He narrows his gaze, shaking his head a little as a smirk pulls on his lips. Like he doesn’t quite get it. It makes her laugh again.

“Gods,” she says, though the amusement has made way for something deeper.

Hermione thinks about how he’s probably never thought about her in that way, and she feels…embarrassed? She’d done plenty of imagining of Draco Malfoy and his strong arms or the timbre he got when he felt like he needed to protect one of the children on his team. She’d thought of plenty of scenarios when she was curled in her sheets at night, imagining the way he’d feel underneath her, how her breast would feel against his calloused palm. She had thought about him wanting more, about the things he would say in her ear when he was stretching her out, wanting to press himself deeper, bury inside of her to make that dream of his come true.

She is embarrassed that she wants that—and more. How her proclivities had changed. How she could imagine Saturday mornings spent with little hands reaching for pancake batter, how she could see herself making signs—all the fucking signs and t-shirts and crochetted scarves for every game of Scorpius’s until he begged her to stop embarrassing him.

And she knows stupidly, that none of that was promised with the word quickie. But the wine is making her emotional, and the pining is not defined by anything close to friendship, and that look on his face makes her ache in other places.

“Fucking,” she clarifies with a slow drawl. Enunciating each part with a barely concealed venom.

Then his smile drops, and he’s looking at her, watching her laugh with something akin to fire in his gaze.

“You...you want that?” he asks.

Hermione takes the last swig of her wine, swallowing in an unrefined chug before she leans forward and sets it down on the table. She gets up from the couch, walking on steady legs towards the bar cart and lets herself continue chuckling. Because she’d buggered it completely, sanity snapping clean in two.

Yes, she wants that. She wants a lot more than that.

Hermione has her hand wrapped around the neck of a handle of brandy and brings it up to her lips. She should care that this is kind of (read: absolutely) pathetic – one bottle of wine and she’s all but weeping over the wizard at her rear, but she doesn’t really drink any more, so the alcohol she has imbibed is having a horrifically grating effect on her senses.

“You want that?” he repeats, voice husky in a way that makes her eyes close tight, apparently hellbent on Hermione’s suffering.

She turns quickly, eyes wide and finds that he’s standing up off the couch, running a hand through his hair. She takes another drink of brandy.

Fuck it. She’ll be courageous.

“Yes,” she says simply, setting the bottle down. She thinks if she takes another sip, she’ll vomit, and currently, she feels like she’s reached a happy plateau—admitting that she wants to shag him without letting the prickling tears escape that tell all there is to tell about how embarrassed she feels to admit as much out loud.

“Granger,” murmurs Malfoy. She cringes—the totality of it hitting her.

“I should go.”

“Wh–”

“Just…I think the wine has gotten to me. I’m...sorry.”

“Wait, Hermione, I–” Malfoy reaches out, his hand ghosting across the skin of her inner wrist, and she draws back immediately, a gasp leaving her lips. He instantly retracts, a strange look passing over his features.

“Really. We don’t even need to mention this—like ever again.”

And before he can respond, she takes a step back and apparates out of his house.

Hermione misses three Saturdays.

On the Friday before the fourth, as she’s taking a sip of wine after a particularly mundane day of work, her floo fires up and out topples a wide-eyed James.

Hermione stares at him as he stares back at her, and then a moment later, Ginny materialises. She looks down at her son and then back up at her friend.

“Did you tell her?”

“No,” James responds instantly, pink flushing his cheeks.

“James, hi,” Hermione finally manages.

“I’m gonna be the seeker.”

“Oh! Oh, dear! That’s wonderful!”

“You come to my game?”

“Ah, um.” Hermione looks up at Ginny, who is staring at her pointedly.

“It’s the second to last one, Herms,” Ginny adds.

“Yeah,” supplies James with a fervent nod.

“Well—I, uh…I might have something tomorrow already.”

“James, why don’t you go find Crookshanks?”

“Ok!”

James runs off.

Hermione tries to ignore the weighted stare of her friend. She manages one sip in the time it takes for Ginny to flop onto the seat next to her before the glass is pried from her hands. Ginny chugs the remaining alcohol, then sets it down, her eyes cutting to Hermione with intent.

“Mind explaining?”

“I– I’m just busy, Gin–”

“Was it that bad?”

“What?”

“You know. The proverbial knocking of snake-skinned boots.”

“What?”

“I send you off for an afternoon of child-free shagging, and then you all but disappear from my life. If you’re upset with me, let me know.”

“I– I haven’t– Ginny,” Hermione’s voice cuts to a whisper. “I haven’t done any shagging.”

“But…what?”

“I didn’t shag him.”

“Why not?!”

“He didn’t want to!”

“Oh, that is such bullsh–”

“Ginevra!”

“What do you mean you didn’t shag him? You two have been circling one another for months now.”

“We have not been–”

“Please. Spare me.” Ginny begins to pinch her brow before she thinks twice. She reaches forward and uncorks the bottle of wine, filling the glass so it touches the rim, and then takes another long sip.

“I think perhaps you’ve got your wires crossed. He…he was a complete gentleman, and I was so desperate.”

The memory resurfaces now. Malfoy’s voice asking Hermione if she’d really want that. The realisation that she wanted far more from him. A fresh hue of crimson floods her cheeks, and she refrains from slamming her face against the couch cushion which calls for her shame.

She hated feeling out of control—and she further hated embarrassing herself. She quite liked the steps she’d taken in her womanly charms, referring to the seduction of men and general air of confidence. It all went out the window now, as she remembers herself alluding to fucking when Malfoy had merely meant a friendly drink.

She sinks into herself and the couch.

“Hermione, please. Just…please. Come tomorrow. Malfoy is running out of ways to ask about you and I’m running out of excuses.”

“He’s asked—”

Ginny groans.

“Of bloody course he’s asked about you. Stupid. Stupid girl.”

“What is happening?”

“Come to the game tomorrow.”

Ginny swallows the remaining liquid then calls for her son, who runs out with red cheeks.

“Hiding,” he says simply, hair mussed as he breathes raggedly.

In the distance, there is a long-suffering meow.

“Tomorrow. Be there. In your cute little mildly cropped Hodags shirt. Or I will murder you.”

“Murder,” repeats James.

“Come on, little boy. I’ve promised you a baked good for your charming.”

“You’re weaponising his cuteness?”

Ginny shrugs. James beams. They disappear in green flames shortly thereafter.

Hermione allows her face to connect with the couch cushion, which calls her cowardly name.

She wears the fucking shirt.

She tries to ignore that she woke up early to try on several different outfits. At one point, convincing herself that if she wore dress robes, she could escape early under the guise of previously promised plans.

Her room looks like a tornado had blown through it before she finally chucks on the outfit Ginny suggested, pulling on jeans and stuffing her feet into a pair of trainers. Her hair is not cooperating, because of course, why would something go her way? She ignores her reflection before disapparating.

She arrives too early (again, of course), so she saunters to the stands slowly. Only a few parents are there, in various degrees of slathering sunscreen and adjusting safety pads to the children that are still half-asleep. Hermione sucks in a breath, trying to calm her steady, beating heart.

This is stupid. She is being stupid. She should not have this level of adrenaline over a little league quidditch game.

“Granger?”

Her heart drops to her stomach.

Turning around put Malfoy in her view, a grey hoodie covering his chest, a baseball hat shielding his eyes from view. But his gaze is apparently locked on her as he takes up somewhat of a jog to get nearer to her.

Well, he looks bloody fantastic. She excuses her gawking of his form away as merely responding to his call of her name. Deep down, of course, something seizes inside of her.

“I— hi.”

“Hi,” he says, lips pulling up on one end.

“I was just–”

“Where were you?”

“What?”

“You haven’t been around.”

“Oh, well, I mean—life. I was mostly coming to keep Ginny company.”

“Right,” says Malfoy, letting her words marinate for a moment as he looks over the top of her head. She draws in an audible breath, which makes him look back down at her. “Actually, would you mind helping me with something?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low but firm, and she leaned in, inadvertently getting smacked in the face by that clean, warm smell of his cologne. “Just a moment,” he adds with a grin.

“Sure. Yes. Uh, yeah.” She bites down on her lip to stop the steady stream of idiocy that threatens to continue to spring from her tongue.

Malfoy nods once, slowly, as he watches her before he’s throwing a glance over his shoulder. He calls to a dad huddled on the field with the players who have begun gathering for warm-ups (read: screaming, running, crying) and states he’ll be back in a second. Hermione ponders on why he hadn’t just asked that guy to assist him, but the thought quickly dissipates to colours and sound because Malfoy puts his hand on her lower back, leading them away from the pitch.

As they walk in silence, Hermione feels she should apologise, or further explain. Each time she opens her mouth, though, she just feels silly all over again. She quite likes being Malfoy’s friend, and she thinks he is a good dad.

Obviously, her feelings stem from some comeuppance with her own fertility; she’d never wanted children, but now—maybe. Maybe with the right partner. She really loves James, Lily, and Art. She admires the way Scorpius behaves, the way he idolises Malfoy—the relationship that the little boy has with his father is…enlightening. And Malfoy is just so…involved. She thinks holidays would be different if she had someone, or some ones of her own to spend the time with. It's nice. She hadn’t spent so much time around kids and really had settled with the fact that she didn’t need them to feel complete, that they weren’t a part of her life’s own fabric. And that was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

She didn’t feel incomplete. Just…open to the consideration of more.

She had begun to think she had some sort of depraved kink for competent fathers. Despite herself, despite reason and logic and all of it, she is struck with some desire for Malfoy even now, with his hand on her lower back as they disappear around the corner towards a supply shed behind the pitch.

He hasn’t brought up anything, so perhaps it is for the best. Maybe he would just heed her earlier statement, that is—never mentioning it again.

Malfoy’s hand leaves her back, and she looks up at him. He casts another glance over her shoulder before he puts one hand on the handle but doesn’t pull it open.

“Granger,” he says slowly. Hermione watches the way his lips form her name, and that thing clenches inside of her.

Horrendous of her, really.

“Malfoy, I should—apologise. Properly.”

His head tilts.

“I really behaved in an…unbecoming way at your home.”

His brow furrows. “Unbecoming?” he repeats.

“Yes. What with the whole…quickie business.”

Malfoy remains silent, silver eyes flickering between her own before he quickly looks down, watching his knuckles flex on the handle. With no effort, he pulls it open, sweeping a hand out for her to enter.

She should’ve just shut up. She shakes her head, her teeth sucking in her bottom lip to gnaw on as she goes inside. Hermione will grab whatever extra supplies he needs and then cite some excuse and leave. She won’t come back because she’s insane, unable to see reason, debauched beyond belief.

She hears him tug on the light switch, sees it sway overhead, casting long shadows across the disarrayed room.

Hermione resigns herself to as much when she turns on her heel and realises, with a slight gasp, that Malfoy is right there. The grey hoodie is the only thing she sees with how near he is to her, and she wants to say something, like what, but then his hands find her jaw, pushing up her chin and it isn’t his hoodie she’s staring at, but his eyes as they shut, and then all she feels are his lips.

Because he’s kissing her.

Kissing her like she’s the only thing that exists. Kissing and pushing against her jaw to back her up into a collection of dusty brooms. Kissing and nipping and moaning until she feels more breathless than confused, which is saying a lot because the last five seconds have her feeling positively nebulous.

Her hands knot in the material at her front, pulling him nearer when she thinks she should be shoving him off. His other hand traces up her side, leaving goosebumps along the path before he curls his slender fingers into her hair, tugging her head back with force that makes her mouth open in a gasp.

He pulls back at the sound, eyes heavy, looking down at her as she breathes raggedly, rather unfortunately, right into his mouth.

“You’re driving me insane,” he says simply.

His words, and his lips, have left her feeling breathless. She bites her lip to keep from panting, and his eyes flicker, watching the motion. He huffs a laugh, grin widening.

“What?” asks Hermione.

“You don’t even see what you do to me.”

She shakes her head. What she does to him? Did he forget her spectacular display of depraved ramblings post-vino?

Hermione opens her mouth to question as much, but then, by gods, he’s got one arm under her arse and is hiking her up against him. She, pliable, wraps her legs around his waist, and he makes a hum of satisfaction before bringing their lips back together.

She quite likes the sound and the way his hips roll forward into hers, before he walks them backwards until he’s sitting against some haphazardly stacked lawn chairs, settling her weight against his lap. A squeak escapes her; she thinks she might fall, but Malfoy’s hand slides under her bum and brings her down flush against something in his lap.

Hermione just can’t help it, she moans.

They both pause, breaths stuttered, trying to decide what that moan means for them.

On one hand, they are inside of a dingy supply shed. There is the faint scent of stale water, a generous coating of dust on all of the things, and nowhere to do anything. As it stands, or rather leans, the chair with which they are currently positioned against appears ready to fall at any given moment, an unfortunate circumstance that would put them on the floor of said shed, which looked sticky.

On the other hand, fuck it.

Malfoy seems to reach the same conclusion because he presses forward and brings their lips together again. It has a harrowing effect on her senses, so all she can do, logically, is lean in – their teeth clicking as the overhead light's sway slows.

“Granger,” says Malfoy, whispering against her lips. “I have a suggestion. Feel free to say no.”

She opens her eyes, finding his lids heavy and his attention on her.

“Maybe I was unclear in my previous attempts to make my interest known.”

“You…you’ve interest in me?”

He smiles. “Of course.”

She feels unreasonably satisfied with the response, with his lips over hers. She leans in, but Draco pulls back.

“My suggestion, if I may, Granger?”

Heat flares in her cheeks and chest as she blinks at him, waiting for him to go on.

“I’m going to fuck you in this shed.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that Hermione finds herself nodding along, like they are discussing a week’s shopping trip or the fact that the sun finally peeked from behind the otherwise dreary sky.

“A quickie. Like you said.”

“Okay.”

“And then, we’ll go for lunch, maybe dinner too. Or I’ll cook for you. Whatever you want. And then tonight, I’ll fuck you again. But…nicer. Slower. A few times.”

She tries to swallow, clearing her throat.

“That okay with you?” he asks, though his lips are curling at the blush that colours her cheeks.

“Mhm.”

“You want that, then?” he asks, pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. She feels his lips trail a path across her cheek, stopping at the lobe of her ear. “Want me to fuck you?”

His breath tickles, but she doesn’t move away, instead pressing forward, bringing her hips down against him in a way that she hopes answers the question. Malfoy drops a hand there, holding her in place.

“Tell me what you want, Granger.”

“I want that.”

“What?” he asks. Malfoy leans forward, kissing beneath her ear as his warm exhales dance along her skin.

“I want—you to fuck me.”

“Here?”

“Here,” she whines, breathless despite the deep gulps of air she sucks in anytime his lips find her skin, bringing her hands up to knot in the hair at the back of his head. It pushes his hat, which has already been knocked off kilter from their snogging, so it’s nearly up and off his head. Malfoy pulls back, taking it off and resetting it to face backwards, leaving him clear to kiss her without abandon and interference from the accessory.

“And later?” he asks with that grin.

“You can fuck me later too.”

He gives a deep laugh, grinning at her with teeth that glint in the terrible light of this shed. “I mean, lunch. You’ll stay for lunch?”

She nods, then adds, “Yes,” anyway, because she’s already established that she would like much more.

Malfoy’s grin is real, cheeks dimpling in, but there’s something about it that’s cruel and taunting.

“I should admit, I’m a bit cross with you.”

“Oh?” she supplies weakly.

“Do you even know how mad I’ve felt? Knowing I had you—in my home, thinking about being fucked by me, right fucking next to me…just for you to disappear once you’d said it out loud?”

“I’m–”

“I don’t want an apology, Granger.”

He slides her off his lap, so she stands on weak knees. Malfoy remains in his seat, hands on her hips, as he looks at her with a serious expression, pupils dark and wide.

“I want you bent over crying for my cock.”

Malfoy traces his fingers up and down before they slip along the exposed skin of her top. His hand glides up under her shirt, fingers following the outline of her bra.

“I want your arse red and swollen. I want to fuck you so you have no doubt about my intentions with you.”

She draws in a breath, feeling his fingers slip underneath the cup, palming at the flesh of her breast. He finds her nipple easily, even with the barrier of her bra pressing against her chest, and rubs the pad of his thumb, rolling it as the nub grows stiff from the touch.

“And then, I want you sitting in the stands, cunt aching, with my come leaking between your thighs.”

Her pulse quickens at his words, heart thudding in her chest. “Oh.”

“Safe word?”

Her cunt clenches, and she bites back a grin. “Kiwi.”

Malfoy nods before pinching her nipple, earning a rasped breath from her throat.

“Do me a favour?” he asks with that same tone of polite indifference he used earlier. Like he’s asking for sugar or needs her to check the mail while he’s out of town. Like he hasn’t just told her he wants to fuck her into next week.

She feels dizzy, disbelieving at the turn of this Saturday.

“Yeah?” she responds in a daze.

“Turn around.”

His hands are off her instantly, and before she can react, he’s standing to his full height. She suddenly feels small with the way he looms over her, but she moves with his command, sucking in a breath and facing away from him.

She looks down at the boxes in front of her and bends over, arms crossing in front of her to rest her head against.

“Fuck,” says Malfoy, and she tilts her head to look over her shoulder, finding his eyes glued to her arse.

“Yes?” she responds, doing a completely innocent sway of her hips from left to right. She watches the way his eyes light up before they flicker up to meet her gaze. His lips curls.

“Trying to tease me some more?”

“No.”

She hears the sound of the slap before she registers the sting. Her hips rock forward as she exclaims at the sudden contact of his palm against her arse.

“Lying is a bad habit.”

“I’m–”

His hand comes down again, hitting against her other cheek. She hisses, feeling herself grow wet as the pleasure mixes with pain.

“You like being a fucking brat, don’t you? Like walking around in your little cropped shirts. Leaning over during lunches with that coy little grin.”

She doesn’t respond, and he spanks her again, hand staying in place and massaging against the muscle.

“Yes,” she finally manages.

“I know,” Malfoy murmurs, hooking his hands on either side of her jeans. With the assistance of a shimmy from Hermione, he tugs the material down so it sits just above her knees. She feels the air hit against the cotton of her underwear, calling attention to the way she’s gone slick between her thighs.

Malfoy notices too, it seems, dragging a finger over the material that’s wet against her slit. She swallows a cry, pressing her mouth into her arms, and focuses on maintaining knees that feel weak.

He says, “I’m going to take these,” only a half second before the material rips at either hip, pulled clean away.

She starts to say something, but before she can get a word out, his finger is tracing along the seam of her cunt with no material blocking him. Her hips rock into his touch, and he slips a finger inside, cursing under his breath.

She is hopelessly wet, dripping because of all of this.

“Fuck. So pretty.”

“Please,” she begs.

“You want to come on my fingers?”

“Please, Draco.”

He pauses, and she realises she’s said his name. There is only a stilted second, but she knows he recognizes it too and a flush of embarrassment ebbs at her arousal. He presses a second in, pumping a rhythm that makes her bite against her hand once more.

“Seems like you want to come on my fingers, Hermione.”

“Uhn, no,” she hisses, voice hiking an octave when his pace increases, curling down to press against a sensitive patch inside of her. “Please—more—your cock. Oh, gods.”

“Can’t even get out a full sentence, can you? You need it that bad?”

She nods, her affirmation getting stuck on a breath that stutters in her chest. She lets out a keened moan, particularly high and needy sounding, and she can faintly hear him curse again.

“Come on, Granger.”

“I need–” her breath hitches as his thumb grazes against her clit. “I need your cock. Please.”

“You are needy,” he says, the smile clear in his voice. His fingers retract from her core and she wants to sob at the loss. When had she become so fucking…cock-hungry? Her mind reels. But then she hears material being shoved down, and one of his hands comes to circle beneath her hip, pulling her back and exposing her sex to open air.

Malfoy’s other hand pushes up the fabric of her shirt. It remains bunched near her bra, and she feels him lean over her, then his lips are on her spine. She shivers, even as her body arches back against his grip.

The anticipation is killing her, or it may well be everything else.

She tries to imagine what anyone would think about them having been gone this long. Tries to think of sitting on the bleachers, watching him like any other weekend, trying to pretend like they hadn’t done whatever it was they were about to do. She bites her lip as his hand trails over and then off of her arse. A moment later, she feels him press against her opening.

She moans as his cock slides into her with ease, her walls clenching against his length.

“Fuck, Granger,” he groans, pausing before bottoming out inside of her.

“It feels–”

“Perfect. Fucking better than I imagined.”

The admission that he’s thought of fucking her does something to her, stroking her ego while she preens at the compliment.

He catches the hint of her grin, blowing out an expletive as his free hand goes to her other hip, holding her firm and keeping her in place. It pulls him in closer to her, which seems impossible until she feels how deep he is. His cock pulses in time with the clench of her cunt, the spasms only serving to make Hermione leak.

“Want to spend hours inside of you, but–”

His grip on her hips tightens as his cock slides out, just the head inside of her.

“Got things to do.”

He rocks forward, slapping against her arse. Her back arches, meeting his thrust. Her knees weaken, trying to hold steady as he sets a punishing pace.

“P-please,” she stutters, her hand finding its way between her legs. She can feel the slap of his balls against her core, the sensation making her rock back into him. “Oh fuck, please.”

“Don’t think you want to be a brat, huh, Granger?”

His talking sends a thrill through her, the words and timbre of his voice as he speaks stilts whenever her cunt clenches, which happens with each grunt and press of his fingers hauling her arse back onto his cock. She is almost surprised that he still has the words, her brain long degraded to sensation and wordless cries with each thrust as he keeps his perfect pace.

She winds her eyes shut, as it all becomes too much. She’s on the verge of crying out when his palm wraps around her throat.

“You just need someone to fuck you good, don’t you?”

Draco pulls her up by his grip on her neck, pressing her close and holding her against his chest. Hermione’s mouth falls open as her head lulls back on him. All the while, Draco’s hips move, steady on as he fucks her.

“So fucking wet.”

“Draco,” she moans, the only discernible word amongst the series of sounds that escape her with the rhythm of his menstrations.

His hand leaves the juncture of her hip, gliding over the skin of her abdomen and down until his fingers find her clit. He draws a single digit over the crest, and she bites her lip to keep from sobbing.

Draco groans, keeping himself to the hilt inside of her, and presses her against a shelf. She reaches up, needing something to do with her hands, and loose materials fall over, though her attention is elsewhere.

“Perfect—little—pussy,” he grunts, each word partnered with a slam into her cunt. His cock is perfect, hitting the inside of her just so that she thinks she might—if he just kept—like that—

Draco’s fingers roll over her clit in a way that makes her mind go blank, and he squeezes her throat on either side, the flow of blood cut off and making her thoughts grind to a sick halt. She doesn’t have the words, all she feels, all she knows is the stretch of his cock inside of her, her walls clenching him, milking him, wanting all of him in a way she’s never wanted someone before.

Then he slaps her cunt and does another lovely stroke and the words leave her in a single breath.

“OhmygodIthinkIamcoming,” she cries while she does.

Her eyes shut as a pitched moan falls from her lips, and he’s smiling—she can hear it in his voice, the way he’s telling her fuck, yes, Granger and I can fucking feel you—while he pounds against her some more. The air comes back to her lungs at the exact time that he leans forward, releasing her throat from his hand but attaching his lips there, nipping at the skin as he asks where he can come.

“Inside,” she says weakly, gripping onto field materials like they’re her only lifeline to this reality.

“God damn, Granger, we don’t–” he hisses, fingers finding her hips as he fucks her harder. She feels his thrusts grow staggered, like he’s losing control.

And she wants that. Wants him to lose control.

She tilts her head, looking over her shoulder to where he is at her neck. All she sees is his white-blond hair as he bites against her skin here. Her voice is teasing but rasped as she speaks.

“Come inside of me, please. I want to feel it running down my–”

Draco cuts her off, capturing her lips with his own. The kiss is hard, matching the pacing of his thrusts, ravishing over her tongue, sucking into his mouth. It is wet and filthy, and she’s moaning against him as his fingers go back down to her clit, rubbing a circle that winds her up tight.

He bites down on her lip, pressing in and her body shoots forward against his hand, another orgasm making her mind spin. His thrusts slow, and she feels him spasming inside of her, the heat of his release mixing with her own arousal.

Her hands go limp, falling to where he’s connected at her core, and she laces their fingers together as he rocks slowly in and out of her. He releases her bottom lip, pressing another kiss and then another and another—light brushes of his mouth over hers.

After what feels like an eternity of this, he pulls out and the loss of him makes her shudder. Hermione sags slightly, but Draco catches her, whirling her around so she’s connected against his hoodie again.

“Was that okay?” he asks as he presses a kiss to her brow.

She retracts, looking up at him and finding his face pulled taut with pensive inquisition.

“Yes,” she sputters, flabbergasted at the question.

“I didn’t intend to be quite so…rough with you.”

She shrugs, looking over his shoulder. “Well, you were mad.”

“I–” then he laughs, a flush colouring his cheeks in the light of the shed. “I wasn’t mad at you. I was frustrated that I’d taken so long and you were convinced I wouldn’t want to…quickie you.”

“Feel free to quickie me whenever.”

“And…lunch?”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, and doesn’t miss the way his grin swells. Something in her chest seizes at the sight, so she looks away, bending slightly to tug her jeans back up. “Though next time you might leave me my underwear?”

He looks heavenward, like the idea of that causes him some grief, before glancing back at her, eyes twinkling and the hint of a laugh clear in his words. “That’s certainly a suggestion.”

“I imagine you’re probably missed.”

He shifts, glancing over his shoulder towards the door.

“I think I can justify not being there for warm-ups.”

“You shouldn’t,” she laughs, though she lets him wrap his arms around her waist, pressing her back against the shelf she’d just unceremoniously orgasmed near. “We’ve been gone too long.”

“I’m trying to maximise my time here. I only ever get you on Saturdays.”

“Maybe we should go to breakfast tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if an additional Sunday is enough for me.”

“Hm. I can spare a Monday or two.”

“Merciful witch,” he purrs, nipping at her neck.

“Let’s start with lunch. Maybe I’ll even throw you a Friday.”

Gone are her Saturdays, she doesn't mind though. Sundays turns into Mondays, and the rest of her week quickly dissolves as so: takeaway on couches becomes dinner reservations for three, little league quidditch turns into her favourite pastime next to naughts and crosses, there is more ice cream in parks than she can stomach, and the singular meows of Crookshanks in his carrier one suffering morning as the old cat is moved into a new home.

And sitting on the couch, one distant and uncharacteristically sunny Thursday afternoon, he looks over at her and asks for it all; her Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, the whole week. Her hand. Her last name for his.

It was an easy, easy yes.