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Hermione sprinted through King’s Cross Station, her carpet bag flailing wildly on the crook of her arm. 

She was going to miss the train. 

She hated being late to anything, and yet here she was, running late to the start of a new term! What was she thinking, pulling an all nighter to work on her syllabus? She was a professor now, not even a student. What kind of professor pulled all nighters? 

Hermione skidded around a large group of American tourists, sliding on her boot heels, and finally caught sight of the wall between Platforms 9 and 10. She summoned a final burst of energy and sprinted through.

The doors to the Hogwarts Express were just closing when Professor Granger leapt in, face red and curly brown hair flying. 

Good lord, she needed to do more cardio. Hermione bent over double, clutching a stitch in her side and choking. She’d made it. The train rumbled to life beneath her feet, and Hermione rummaged in her carpet bag for a bottle of water.

All around was the chatter of young witches and wizards, skipping happily through the aisles of the train, giggling and vying for seats, looking for lost toads. Hermione caught her breath and straightened up.

All these laughing, cheerful students—it was enough to make a sentimental lump form in her throat. Hermione well remembered meeting her own lifelong friends right here, on this very train. 

With a happy sigh, Hermione reached into her coat pocket. On it were her instructions for train duty.

Thank you Professor Granger for volunteering for this term’s train duty! Professors are an important part of keeping Hogwarts Express journeys safe and smooth. 

Please head to the back of the Hogwarts Express to find the Professors’ Compartment.

Professor Sprout is your fellow professor on duty for this trip. 

Professor Sprout! Hermione was looking forward to chatting about the latest research on the medicinal benefits of Devil’s Snare. She put the paper back in her pocket and stepped primly through the narrow aisles, catching her balance on brass railing as the train picked up speed. 

The Professors’ Compartment was near the end of the train. It had a green painted door and a brass plaque on the front labeling its status. 

Hermione slid open the door and her smile faltered. Professor Sprout wasn’t here. Instead, there was Professor Malfoy.

He didn’t notice her—he appeared to be peering anxiously down onto the platform, searching for something. 

“Hello,” Hermione said warily, closing the door behind her.

Malfoy spun around so quickly that he cracked his elbow on the window. 

“Hi!” he said, rubbing his elbow. “Hey. Good morning.”

Hermione gave him a thin smile and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her boots had been clicking on the floors of the hall, but in here there was carpet, and her footsteps went soft.

The compartment was small. Perhaps as a result, Malfoy seemed quite a bit taller than she remembered—he helped her with her carpet bag when she struggled to lift it overhead, tucking it easily against the back wall and resting one hand firmly on it before letting go, as though making sure it was secure.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, glancing at him. She dropped into a seat and smoothed out her skirt.

“Certainly,” Malfoy said. He looked nervous, vaguely ill. He sat across from her and adjusted his tie.

Hermione reached into her coat pocket for her small paperback book, preparing for a long, awkward journey. Malfoy was not known as the most sociable—or friendly—of professors.

“Are you having a good morning?” Malfoy asked.

She looked up with a frown.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Thank you. And yourself?”

“I am,” he answered at once. “Thank you.”

This was already the most words they had ever exchanged in the two years that they had both been professors at Hogwarts. 

Malfoy also seemed to be aware of this. He licked his lips nervously; in the silence of the compartment, the whoosh and clicking of the engine and wheels as the train started its journey was very loud. 

They looked at each other. Malfoy seemed to be trying to think of something else to say. He adjusted the knot of his tie again, which was a beautiful brown silk with thin green stripes.

Over the last few years of teaching at Hogwarts, Hermione had developed a fondness for a classic, academic sort of style—Professor Malfoy, in her humble opinion, pulled off this look unlike any other. He’d started wearing wire-rimmed glasses, for instance. Hermione had seen them when he was reading in the library; he was one of few men whose looks got only more distinguished with eyewear. He also seemed partial to brown dragonhide oxfords, and long winter coats with rakishly relaxed lapels.  

Hermione admitted that she probably paid more attention to his clothes than was strictly normal.

Today, Malfoy was wearing a dark green waistcoat and matching trousers. A very nice starched white shirt was visible under his waistcoat, as was the brass chain of a pocket watch, peeking out from between the buttons. The glint of it was more noticeable now that he was leaning forward, meeting her eyes. 

Hermione blinked and looked uncertainly back. Malfoy seemed to realize in real time he was staring. His eyes widened briefly and then he looked away, out the window. 

“Professor Sprout has a cold,” Malfoy said to the window. “Which is why she isn’t here. She asked me to take her place.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Okay.”

Malfoy nodded, still not looking at her.

“Do you… want me to find another compartment?” Hermione asked after a moment. “You seem a little uncomfortable.”

”What?” Malfoy tore his eyes from the window, looking back to her at once. “No! No, sorry. I always seem uncomfortable. Please stay.”

”Right,” Hermione said. “Okay, well. I won’t bother you, I’m just planning on reading.”

She lifted her book a little, showing him.

”Is it good?” Malfoy cleared his throat again. “Your book.”

“Yes, actually. An unusually well-researched biography of Merlin.”

“Oh! Excellent.” Malfoy seemed doggedly determined to keep the conversation going. He fiddled with his cufflink. “Perhaps I’ll pick up a copy.”

Malfoy was being very—human. Hermione was surprised at how normal and nervous he seemed, when he wasn’t busy striding through the halls with his nose in a book, or sitting in the library scribbling Arithmancy proofs on endless stacks of parchment. 

Maybe it was this new vulnerability that made Hermione notice that Malfoy had dark circles under his eyes. Rather deep ones, actually—he looked exhausted.

“Are you alright?” she asked, closing her book. “You look tired.”

“Ah—yes. Fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

”Start of term jitters?” 

“Yeah,” he said. He cleared his throat, met her eyes and then looked down at his cufflinks, adjusting and readjusting them. “Something like that.” 

“Well. I suppose we have more in common than I thought.”

“We do,” Malfoy said at once, meeting her eyes again. “We really do. I mean, I think so.”

Hermione looked at him for a moment. She was surprised by his earnest and rather intense response.

Don’t say it, she thought to herself. Do not say it.

“Kind of odd that you always avoid me, then,” Hermione blurted out. She was embarrassed to find that she was unable to hide how hurt she sounded. 

“I don’t avoid you!” 

“You completely do. This is our first time ever speaking since becoming professors.”

”No, it’s not,” Malfoy said stubbornly. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “There was a time last year—you asked me if there was any pumpkin juice left in the pitcher. At breakfast. I think it was November.”

She scowled. She remembered perfectly well the day he was talking about—Malfoy had been wearing a pair of expertly tailored blue wool trousers and a crisp white shirt that day.

“That hardly constitutes a conversation.”

“Well—we bumped into each other in the Room of Requirement that one time too.”

They stared at each other. Hermione was, frankly, surprised he’d brought it up. Malfoy seemed to be second guessing the decision too. His cheeks were pink.

It wasn’t that there was anything to be embarrassed about, strictly speaking. It was actually rather sad. Hermione had gone to the Room of Requirement looking for somewhere to have a good cry. Her parents still didn’t fully remember her, after all, and sometimes lunches with them were difficult.

But it turned out that Malfoy had needed somewhere to be miserable, too. She walked in to find him already sitting there, sunk into an armchair. His hair was a mess and his face was in his hands. 

He didn’t notice her at first. Hermione just looked at him for a moment, an odd lump forming in her throat. He looked so alone. And she felt so alone. And she didn’t want to leave, she needed a place to be sad, too—would he be okay if she stayed..?

But Hermione was sure Malfoy wouldn’t want that.

She tried to back out of the room quietly, but promptly collided with a waist-high stack of books. The whole thing toppled to the ground.

Malfoy looked up. 

His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression haunted. They stared at each other and something seemed to spark between them, some deep, hollow understanding. Malfoy stood and started walking towards her, no doubt to ask her to leave, but before he could Hermione muttered an apology and scurried away.

“Yes, well,” Hermione said finally, returning from her reverie. Her voice was thin, still wobbly from the memory of that day. She cleared her throat. “The Room of Requirement has gotten very strange, I guess. I don’t know why it malfunctioned like that.”

“Right,” Malfoy said hoarsely. “Malfunctioned. Just because I—it didn’t need to—”

He trailed off with a twist of his mouth, and they fell into silence.

Outside the train, the buildings of London had given way to the countryside. Cornflower blue skies and sprawling meadows of swaying grass as far as the eye could see.

It was odd, being on this journey with Malfoy. Traveling together was something friends did. Hermione considered the surprising fact that she was enjoying traveling with him. 

“Did you… have a pleasant summer?” Malfoy asked.

Hermione nodded, turning to look at him. His knee was bouncing slightly.

”Yes,” she said. “Thank you for asking. I visited the Weasleys in Egypt. They go nearly every year.”

”Ah.” Malfoy looked a little ill. “So I guess… you and Ron—?”

Hermione scowled.

“Are you asking because of that Daily Prophet article?”

”No, of course not,” Malfoy said. He looked extremely guilty. 

“Rita Skeeter should simply not be allowed to be a journalist. Ron and I are not together, but I suppose facts sell fewer papers than lies do.”

“Right. Of course,” Malfoy said, sounding relieved. “Awful reporter, always has been…” 

Hermione nodded in agreement. Malfoy seemed in much better spirits suddenly.

“Well. What about you?” Hermione asked.

“Oh. Um—I’m also single.”

“I… meant if you’d had a nice summer.”

His cheeks colored. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Yes, I did. I did have a nice summer.”

Just then, to Hermione’s relief, a rap sounded on the door of the compartment. This conversation was taking a very awkward, heart-thumping turn. 

”Anything from the trolley, dears?” came the familiar voice of the old trolley witch.

“Yes, please,” Hermione said quickly. “Have you got any chocolate frogs?”

“Of course, dearie. Here’s two—that’ll be a sickle —“

”Let me,” Malfoy interrupted, leaning forward. He handed the trolley woman two Galleons and ordered a few more things off the cart. Some biscuits, a lemon tart, a flask of pumpkin juice. He laid them on the side table within equal reach of both himself and Hermione.

”You’re professors, yes?” the trolley witch asked. “Care for any butterbeer or mead?”

”That sounds wonderful,” Hermione said. “I’ll take a butterbeer, please.”

”Same for me, then,” Malfoy added.

There was the brisk clink of bottle caps being removed against the little metal bottle opener fixed to the side of the cart, and then the trolley witch handed them two cold bottles.

”Thank you for the food,” Hermione said to Malfoy, as the trolley rattled away. “I’ll pay you back when we get to school.”

”Please don’t worry about it.”

Hermione bit into a chocolate frog. She looked out the window, then shot a glance at Malfoy only to find him sneaking a look at her over the top of his butterbeer bottle.

She directed her gaze out the window again, embarrassed.

It’s just—the train compartment was so small , wasn’t it? Malfoy was so close to her. Their knees were nearly bonking against each other with each bump of the train, and this level of closeness with a man she didn’t know very well was sort of nerve-wracking. The whole compartment smelled gently of him: crisp, clean fabric and the subtle scent of aftershave. Did she smell okay?

Forests and fields flew by the windows, the train rocked pleasantly and soothingly underfoot. 

“I saw your lecture last spring,” Malfoy said after a moment. He was talking to her rather a lot, wasn’t he? “On the new runes discovered in South America. It was very impressive.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, pleased. “I don’t remember seeing you there?”

“I was in the back. I—happened to pass the room on my way to get tea in the faculty room.”

“I thought the faculty room was on the other side of the castle?”

“Er, right,” he said. “I… realized I’d gone the wrong direction after.”

“Do you get lost often?” she asked curiously. “The castle is sometimes more mischievous with professors. I can teach you this mapping charm that helped when I first started—”

They both jumped when their compartment door slid open abruptly once more. It was the trolley witch again—she poked her head in with an apologetic grimace.

“I’m so sorry, loves. The storage compartment sprung a leak, and we have a few extra crates of Bertie Bott’s and Sugar Quills that simply won’t fit anywhere else. Would you mind if I put them in this compartment?

“Oh of course,” Hermione said. “No problem.”

“It’ll have to lay across one seat entirely,” the trolley witch said, levitating in two very long, shallow boxes of sweets. “Would you two mind sitting on the same side?”

“Sure,” Hermione said politely, standing and joining Malfoy on his side of the compartment, where they had to sit nearly flush together in order to fit.

Hermione waited awkwardly, her mouth oddly dry, as the trolley witch finished carefully stacking a box of sugar quills atop the others. 

“Thanks very much,” the trolley witch said, giving Hermione and Malfoy a grateful smile. 

She cast a fixing charm on the boxes so they stayed in place, then bumbled away, humming an absent little tune to herself as she closed the door to their compartment, leaving them alone once more, much physically closer than they’d been.

Hermione chanced a glance at Draco. His face was carefully neutral, the only sign of his discomfiture the small furrow between his eyebrows. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Sorry,” Hermione said awkwardly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to let her put them here—?”

“It’s fine,” he said, not looking at her. 

His scent was more noticeable now, from up close. Hermione was relieved she’d remembered to put on deodorant. 

They remained uncomfortably tense next to each other for the next twenty minutes.

“Did you bring a book or anything?” she finally suggested. “Maybe we can read…”

“I did,” he said instantly, as though her question was a lifeline he could more easily navigate than the rest of this situation. “Yes. That’s a good idea. I’ll get it now.”

Malfoy stood and reached into the overhead compartment. Without him pressed right against her, Hermione took the opportunity to exhale and take out her book from her coat again. He opened his trunk with a snap and pulled out a hardcover. 

The train carriage lurched. 

Malfoy had to take a step back to catch his balance; a few of his things tumbled out of his bag. Hermione tried to catch them—some quills (she managed to snag one out of the air), a spare wand (this rolled under the seat), and a single small, square card of paper—slightly crumpled—which drifted to land neatly on top of Hermione’s open book. 

“Fuck,” Malfoy breathed. It was the first time she’d ever heard him swear, and Hermione looked up in surprise. Malfoy was staring, white-faced, at the paper in her lap. He reached for it, dart-fast. “Sorry—I’ll just take that—”

Hermione’s curiosity was too strong. She peered at the note; it was a list of some kind. The top entry read: Prof. Sprout sick . The next one under it read: Ask about summer holiday. 

“Oh my god, Malfoy,” Hermione said, appalled. “Is this a list of conversation topics for the ride?”

Hurt bloomed, hot and unwelcome, in her chest.

“Were you really that at a loss for what you could possibly say to me?” she stammered, looking at him. “I am a person, you know, even if I don’t run in your posh pureblood circles—“

“No!” Malfoy interrupted, horrified. His face had been white, and now was going pink. Whatever reticence he’d displayed earlier was gone now, in the face of this outburst of conflict. “No, Jesus! Of course that’s not it. I was—I was nervous, okay? I was nervous, and I wanted to make sure I did alright, and so I wrote down some things we could talk about—”

He grabbed the paper from her and stuffed it back into his bag, his face flaming. There was some kind of houseplant in there as well, a tendril kept flopping out and he had to keep tucking it back in. Malfoy seemed to be having a hard time breathing, he tugged at the tie around his neck, inhaling and exhaling hard.

“Okay, just relax,” Hermione said, starting to feel sorry for him. She got social anxiety too, sometimes. Maybe that was all this was. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

”I just—“ Malfoy undid the top button of his shirt; evidently, loosening the tie had not been enough. “I just don’t want you to have a bad impression of me. So I avoid you for the most part, but now that’s backfiring—it’s been two years and we’ve only spoken twice—and so the pressure is higher—“

”There’s no pressure,” Hermione said, looking away from his exposed throat. He was normally dressed so impeccably, and he looked rather a lot more flustered and disheveled and Hermione was surprised to find it was hard to look away. “Also—I knew it! You do avoid me!”

”I’m leaving Hogwarts to work at the Ministry after this year,” Malfoy said, his voice strangled. He turned to face her fully. “Alright? And so this is sort of my last chance.”

Malfoy was leaving Hogwarts? 

Before Hermione had time to analyze why this made her sad, the Hogwarts Express gave a mighty, heaving rattle. They must have crossed over a broken track.

The bags overhead slid from one side to the other. Malfoy, who had been standing, lost his balance and fell into the seat. Hermione toppled from her side of the compartment to the end of the seat; she rolled over Malfoy’s thighs and landed in his lap, her shoulder hitting the window painfully. She was about to slide off onto the floor when he caught her by the hip, steadying her.

She stared up at him.

Malfoy’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. His torso seemed to be emitting a small sun’s worth of heat. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His fingers tightened on her hip.

The Hogwarts Express entered a tunnel, and the compartment went completely black.

Hermione reached for Malfoy’s face and dragged him to her. 

Their mouths crashed together, clumsy in the dark. She didn’t care, it felt like a veil of invisibility, like maybe this wouldn’t count against her, if she succumbed to her instinct for just one tiny moment—

Hermione kissed his mouth, his cheek, she wound her fingers greedily into his hair. Malfoy didn’t move. Just when humiliation started to seep in—had she just made a huge mistake?—he abruptly, unexpectedly stood up.

She thought maybe she would topple out of his lap onto the hard, carpeted floor, but he’d picked her up. Her stomach swooped—one of his hands was under each of her thighs.

Malfoy pressed her to him, like just gravity wasn’t enough, like he wanted to drag her body as close as possible. His mouth pressed hard against hers. Their kiss was messy, blind—Hermione had to surface for air, gasping, and he bit down on her lower lip. 

Malfoy took an unsteady step forward and lifted Hermione onto the cardboard boxes of sweets, seating her atop the pile.

“ Kissing me?” he breathed in disbelief, his breath hot against her lips. The darkness of the train tunnel rumbled like thunder around them. “I wait in agony for years, and you just take what you want as soon as you fancy? Spoiled little—“

The tunnel was lit intermittently with lanterns or perhaps windows. 

Dark, light, dark, light, the train rocketing under the changing lights like a dream. Hermione leaned against Malfoy’s chest, the hard muscle like a steadying wall against her own, butterfly-unsteady self. His face was lit like a stop motion film with each passing light—eyes starving, jaw tight.

“I like you,” Malfoy hissed fervently, the words smudging beneath Hermione’s kisses. He said it like he couldn’t believe he could say it to her. “Do you know? I like you, I like you—“

Hermione fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to feel his skin. The buttons were so small and her hands were shaking, and so finally Hermione seized Malfoy’s hands and dragged them to her skirt, trying to get him to help undress her instead. 

Malfoy yanked the silk up without hesitation, tearing it along one delicate hem.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll get you another one—”

His palm was hot and reverent, sliding up her exposed thighs. From her knee all the way to her hip, his fingers lingering at the soft cotton of her underwear. He hesitated.

Hermione dragged his fingers the rest of the way to the aching spot between her thighs.

“Fuck,”  Malfoy hissed, and she knew the damp spot in her underwear was no longer a secret to him.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yes—”

He tugged her underwear to the side, darting a glance at her as though for approval, and when she nodded fast and frantic he dragged one finger down her wet lips.

Hermione’s head dropped backwards and Malfoy let out a guttural moan at the sight of her reaction. He touched her clit and rubbed it lightly, back and forth, increasingly firm.

“I wanted to do this right,” he breathed. “I wanted to take you to dinner—am I ruining it—?“

Malfoy’s eyes were shining and pained and the angles of his face were thrown in sharp, handsome relief as the tunnel lights went dark, light, dark, light.

“Faster,” Hermione begged. The pad of his finger was too light, the circles not fast enough, oh God—

Hermione realized with shock that she was going to come.

How was this possible? She never came this fast—her stomach started shaking—

Hermione’s universe narrowed just to Malfoy’s finger.

Just as she was about to topple over the edge, her mouth open and eyes squeezed shut, Malfoy tore his hand away.

“No,” Hermione screamed, her hips jerking up, looking for him. Her orgasm dissipated, none of the pressure released. “No, Malfoy!”

“Muffliato,” Malfoy panted, noise-proofing the compartment.

He was breathing hard. Darkness, light. Darkness, light. Shadows and angles and white blond hair mussed, their bodies so close like two colliding planets.

Malfoy spread her thighs wider with one firm hand, then got to his knees on the train compartment’s carpeted floor. 

“Can I use my mouth?” he pleaded.

Hermione was propped up on two increasingly collapsing boxes of sweets, the perfect height for Malfoy to brace her thighs on his shoulders. She nodded frantically and he pressed his mouth to her cunt.

“Oh god,” Hermione gasped. He was sucking on her. “Oh—oh yes—“

“You taste like fucking candy.”

Hermione wasn’t sure if the tunnel was now flashing with faster lights or if she was simply seeing stars. Malfoy’s tongue was firm and rhythmic, quick and unforgiving, pulsing and making her stomach cramp—

She felt a gush of liquid drip down her thighs as her cunt contracted. 

“We’re ruining the candy boxes,” she said nonsensically, her stomach quaking as Malfoy lapped at her clit. “They—won’t be able to sell them—“

“I’ll pay for them after,” Malfoy mumbled into her soaking skin. “Don’t worry, I’ll take them all—”

He tongued at the crest of her clit until Hermione sobbed with real tears.

“Faster?” she asked in a tight whimper. “Faster, Malfoy—?”

Malfoy stood instead, wiping his soaking mouth with the back of one hand. She was helpless like this, her legs splayed wide in front of him and her cunt dripping wet. 

“Jesus,” Malfoy muttered, staring at her.

He stepped close to her, then dragged the pad of his index finger over her entrance. 

“Here are all the things I’ve been too nervous to say,” Malfoy said, gently working his finger in. She was tight, he had to go slow. “Now that I have your attention. Are you ready to listen, Hermione?”

The train exited the tunnel and the compartment was flooded with afternoon light. When they’d entered the tunnel Malfoy had been fully dressed and neatly groomed. Now that he was visible again Hermione saw mussed white blond hair, a tie nearly off, and his white shirt undone down to his stomach. His mouth was soaking wet and his muscled forearm ended at her cunt, his finger working in her.

“Yes,” Hermione slurred, trying not to show how badly she was losing her mind. Maybe if she didn’t let him know she was about to orgasm, he would push her over the edge. “Yes, please, I’m ready to listen—”

He pushed his finger deeper.

“I took the Hogwarts job just so I could be near you,” he whispered, his words melting together like he was drunk. “So I could finally work up the nerve to do something about this.”

Malfoy curled his finger into her inner wall and she moaned. Only the slight tremble in his voice indicated he was as impacted as she was. 

“But I was too nervous still,” he said.

He slid a second finger into her, and Hermione moaned. The stretch was too much. He shushed her soothingly and squeezed his fingers together, curling them lightly, opening her up—another little rush of fluid rushed out when he pushed up against that spot.

“Please,” she begged in a shuddering whisper. She needed to come. She was going to die if she didn’t. “Malfoy—please—I need to—“

“Hold it,” Malfoy commanded quietly.

She did.

”Last thing,” he whispered, holding his fingers still. He lowered his face close to hers, his eyes desperate and intent as they looked into her. “I know I’m not good enough for you. But what if I didn’t ask for anything? You don’t have to commit, you don’t have to tell anyone… just call me whenever you want to be fucked properly.”

”You can fuck me , ” Hermione said. “You can fuck me whenever—”

Malfoy’s resolve shattered. He pulled his fingers out of her and fumbled frantically with his brown leather belt. 

His breathing was hard and desperate, like he was at risk of coming in his trousers. Malfoy yanked down the tops of his pants and pulled his cock out—Hermione’s eyes went round.

Malfoy was hard. And he was big— that smarmy ponce, no wonder he’d been so arrogant in school—

She propped herself up on one elbow and wrapped her comparatively small hand around his head, unable to believe she was seeing Draco Malfoy’s cock. He made a broken noise of agony at the touch.

She grabbed him and slotted him at her entrance; Malfoy seized her hips and dragged her close. Slowly, he pushed the tip of his cock into her.

“Is this okay?” he asked, wild-eyed. “Are you okay?”

Hermione couldn’t speak. He pushed in another inch, then another. Her walls were forced apart; Malfoy brought his thumb to her clit and rubbed gently up and down. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasped.

He pushed once more, and this time it went hilt-deep.

Hermione shuddered.

”Malfoy,” Hermione pleaded. “Malfoy, please—don’t stop, I’m going to explode, oh God, oh God—“

“Go on then, darling,” he said. “Let’s see it.”

Hermione fell apart. Unrelenting, spasmodic pleasure crashed over her; her clit pulsed, her stomach cramped with each tide of it. She shook head to toe, it seemed to go on and on forever.

Malfoy’s face twisted—he stared at her ravenously, like he was trying to commit the sight to memory. 

“There you go,” he cooed breathlessly. “There it is… feels so good, doesn’t it—”

His thrusts grew unsteady. His hands were white-knuckled on her hips.

Malfoy’s eyebrows drew tight together and then his head dropped and his mouth went slack. He made a noise—a rough, low gasp—and then he swayed and braced one hand on the wall behind her.

“Hermione,” he gasped, hips jerking. “Hermione—”

“Inside me—”

He shuddered uncontrollably and came inside her with a long, choking groan. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck…”

Hermione clenched experimentally around him and his shoulders shuddered.

Malfoy’s come started to seep out from where they were connected. He exhaled, lifting his hand to see the mess.

“Ah,” he muttered, pulling his undone tie from his collar and pressing it to her, stopping the mess. “Sorry—”

The compartment was warm and smelled of sex. In the dizzy silence, their heavy breathing was deafening. Hermione couldn’t stop staring at him. 

His eyes flew to hers, uncertain.

“Was that okay?” Malfoy asked finally, and his voice was unexpectedly vulnerable. “Can I still take you to dinner—?”

Hermione just looked at him for a moment. Then she laughed. Hard and giggling, unable to stop. The soaked top of the cardboard box beneath her finally caved in, and she toppled onto a bed of plastic-wrapped sugar quills. 

~

The Hogwarts Express chugged to a stop at Hogsmeade Station exactly on time. Sometimes, things happened just as they were meant to.

The doors opened and a swarm of chattering students poured out. Owls hooted in cages; some had been let loose by their owners and were swooping happily around overhead, keeping a relaxed eye on their owners while stretching their wings.

Standing by the station wall was Professor Sprout, wrapped in a tartan blanket and with a box of tissues under her cloak for her terribly runny nose. Not much could have compelled her to get out of bed in this state, but then again—it wasn’t every day that one had the opportunity to receive a rare Vining Parrot Orchid. 

Professor Malfoy said he would give her anything. Just let him be the one to pick up her sick train shift. He wanted to ask Professor Granger to dinner and didn’t trust himself to manage it any other way.

She craned her neck, trying to find him in the crowd. She wondered if Professor Granger had said yes.

Ah—there he was. Taller than everyone else in the crowd, and looking unusually flustered. He spotted her and waved with a dazed smile, then walked her way. His gait was uneven, he seemed to be carrying some very heavy things. Professor Sprout frowned. A plant as rare as the Parrot Orchid really ought to be transported with more single-minded care.

“How was the journey?” Professor Sprout asked when he was close, already searching his arms for the distinctive orange-green blossoms. 

“Amazing,” Malfoy said, catching his breath. His tie was crooked, his hair mussed. He flattened it hurriedly. “I can’t believe—thank you so much for letting me take your shift. I hope you’re feeling better.”

There was an extremely bedraggled looking box of sugar quills under his arm. 

“Is the orchid in there?” Professor Sprout chirped, giving the box an uncertain look.

That cardboard was oddly damp. It didn’t look strong enough to hold so much as a notion, let alone a two to three kilo tropical plant. 

“What? No! No, um. Don’t look at that. Hang on…”

Malfoy put the box onto the station floor and opened his trunk instead. He reached in and grasped a white ceramic pot with a tall, curling-vined flower inside.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said again, pressing the flower pot into her hands. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Oh,” Professor Sprout gasped, barely hearing him. “Oh my goodness. What a beauty.”

She watched in amazement as the great flowering head of the orchid shook itself, like it was straightening its petals after the long journey in Malfoy’s trunk. 

The orchid ruffled its leaves importantly, then the blossoms trembled.

“Please,” the orchid called out loudly, in a perfect mimicry of a young woman’s voice. “Please, Malfoy, don’t stop!”

Professor Sprout frowned. Was that Professor Granger’s voice—?

“Yes, Malfoy! Oh god—” the orchid went on. “Yes, yes—”

Professor Malfoy lurched for the flowering head like a madman, his face tomato red, trying to hold the petaled beak closed. 

“Professor Malfoy!” Sprout screeched, horrified. He was going to break the stem! She kicked furiously at his shins. “Get your hands—”

“I’m so sorry,” Malfoy said frantically, remembering himself. He let go. “I’m so sorry.”

Malfoy snatched up his beleaguered looking cardboard box—it crumpled a bit, a few sugar quills fell out, which he promptly levitated back into the box. He strode away rapidly, face downturned, ears turning pink as the orchid cleared its throat.

“You mean it?” it said, in a low man’s voice this time. “Yes, Friday night is perfect. Yes, we can go anywhere you want! Er—yes, I suppose we could take a train—?”