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Hermione strode down the long corridor of Malfoy Manor, the soft click of her heels clicking quietly against the tile. Her eyes trailing over the pristine marble floors and the endless stretch of tall, elegant windows. She couldn’t deny it—the manor was beautiful.
Scorpius matched her pace, following beside her. though his steps were anything but quiet. He seemed to vibrate with excitement, bouncing slightly as if it were impossible for him to contain his energy. She glanced down at him, her lips twitching into a faint smile. He looked so much like Draco as a child, carefree and unguarded. He didn’t have any of the walls his father relied so heavily on, none of the well-placed masks.
“You’re really leaving now?” he asked, pinning her with a look that all but demanded she reconsider. “The party hasn’t even started yet! You’re going to miss all the fun!”
Looking down at him, Hermione tried to hold back a laugh, her chest warming with a strange fondness for the eight-year-old. When she’d first agreed to tutor him, she hadn’t expected to become so attached to him. He was—determined, inquisitive, and far more clever than most children his age.
“Scorpius,” she sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag, “I need to get home to feed Crookshanks. And besides, I’m not really the party type. And trust me, I’m definitely not a Malfoy Manor party type.”
He put on an exaggerated pout, his eyes widening comically as his lip jutted out. “Please, Hermione, please! It’s just a party. You’ve survived worse, I know you have—you’ve survived tutoring me.”
She grinned down at him. “I survived, yes. But only just,” she replied, giving him a playful nudge as she continued toward the floo. “And I should probably leave before I push my luck.”
As they passed the open doors of the ballroom, Hermione’s steps faltered. She peered in, unable to suppress her curiosity. The room was absolutely enchanting, bathed in a soft glow that seemed to spill from everywhere, casting the space in warm, flickering light. She took in the sweeping tables, meticulously set with silverware that glinted in the glow of hundreds of floating candles. Garlands of holly wreathed the walls, their deep green leaves and crimson berries striking against the polished, dark wood. It was magical.
At the far end of the room, a man in a red velvet Santa suit was fumbling with his belt, muttering a string of curses as he tried to pull on the fabric.
“Wait! You can’t leave yet!” He said excitedly, tugging on her arm and pulling her into the room before she could protest.
“Scorpius, what are you—” she began, letting him pull her behind him.
“Just one more thing, I promise,” he said, gesturing eagerly toward the man dressed as Santa. “We have to take a picture.”
Hermione felt herself caving. How could she deny him this? “Alright, fine,” she sighed. “But after this, I’m leaving.” She meant it—or, at least, wanted to mean it. But even as she said the words, part of her knew she’d keep following along, if only to see him smile.
She let him pull her toward the throne-like chair the Santa had settled himself into at the far end of the room, trying to hide her growing amusement.
As they approached, the man in the Santa suit straightened, attempting a dignified posture as he fussed with his fake beard.
“Go on,” Scorpius urged, waving her forward. “Sit down.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sheer absurdity of his request. He wanted her to sit on the Santa’s lap? She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. The thought was so utterly ridiculous that she wondered if he was serious—or if this was just another layer to his ongoing plan to keep her around.
“You want me to sit on Santa’s lap?” she asked incredulously.
“Please?” Scorpius clasped his hands and stuck out his bottom lip, his eyes pleading with her.
She cast him an apprehensive look, but he merely opened his wider, his lip quivering slightly. Sighing, Hermione slowly moved forward, perching herself onto the very edge of the man’s lap. She folded her arms across her chest, trying to suppress the warmth creep up her cheeks.
“Well, aren’t you joining me?” Looking expectantly at the boy, she shifted uneasily on the man’s knee.
“Oh no,” Scorpius giggled, “this is just for you.” There was a bright flash as the camera went off, momentarily blinding her.
“A little warning would have been nice,” she muttered, trying to blink away the spots in her vision. “Now, are you going to take one with me?”
He shook his head, giggling, his eyes practically dancing as he pointed above her.
“What are you—” Her voice cut off as she followed his gesture, her gaze drifting upward. Dangling just above her head, nestled amidst the other holiday decorations, was a sprig of mistletoe, innocently perched right above her. Her pulse quickened as warmth crept up her neck and spread over her face. Oh, Merlin.
Slowly, her gaze dropped, tracing the path back down, straight into a pair of familiar silver eyes that glinted at her with smug amusement. Draco. His eyebrow raised in challenge as he looked back at her.
Her mind scrambled, searching for an exit strategy. Her gaze darted back to Scorpius, who was already retreating, offering a gleeful little wave before slipping through the door, leaving her very much alone—perched on his father's lap.
The silence stretched, thickening between them as her mind whirled, acutely aware of the solid warmth of his arm resting casually along her back, his fingers just barely grazing her waist. It was maddening how calm he seemed, barely moving, watching her with that almost lazy smirk just visible beneath the white beard.
“Well, this is… unexpected,” she finally muttered, her voice sounding foreign and oddly shaky.
Draco chuckled, the rich sound reverberating beneath her as his shoulders shook, she felt it as much as heard it. “I’d say this is one way to get you to stay a little longer.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, desperate to mask her nervousness. “Clever tactic,” she quipped dryly. What should she expect from a house full of Slytherins? “So, is this your idea of holiday spirit?” She gestured to the mistletoe, trying to ignore the maddening thump of her heart. He looked… devastatingly handsome, somehow managing to carry off the Santa suit with a casual roguishness that she didn’t want to find appealing.
“It’s my son’s idea,” he clarified. He tilted his head, arching a brow, as if relishing her discomfort. “But I’ll admit, I’m not opposed.” The words were light, casual—but the effect they had on her made her want to squirm.
She quickly shoved the unsettling warmth in her chest aside. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, gathering whatever composure she could muster. “Well, this has been fun,” she said with forced cheer, clearing her throat in a poor attempt at nonchalance. “But I think I’ll leave now.”
As she braced herself to stand, a rush of magic rippled beneath her pressing her back down. Hermione glared up at the mistletoe, releasing a muttered, “Of course, it's magic mistletoe,” and barely restraining the string of colorful curses poised on her tongue.
Draco’s smirk deepened; his eyes gleaming with unrestrained amusement as he watched her struggle.
“Don’t look so smug,” she grumbled, wriggling slightly, hoping to free herself with some semblance of subtlety. But every small shift only heightened her awareness of his warmth beneath her, the solid line of his body against hers. Her cheeks grew even warmer, and she shot him an imploring look. “You could try helping me, you know.”
Draco tilted his head as if considering the option. “And ruin Scorpius’ carefully executed scheme?” he drawled, leaning in a fraction closer until his voice was a low, velvet murmur in her ear. “Where would be the fun in that?”
Hermione let out a frustrated huff, doing her best to ignore the warm tickle of Draco's breath against her skin. Her mind raced through every enchanted botanical guide she’d ever read, searching desperately for a loophole. But no matter how she spun it, the conclusion was the same: she would have to kiss him.
A simple kiss—she could handle that, right? Just a small kiss, she told herself, hoping the thought might soothe the sudden flutter in her stomach. It would be brief, inconsequential, purely functional, really. A little kiss that meant nothing… She tried to believe it, to settle the faint tremor in her hands, but her pulse hammered on regardless.
Summoning every ounce of composure she could muster, she leaned in, awkwardly navigating around his cumbersome Santa beard, trying not to get any of the fake white hairs in her mouth. She pressed a chaste, fleeting peck to his cheek, aiming for something polite—just a functional tap of lips to skin, efficient and impersonal.
Yet… nothing happened. The spell’s faint, tingling presence lingered stubbornly, curling over her skin like it was taunting her.
“Really?” She threw her hands up, glaring at the mistletoe, a scowl tugging at her lips.
She grit her teeth, leaning in again, this time aiming for his lips. She brushed his mouth with a brief, almost tentative touch. She pulled back quickly, glancing up at the mistletoe, hoping it would release her.
Nothing. She was still stuck, and the spell’s infuriating pulse suggested it was quite pleased to keep her there.
“Well,” he drawled, sounding far too pleased, “that didn’t seem to work.”
Hermione groaned, trying to ignore the flush creeping up her cheeks, and rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” She bit back another irritated sigh as the inevitable truth set in: she’d have to really kiss him if she wanted to get out of here.
Before she could second-guess herself, Hermione reached up and tugged off the scratchy white beard, tossing it aside. Her hands settled on either side of his face, tilting his chin so he had no choice but to face her. She squared her shoulders, then leaned in, capturing his lips with hers.
She felt him go still under her touch as if he hadn't expected her to really kiss him. When he made no move to reciprocate, she gave his lower lip a sharp, impatient nip, pulling a slight gasp from him as his mouth fell open. Acting on impulse, she traced the spot with her tongue, soothing it before pressing closer, her lips softening as she deepened the kiss. Her pulse quickened as she noted a faint taste of spearmint—sparking some half-formed memory to surface.
Draco’s grip tightened, his hands gliding down her thighs, pulling her across his lap until she straddled him. The movement stole her breath, washing away the memory tugging at her mind. His fingers traced an electric line up her back, settling possessively at the nape of her neck, drawing her closer. When his tongue met hers, every coherent thought evaporated, leaving her drowning in his kiss. She was captivated, caught up in the sensation of being completely enveloped by him. Almost without realizing it, her hips began to shift against him, her movements slow and instinctive, feeding the heat pooling low in her belly.
Gasping for breath, she finally broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his as she tried to steady herself. Her skin tingled, her nerves still humming. She felt almost feverish. She shifted experimentally—and froze, her eyes going wide as she brushed against something hard beneath her. Reality crashed over her in a cold wave, as if she’d only now fully registered what had happened.
“I think we’re still stuck, Granger,” Draco murmured, his voice rougher than before, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. He groaned softly as she moved again, and her face flamed, heat prickling across her skin as she fully grasped exactly what she was brushing against.
“S-sorry,” she managed, her voice catching on the word. She could barely believe she’d lost control like that. She tried to shift away carefully, hoping to extract herself, but the magic held her in place, her movement only causing her to grind against him.
Draco’s hands flew to her hips, his fingers gripping her roughly, holding her still. His breathing was uneven, his voice low and ragged as he met her gaze. “It clearly didn’t work,” he ground out, “and if you keep moving like that…” He let the sentence hang, adjusting himself with a faint groan, sending a wave of desire coursing through her.
“Right, sorry,” she whispered, tearing her gaze away, trying to focus on the cursed mistletoe nstead. Her cheeks burned as she studied the plant, desperate for the distraction. What on earth is wrong with this mistletoe? She squinted, noticing that the berries were lighter than the usual deep red she would expect; they were almost a rose-pink color. Was it even mistletoe? Or something else entirely? She shifted, leaning to get a better look, feeling Draco tense beneath her as he let out another deep groan.
"That doesn’t look like—" Hermione started, stopping mid-sentence as laughter floated through the room. She twisted around, catching sight of Scorpius peeking in from the hallway, an unmistakable look of glee plastered across his face.
“Scorpius,” she called, giving him her best no-nonsense look. Oh, he is in so much trouble. “What did you do?”
Scorpius edged further into the room, barely stifling his giggle. “It’s Aunt Pansy’s enchanted mistletoe! She gave it to me earlier—she said it would make you stay longer.”
Hermione’s stomach sank, a fresh wave of disbelief washing over her. Of course, Pansy was involved. Who else would concoct something like this? Just as Scorpius’s confession settled in, Pansy swept into the room, striding in with a self-satisfied smile.
“Good job, Scorpius, you actually got her to do it,” Pansy cheered, as she took in the sight of Hermione still stuck in Draco’s lap, both of them unmistakably flustered.
Hermione ground her teeth together, struggling to keep her voice level. “Pansy,” she said, summoning every ounce of patience she could muster. “What exactly did you give him?”
Pansy merely shrugged, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just a bit of holiday fun. Neville created this little hybrid last week."
Hermione’s chest tightened. A hybrid? She eyed the pink-berried sprig overhead suspiciously. "What kind of hybrid?” she asked, forcing the words out as her mind raced with the possibilities.
Pansy’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with a gleeful mischief that set every one of Hermione’s nerves on edge. “Well, it’s mistletoe… with a few other enchantments woven into it. I thought the two of you may need something a bit more… substantial.”
Hermione swallowed, her dread now turning to full-fledged panic as her mind scrambled to interpret just what "substantial" could possibly mean. She felt Draco shift beneath her, turning her frustration into a strange, unwelcome thrill that she quickly tried to smother.
"I swear to Godric, Pansy, if you don’t remove it—" Hermione snapped, her voice cracking as she glared at her.
But Pansy only leaned lazily against the doorframe. “I can’t, even if I wanted to.” Her voice was light, almost sing-song as she glanced at Hermione with a smirk. “It won’t release you until all the requirements have been fulfilled.”
Draco let out a slow breath, his gaze shifting from Pansy to his son. “Scorpius,” he said, keeping his tone calm. “Why don’t you go wait outside for a bit? I need to have a word with your Aunt Pansy.”
Scorpius hesitated, glancing between the three adults. He opened his mouth to protest.
“Now, Scorpius,” Draco cut him off.
Scorpius’s shoulders sagged before trudging out of the room, casting one last curious glance over his shoulder.
As the door closed, Draco turned back to Pansy, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “Explain. Now.”
Pansy raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Relax, Draco, it's perfectly safe. You just need to break the enchantment. Surely, you can figure it out. Neville named it Amorvita, if that helps.” Her eyes sparkled. “But I’ll give you a fair warning, kissing isn’t going to work.”
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face, her pulse thundering in her ears. No, Pansy couldn’t possibly mean it would require more than a kiss. Yet the word Amorvita rattled in her mind, its meaning feeling frustratingly close, yet just out of reach.
Amor. Love. Her heart sank further as a horrifying possibility crept into her thoughts. Could it mean... making love? Did the spell actually intend for her and Draco to...?
She stole a quick, wide-eyed glance at Draco, her breath catching when she found him looking back at her with an expression that mirrored her own. The tension between them was thick, both of them processing the unthinkable, the reality dawning with each passing second.
Her gaze swung back to Pansy, desperately looking for any sign that this was just another one of her friend’s over-the-top jokes.
“I—what—no.” She could barely find the words, her cheeks blazing. “You can’t possibly expect—” She couldn’t even say it.
Draco’s expression hardened. “Merlin’s sake, Pansy, are you serious?” he bit out. “You can’t just trap people under some enchanted mistletoe and expect them to—” He trailed off, clenching his jaw. “This isn’t just meddling, it’s bordering on insanity.”
Pansy just raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening. “Oh, relax, Draco,” she said breezily, clearly unbothered by his anger. “It’s not that bad. Besides, I’m not expecting anything, the Amorvita is.”
Hermione’s heart was pounding painfully. No. This could not be happening. Her panic rose like a wave, drowning any lingering trace of composure she might have clung to. In a desperate attempt to break free, she whirled back to Draco, barely noticing his startled expression as she cupped his face between her hands and pressed her lips firmly against his, her desperation stripping away any thoughts of restraint. He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but she didn’t stop—she kissed him again and again, each time pulling back just long enough to dart a frantic glance at the mistletoe, hoping to see any sign of the magic fading. But it didn’t work. The pull of the enchantment remained, tingling against her skin defiantly.
She tightened her grip, fingers curling against Draco’s jaw, his breath hitching under her touch. Her mouth moved insistently over his until she felt him respond, his hands finding her waist, his lips parting beneath hers. She poured everything into him, ignoring the tingling that raced down her spine as he tightened his grip on her.
Finally, Hermione pulled back, breathless, her heart pounding wildly as her eyes met his. He looked dazed, unguarded, his pupils blown wide as he stared back at her. For a fleeting moment, she forgot the enchantment forcing them together, forgot the absurdity of the entire situation—there was only the warmth of his skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands, and the way he seemed to look at her like she was the only person in the room.
But then a soft laugh sliced through the moment, snapping Hermione out of her reverie. She turned sharply, realizing she’d nearly forgotten they had an audience.
“You can kiss him into a stupor all you like,” Pansy drawled, arms crossed with a smirk that could only be described as gleeful, “but, like I said, it’s not going to work.”
Heat rushed to Hermione’s cheeks as she swallowed, suddenly mortified by her desperation—and by how easily she’d lost herself in him. Hermione straightened, trying to regain her composure, but the lingering effect of that intense gaze from Draco made it nearly impossible.
She shifted, subtly testing to see if Pansy was right, but the pull of the mistletoe was still there. Her heart sank, there had to be another way— any way to break the spell that didn’t involve… that. She combed through her mental catalog of spells, counter-curses, and obscure incantations. But with every memory she unearthed, every page of magical theory that surfaced, the only answer that came back was the one she desperately wanted to avoid.
She swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the mistletoe above. It needs more than a kiss… Merlin help her. It was really going to hold her here until she had sex with him. Her mind stalled, refusing to fully accept it even as a strange thrill sparked through her nerves.
She stole another glance at Draco, who was watching her intently, his expression once again a careful mask, unreadable and guarded. The vulnerability she thought she’d glimpsed moments ago had vanished, replaced by his usual cool demeanor. Her heart gave a nervous thud. Was she really going to do this? Going to have sex with Draco Malfoy?
She shot Pansy a pleading look, hoping, praying, that there was some twisted punchline coming. But all she got was a mockingly sympathetic smile in return as she breezily started toward the door. “Well, I’d love to stay and see how this plays out, but I have a party to get ready for,” she announced airily. She cast one last look over her shoulder, “You have about an hour and a half before guests start arriving.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped at the sound of the doors shutting and the soft click of the lock sliding into place. Leaving her alone with Draco Malfoy. She could feel the silence thickening between them, pressing in on her as she tried to force her mind to process how she had ended up here. She chanced a glance at him, hoping for some sign of shared mortification, but only found his maddeningly calm, unreadable gaze.
“Well,” she murmured, biting her lip as she tried to reason with her warring emotions.
“Well,” he drawled in return, his lips twitching up as he stared back at her.
She looked away, trying to calm her nerves. Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. Maybe the spell required nothing more than… penetration. She could keep things clinical, detached, nothing more, nothing less. Surely that would be enough.
"Let’s just get this over with," she muttered. Her cheeks were blazing, her heart hammering against her ribs as she shifted on his lap, awkwardly trying to work out how, exactly, she was supposed to… do this. The spell’s magic kept her anchored to him, leaving no room to stand or even move away to undress—not that she wanted to undress in front of him, the thought alone made her self-conscious. In a barely audible whisper, she murmured, "Evenesco."
A sudden chill brushed over her skin, sending a shiver rippling up her spine. Her eyes flew open in horror as she glanced down. Her mouth opened in shock, and her hands flew up instinctively to cover herself. She’d only meant to vanish her underwear—not everything. Draco went rigid beneath her, his eyes darkening as they traveled over her. His jaw tightened, and she felt the subtle tremor in his body as his gaze lingered, drinking her in.
“I—I didn’t mean… that’s not what I…” she stammered, mortified, the words tangling together.
"I’m not complaining," he murmured, a rough edge to his voice as his eyes continued their slow, deliberate path over her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to find a shred of her Gryffindor courage, if any still existed. She forced herself to let her hands drop baring herself to him, every inch of her skin felt acutely aware of his gaze on her. She kept her focus downward, refusing to look up as she reached for his belt, her fingers clumsy and shaky as she tried to unhook the clasp.
Before she could pull it free, Draco’s hand came up, his fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist, stopping her. She looked up in surprise, finding his face mere inches from hers, his gray eyes softer than she’d expected.
"Granger…” His voice came out rough, a hint of tension threading through it. She could feel the heat rolling off him, the intensity of his gaze as it roamed over her bare skin, taking in every inch, every detail. He swallowed, his throat bobbing, and her eyes couldn’t help but trace the movement, noticing how it mirrored his restrained breathing, how it betrayed his efforts to stay composed.
"We don’t have to—" he started. She glanced up at him, really looked, and beneath his guarded expression was a flicker of vulnerability—a hesitant softness that sent an unexpected ache through her chest.
Before she could second-guess herself, she leaned forward, pressing her bare skin against the soft, velvety texture of his Santa suit. “It’s okay,” she whispered, fighting the butterflies that flared up in her stomach. “I can do this. I want to do this.” Her breath brushed against his lips. She swallowed, feeling the honesty in her voice. "Unless… unless you don’t want to. We could try to think of som—"
Draco’s hand cupped her face, silencing her with a touch. His thumb stroked her cheek with a tenderness that stole her breath. His eyes met hers, searching. "Granger," he murmured, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost reverent tone. "Trust me. If I didn’t want this, you’d know."
The confession stole her words, and for a moment, all she could do was stare into those intense, silver eyes, feeling her pulse throb in her throat.
He loosened his grip on her wrist as his hand moved to the leather strap at his waist. She sucked in a breath, her eyes darting down as he gave it a gentle tug, freeing it from the loop. Her eyes caught on the way his fingers moved over the buckle, focusing on the tiny metallic clink as his hands worked. With a quiet, almost languid whisper against the fabric, the belt slid from his trousers, landing on the floor with a soft clatter.
Hermione forced herself to look back up at him, catching the simmering heat in his gaze, waiting on her to make the next move. Holding his stare, she slid her hands to the front of his trousers, letting her fingers glide over his fly. She pulled it down slowly, her breath growing shallow and uneven as her fingers slipped beneath his waistband. His breath hitched when her fingers accidentally grazed him. She pulled the fabric lower, never letting her eyes stray from his until he sprang free. Despite herself, her gaze drifted downward, her breath catching in her throat as she took him in.
Hermione could barely breathe, she couldn’t look away, her mouth going dry as she took him in—thick, hard, undeniably ready, and currently, hers to explore. Merlin help her, she thought, he was… beautiful.
Realizing her gaze had lingered for too long, she forced herself to look up to find him watching her with a smirk that was maddeningly self-assured. His lips curved into a crooked, all-too-knowing grin. “Beautiful, huh?”
Her cheeks blazed in mortification. Oh, Merlin! Had she really said that out loud? She felt the heat rise, and without thinking, she glanced down again—only for her gaze to land right back where it shouldn’t. Flustered, she whipped her head to the side, trying desperately to mask her embarrassment. But Draco’s fingers found her chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze. His hand lingered as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb grazing her cheek.
“Don’t worry, Granger,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying a soft smugness that somehow made her stomach twist. “You didn’t say anything I don’t already know.”
Her eyes narrowed in a glare. “You’re an arse, Malfoy,” she muttered, hoping the scowl would distract him from the warmth in her cheeks.
He chuckled, his other hand traced up her side slowly, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. “That’ll never change, Granger.” His hand came to a pause just beneath her breast, his thumb grazing her heated skin. She bit back a gasp, watching the path of his thumb drift closer and closer, brushing over the bottom of her breast.
“But... just so we’re even,” he murmured, his thumb finally ran over her nipple, sending a jolt through her, making her back arch. Her lips parted, a quiet breath escaping her lips before she could stop it. Draco watched her reaction as if memorizing every response. “I think you’re beautiful, too,” he said softly, the teasing edge now gone from his voice. Her heart tripped over itself and for a fleeting moment, a dangerous, foolish part of her wanted to believe him. But she quickly forced the thought away. Just because he called her beautiful, just because he seemed drawn to her in this moment, didn’t mean it was real. He would probably say the same thing to any naked woman on his lap—it didn’t mean he wanted her. It wasn’t some hidden truth he’d been waiting to confess. Draco Malfoy didn’t want her. She had to remember that.
She gave herself a little shake trying to steady herself. “Right,” she murmured, her trembling voice betraying her bravado. “We should… just get on with it, then.” Forcing herself to focus, she reached down, her fingers wrapping around him, feeling the heat and firm ridges of him under her touch. She gave him a tentative squeeze, and he twitched against her, his sharp intake of breath matching the jolt of anticipation that shot through her. He was so big; she wondered if he'd even fit.
Of course, he'll fit, she told herself firmly, trying to silence the lingering doubt. It has to fit. She lifted her hips, positioning him at her entrance. Draco stopped her, his hand resting on her hip, stilling her progress. “Granger, wait.” His fingers tightened slightly as he met her gaze, his silver eyes catching the flicker of uncertainty in hers. “If we’re going to do this… let me at least get you ready.”
The warmth in his voice, the tenderness she hadn’t anticipated, undid her a little more. Her throat tightened, and for a moment, the walls she’d so carefully built around her heart felt shaky, fragile. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She hadn’t even considered that he might want to make this easier for her.
His hand glided slowly up her thigh, each delicate brush of his fingers sending little sparks across her skin. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself against the rush of sensations, to keep some semblance of control. But then he whispered, “Hermione,” and her eyes flew open at the sound of her name.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, almost reverent kiss to her shoulder, his other hand moving between their bodies, fingers brushing over her center with a featherlight stroke. The small touch undid her composure as the sensation washed over her.
"Merlin, you’re soaked," he groaned, resting his head against her shoulder.
A fresh wave of embarrassment flooded her, twisting low in her stomach. She bit her lip, her mind scrambling to process the flood of feelings she couldn’t hide from him. He knew. Now he knew just how deeply he affected her—he could feel the evidence of her desire, see how she’d unraveled at his touch.
She wanted to sink into the floor, to vanish, anything to hide from him. He’d never let her forget this, would probably find ways to tease her mercilessly. And yet, what worried her more was how easily he saw through her defenses. He knew she wanted him, craved him. The thought left her feeling exposed in a way she wasn’t sure she could bear.
She couldn’t let him keep touching her like this—as if she mattered, as if this was anything more than the spell forcing them together. Every touch, every lingering look, every gentle brush of his fingers against her skin—it threatened to unravel her, piece by piece. If he kept going, if she let herself believe, even for a second, that she meant something to him, she wasn’t sure she’d ever recover.
“It’s fine, you don’t need to do that. I’m ready,” she said tightly, forcing more conviction into the words than she truly felt. She reached down, pushing his hand away. She took a steadying breath, bracing herself, then forced herself down.
He sucked in a sharp breath as she sank onto him, his fingers tightening painfully against her hips. “Fucking hell,” he murmured, his voice strained.
The sharp, stinging pressure made her body seize up, her muscles screaming in protest. She let out a small, unsteady whimper, trembling as she realized she had barely even taken the tip of him.
“Shhh,” he murmured. His hand moved slowly up her back, rubbing soothing circles along her spine. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Just… breathe.”
She nodded, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, letting herself cling to him as she focused on his words, trying to drown out the unbearable stretching sensation. Her legs trembled beneath her, struggling to support her weight and keep her from sinking onto him further. Her fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring herself as she forced another shaky breath.
“Let’s just… go slow,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. He shifted his hips just slightly, a minuscule movement, but it was enough to intensify the pressure. She sucked in a sharp breath, her entire body going taut.
“Sorry,” he groaned.
She could feel the strain in his body, the way he tried to hold himself completely still beneath her. His breathing was uneven, shallow, and she could feel the tension in his muscles as he fought to stay in control.
“This…” His voice was low, almost a grumble under his breath, as though the words slipped out unbidden. “This would’ve been easier if you’d just let me prepare you.”
“We don’t exactly have the luxury of taking our time,” Hermione managed, her voice a tight whisper as she forced the words through gritted teeth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she tried to ground herself. An involuntary whimper slipped from her lips as her legs wobbled, forcing her down another inch. Her instincts urged her to bite down on his shoulder, to do something—anything—to anchor herself against the almost overwhelming intensity.
“Slow, Granger,” he reminded her, his hand continuing to trace slow, steady patterns along her back, each pass steadying her a little more. His other hand moved between them, his thumb circling over her bundle of nerves, coaxing a spark of pleasure up her spine. She couldn’t stop herself from arching into him, a soft moan escaping her lips.
“That’s it, you’re doing great,” he whispered, his voice rough with barely contained restraint. The low, breathy words seemed to sink into her, each murmur of praise igniting something deep inside her, and she felt herself tightening around him.
His grip on her hips grew more desperate, fingers pressing into her skin, as if he was struggling to hold back. “You’re so… bloody tight,” he groaned, his mouth brushing her neck, sending hot shivers coursing through her. “So bloody perfect.”
She gasped as his tongue traced over her pulse, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, sending a jolt of pleasure so intense it nearly wiped her mind blank. Her body responded before her mind could catch up, a raw, needy moan slipping from her lips as his hips bucked up, pushing himself another inch inside.
Gods, this feels so good—too good, she thought, panic flaring beneath the haze of pleasure. It was too intense, too much; she could already feel the cracks forming in her shields. If they kept this up, she wouldn’t be able to stay detached.
She needed to take control, to just finish it, before she lost herself entirely to the torrent of emotions clawing at her. Hermione bit down on her lip, bracing herself, and pushed down, taking the rest of him in one hard thrust.
The sudden, sharp stretch left her gasping for breath. Her body trembled violently from the shock, every muscle spasming as it struggled to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. She could feel every inch of him, every ridge and curve, filling her, every nerve in her body burning.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his arms gripping her tightly, holding her in place. His body trembled as if he were holding himself still by sheer force of will. “Granger,” he groaned, his voice strained, “I told you— slowly.”
When he finally pulled back to look at her, the frustration melted from his face, replaced by concern as he took in the unshed tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. He brought his hands to her cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears that had escaped. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just breathe.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “The pain will go away in a minute.”
His arms wrapped around her as she clung to him, her forehead resting on his shoulder. “Stubborn little Gryffindor,” he muttered into her hair. He pulled her just a fraction closer, his fingers splaying across her back as if he were anchoring her to him.
Despite herself, Hermione let out a small, watery laugh, a sound that surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise him. The initial sting of pain was beginning to fade, the ache easing with each gentle stroke of his hand along her spine. She felt her body begin to relax, melting into him, her face finding the natural curve of his neck. For a moment, she simply breathed, letting herself be held, letting her body slowly adjust around him.
After a quiet moment, he cleared his throat. “Better?”
She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. “Better,” she murmured.
Draco hesitated, seeming to choose his next words carefully. “Were you, uh…” He looked away for a beat, as though embarrassed, and finally managed, “You weren’t a…?”
Hermione felt her cheeks flush, and a reluctant laugh bubbled out of her. “No, I’m not a virgin, Draco. I’m almost thirty years old,” she said, trying not to smile at his sudden awkwardness. “Do you honestly think I haven’t had sex before?”
He looked sheepish for a moment. “Well, I assumed you had,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, “but it… didn’t seem like it.”
She stiffened slightly. “It’s just… it’s been a while, that’s all. A long while actually.” She felt her blush deepen. “And you’re not exactly… small,” she added, wincing the moment the words left her mouth.
Draco’s lips lifted as his smirk spread across his face. “No, I’m not,” he replied with a cocky grin. “But I think you’ll enjoy that in a minute.” He pushed her hair out of her face. “Do you think you’re ready to move?”
“Oh,” Hermione said, clearing her throat, “we don’t have to. I can just… sit here until the spell breaks, if you don’t mind. The, uh… penetration should be enough.” Her voice faltered as the words left her. She was trying to be detached, calm, rational—even if her heart was pounding and her skin felt like it was on fire.
Draco’s lips pressed together, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Are you asking if I mind you sitting here, warming my cock for however long it takes for the enchantment to wear off?”
Hermione felt her entire body flush as he said it, his casual vulgarity sending a strange thrill through her. “Essentially, yes,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze. “I just thought… it would be easier this way, more… clinical.”
“If that’s what you want, Granger,” he murmured, a quiet sigh escaping his lips that almost sounded… disappointed. He leaned back, letting his arms drop to his sides, giving her as much space as he could.
The cool air brushed against her damp skin, causing goosebumps to skitter across her arms and shoulders. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling painfully exposed. It was silly, really—he’d already seen her, touched her, felt every inch of her. Hell, he’s still inside her.
Draco seemed to catch her discomfort. His brow arched slightly, an unreadable look flickering in his eyes. Then, without a word, he shrugged out of his velvet jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
“There.” His fingers lingered on the collar for a moment, brushing against her collarbone as he adjusted the jacket around her, securing it and shielding her from more than just the chill. The fabric settled around her like a warm, comforting blanket as his scent enveloped her—spearmint, parchment, and something else entirely him—her mind went blissfully blank. She closed her eyes for a beat, and the faintest memory of that scent surfaced in her mind.
He shifted beneath her, the movement pushing him deeper. A low moan escaped her throat before she could hold it back. Her eyes snapped open, heat flaring across her face as she fought for composure, but every nerve in her body was alert, aware of every inch of him. A slow, building need began pooling in her belly, making it hard to ignore the way he filled her, the way every slight movement seemed to fan the heat between them.
She squirmed a little, shifting her hips slightly, trying to relieve the ache. Draco stilled her movement, his hands coming back to her hips, his expression maddeningly composed as he watched her struggle. “You think this is all it’ll take?”
Hermione audibly swallowed, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Magically enhanced mistletoe requires a kiss to break its hold,” she explained, her tone clipped as she tried to focus. “Usually, it releases after just a brush of the lips. So, logically, for mistletoe that’s enchanted to want… more—this should be enough to break the spell,” she reasoned. Though with each passing second, her confidence in that statement was beginning to wither.
Her body rebelled against her decision to stay still, every nerve ending sparking with desire, craving the relief she was so adamantly trying to deny herself. Her hips threatened to rock, instinctively seeking that delicious friction, but Draco held her still.
He tilted his head as his gaze bore into her. “Do you really believe that?” His voice was a low, teasing purr that seeped into her. Heat surged through her, pooling low in her belly, and her mouth fell open, only to snap shut as she swallowed the needy whimper clawing up her throat. She hadn’t thought just sitting like this would be so hard, so unbearably hot. Biting down on her lip, she clenched her hands into fists, fighting the rising tide of desire that throbbed through her. She shifted again, hoping to find some relief, the movement only intensifying the ache, amplifying the desperate need coursing through her.
“Ah, ah, Granger,” he chastised her, keeping her still. “No moving, remember?”
“I’m not—” she began, but the words died in her throat as she felt him twitch inside her. Her body quivered in response, the tension between her thighs becoming unbearable.
His silver eyes locked onto hers, glinting with a wicked spark of challenge. “You wanted to sit here until the enchantment lifts,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress as she felt him twitch inside her again, “so, that’s what we’re going to do.”
She was losing control, teetering helplessly on the edge. Her pulse hammered in her throat, her breaths coming faster, shallower as heat pooled and swirled inside her, her muscles clenching around him despite herself.
Draco leaned back again. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said, almost lazily.
Her teeth bit into her lip, her resolve fraying with every agonizing second. Her thighs trembled, her hands clenching until her knuckles turned white. The overwhelming need coiled tighter inside her, pressing against her ribs, constricting her chest. She couldn’t keep this up; the effort to resist him, to hold herself together, was slipping, piece by piece. Her breaths turned into ragged gasps, her whole body one pulsing, aching need. Another whimper escaped her as she forced herself to stay still.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.” His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles on her hip, his eyes never leaving her face as he watched her struggle to maintain control. “I’ll give you anything, Granger,” he whispered, the heat in his eyes had her core clenching around him. “Just say the word and it’s yours.”
Her breath hitched, her body betraying her as the pressure built, she couldn't hold back anymore. With a frustrated groan, she gave in, her last thread of control slipping away like sand through her fingers. “I need to move,” she gasped, her voice raw with need. “Please!”
At her plea, Draco’s grip on her hips relaxed, his hands sliding slowly down her thighs, giving her the freedom she so desperately craved.
She rolled her hips, tentative at first, and felt the way he filled her even more, pressing against every sensitive spot. She moved against him, her hips rolling in desperate, shallow thrusts as she gave herself over to the heat consuming her.
Draco’s hands slid up her sides, slowing her erratic movements. “Slow, Granger,” he murmured, his voice a dark purr. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”
Her body trembled as she let him guide her. She wanted to hate him for this, for making her feel this way, but in this moment, all she could think about was the way he felt beneath her, the way he filled her completely, the way he stoked the fire licking through her veins. She shrugged out of his jacket, too hot and desperate to care about being on display for him. She let her head fall back, her hands moving to her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers, and bit down a moan.
His hands slid over hers, abandoning her hips and leaving her to continue the pace he set. He squeezed her hands, kneading her palms into her breasts. “You’re so fucking perfect.” His voice was a growl as he leaned down, removing one of her hands and replacing it with his mouth. “So beautiful.” His tongue lapped over her nipple, his lips closing around it, sucking it gently.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place as a moan tore from her lips. “Draco…” His name came out as a breathless plea. Her hips stuttered as he let out a low growl against her skin, the vibration radiating through her.
He released her breast, trailing kisses across her chest, taking his time as his mouth found her other nipple. He guided her hand back to the breast he had abandoned, and she reflexively squeezed it as hard as she could, trying to ground herself. “Say it again,” he murmured against her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple. “Say my name.” He bit down lightly.
A soft, helpless moan escaped her throat. He bit down a little harder until she moaned, “Draco.” He released the pressure, swirling his tongue around the abused flesh, soothing it, then trailed kisses up her chest, to her neck.
“I love hearing you moan my name,” he said, his voice thick with need as he pressed his hips up, burying himself as deep as he could go.
The pressure in her core built, tightening until she thought she would snap. “Draco, please.” Her head tipped back, the words tumbling out as she barely knew what she was pleading for. “Please, please, please…” she whimpered, lost in the sensation.
His hand slid up to tangle in her hair, his fingers gripping lightly at the nape of her neck, holding her close. He tilted her head down, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Look at me,” he commanded softly, and she felt her breath catch as his gaze held hers. “Tell me what you want.”
"More." The word tore from her lips, raw and guttural. She needed him, wanted him, craved him, every part of him. She wanted everything he would give her. Her gaze flicked to his crisp white shirt, and a feral sound escaped her. She needed to see more of him. Without thinking, she clutched his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric, then ripped it apart. Buttons scattered, pinging against the walls and floor as she exposed his well-defined chest.
His eyes burned wildly. "Oh, fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping her hips as though his life depended on it.
She wet her lips, her gaze trailing down to his exposed chest, his beautifully defined abs. She traced her nails down his skin, savoring the way he shivered under her touch—it wasn’t enough, she needed more.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking with need, no longer caring how desperate she sounded. “Please, I need more."
“You don’t have to beg, beautiful.” He kissed a line up her neck, nipping at the skin below her ear. “I’ll give you anything you want. I’d worship you—if you let me.”
Her mind went blank, her entire body tingling. His words sent a shock of heat through her core, and she whimpered as the need inside her built impossibly higher, her core fluttering around him
“That’s my girl,” he praised, his hand tightening in her hair as he thrust up, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her gasp. She could barely think, barely breathe, her entire being focused on him, the way he met her every movement.
Her eyes were wide, her lips parted as she panted for him, her heart hammering in her chest. Every inch of her was laid bare, every part of her vulnerable under his touch. His thumb brushed over her clit, and her eyes rolled back as a tremor rocked through her.
“Uh-uh,” he growled, tugging lightly on her hair to bring her gaze back to him. “I want you to look at me—to know I’m the one making you feel this way.”
She clenched around him, and he let out a soft curse, his own control faltering for just a second.
“Draco,” she breathed, her voice filled with desperation, her eyes searching his for something she couldn’t even name. Her body was caught between the urge to push him away and pull him closer, to beg him to stop and never stop. But all she could do was cling to him, her need overtaking every rational thought.
“Who’s fucking you, Granger?” Draco’s growl vibrated through her.
Hermione’s head spun, the demand in his voice scattering any coherent thought “You,” she whimpered, her voice barely holding against the rush of pleasure that overwhelmed her with each thrust. She was losing herself, feeling every brush of him against that spot deep inside, robbing her of anything resembling control.
But his grip tightened in her hair as he pressed their foreheads together. “No,” he murmured, his tone rough, almost daring. “Who’s fucking you, Granger?” His eyes bore into her, his breath heavy against her lips.
The answer tore from her before she even realized it. “Draco,” she breathed, and her voice trembled with her surrender. She could feel his satisfaction in the way his fingers flexed against her skin, binding her to him.
“Yes,” he hissed, a gleam of possession in his silver eyes. “Gods, look at you. You're so bloody perfect.”
The words sent a bolt of heat through her, her whole-body clenching as he drove into her with a relentless rhythm, each thrust a direct line to the blazing tension coiling tighter and tighter inside her. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his, and with each roll of his hips, she felt herself unraveling, slipping further away.
“Draco, Draco, Draco,” she chanted, the sound mindless, a raw plea as her voice broke into shallow gasps. Her hands clung to him, her nails digging into his skin, anchoring herself to him as everything else dissolved. She saw the shift in his face, the way his own carefully maintained restraint began to crack, his jaw clenching, eyes darkening with each strained breath. His smirk was gone, replaced by something raw and unguarded, something that made her feel like he was just as lost in this as she was.
"Come for me, Granger.” He leaned closer, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, "I want to see how beautiful you look... falling apart on my cock."
His hands tightened around her hips, guiding her in a maddening rhythm. "That's it," he breathed, his gaze burning as he watched every reaction, every flicker of desire in her face. "Let go for me. I want every last bit of you, Granger."
Hermione’s pulse pounded in her ears as his words echoed through her. Her breaths came faster, shallower, her body writhing with need as he held her gaze, his eyes dark and ravenous. She bit down on her lip, trying to muffle the moan rising in her throat, but it escaped anyway.
"Don’t hold back," he growled. "I want to see it all—the way you unravel for me."
The tension in her core finally snapped, the waves of pleasure crashing over her with a force that tore her voice from her throat. She cried out, every nerve electrified as he held her close, guiding her through it, his own breaths rough as he murmured softly, almost reverently, “There it is. Gorgeous, Granger... absolutely stunning.”
Her body trembled violently against him, her vision blurring as her world narrowed to just him. He was hers and she was his. But even as she came, the spell’s hold didn’t release. Her body was still tethered to him, the magic coiling around them, keeping them locked in this impossible closeness.
Draco’s grip tightened, his breath hot against her skin as his face hovered inches from hers. A deep, guttural sound escaped him, a primal echo of her own release, and she felt the shudder ripple through his body, completely surrendering himself to the sensation. For a brief, electrifying moment, they hung together in that shared intensity, bodies intertwined and bound by an inexplicable connection.
As her senses swirled, Hermione took a deep, ragged breath, inhaling the scent that enveloped them. The sharpness of spearmint, the familiar scent of parchment, all mingling with the musky fragrance of their entwined bodies. It struck her like a bolt of lightning, jolting her from the haze of pleasure. This was it. The scent that had eluded her in sixth year during Potions class when she brewed Amortentia. It was the final piece she had never been able to identify—the scent of him, the unmistakable aroma of her and Draco after sex.
As realization washed over her, the magic around them began to ebb, slowly peeling away like the layers of a dream.
Hermione’s strength gave out, and she collapsed against his chest, her heart pounding, her body still trembling from the aftershocks. Reality came rushing back in pieces, leaving her to process what had just happened.
Draco’s chest rose and fell against her as he drew a deep breath. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer as he slipped out of her. His voice, rough and barely above a whisper, broke the silence. “Do you have to be good at everything, Granger?”
Her face heated in embarrassment as she buried her face against his shoulder. She could feel his chuckle rumbling through him as he pressed a kiss to her temple. The gesture felt oddly tender, bringing her back to her revelation.
Her Amortentia smelled like him, like him and her together. She had had a crush on him for years, but was she really in love with Draco Malfoy?
The question pulsed through her mind, followed by a rush of panic. Before she could pull away, Draco’s hands were on her again, steady, possessive. Without warning, he gripped her waist and lifted her effortlessly, her breath catching in a startled gasp as her back met the icy marble wall of the ballroom.
Hermione’s mind reeled, scrambling to make sense of it all. The spell—it had broken, hadn’t it? She was certain she’d felt the magic dissolve, felt the tension release when they both—her heart pounded at the memory. It had broken. She was free to leave. Her muscles tensed, instincts urging her to pull away, to escape this closeness that now felt dangerous in a new, thrilling way.
“Don’t even think about it, Granger,” he growled, his gaze locking onto hers.
“Draco—” she stammered, her voice catching, limbs still trembling with aftershocks.
His silver eyes bore into her. There was no charm, no smirk, just a rawness in his eyes—dark and hungry. His face dipped closer. “I’m not through with you.”
Before she could gather her thoughts, his mouth crashed against hers in a fierce, possessive kiss that stole the words from her lips, and with them, any notion of leaving. His hands traveled down her body with a rough, desperate urgency. The heat that had just begun to fade roared back to life, engulfing her in a consuming fire that seemed to burn hotter with every inch he claimed, every inch she surrendered.
She gasped against his mouth as he pressed her harder into the wall, his hips pinning her in place, and her breath hitched as she felt him, already hard and ready, pressing against her.
“Draco,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she broke the kiss, gasping for air. “The spell—it’s...”
“Doesn’t matter,” he cut her off. His hands slid down, gripping her thighs firmly, lifting her until her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. She clung to him, feeling the solid strength of his body anchoring her in place.
“You’re not leaving,” he growled, his voice laced with a possessive heat that sent another rush of need through her. "Not yet."
Confusion flickered in her mind, mingling with the ache building within her. He had to know the spell was broken. That he didn’t need to keep going. And yet, he was still there, still holding her, kissing her. A part of her wanted to resist, to demand he explain why he wasn't stopping, but the way his hand slipped between her thighs, the gentle pressure of his fingers as they brushed against her, wiped every coherent thought from her mind.
She couldn’t stop the low moan that slipped past her lips as his fingers circled her, teasing, edging her toward a cliff she’d just fallen from. Her breaths came faster, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she tried in vain to hold herself together, but Draco knew exactly where to touch, how to make her break all over again.
“Draco,” she gasped, unsure if she was pleading with him to stop or to keep going.
He shifted, lining himself up between her thighs, and with a swift thrust, he filled her once more. Hermione cried out, her body arching, her back pressing against the wall as another shockwave of pleasure engulfed her. His hand tangled in her hair, tugging her head back just enough for him to capture her mouth again, his kiss hot and frantic.
He set a demanding rhythm, each thrust deep and punishing, robbing her of breath, of thought, of anything that wasn’t him. She clung to him, her nails digging into his back, anchoring herself as he drove her higher, the intensity of his pace, the raw need behind every movement overwhelming her. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her body responding helplessly, desperately, to him.
She knew she shouldn’t want this, knew it was madness to lose herself like this with him, yet with every stroke, every breath he stole from her, she couldn’t deny how much she wanted him, how much she craved this. It was reckless, consuming, and utterly inescapable.
Hermione’s hips rose to meet each powerful thrust, following the rhythm he created, as though every nerve, every fiber of her being, had given itself over to him. Her mind was screaming at her to stop, to pull back, to reclaim some sense of control—but her body, her very soul, felt bound to him, helpless against the surge of pleasure his hands, his mouth, and his heat pulled from her. All she could think of was his hands gripping her as if she were something he could never let go.
As she felt herself beginning to spiral again, caught in the storm he had unleashed within her, one thought blazed through her mind: she wasn’t sure she ever wanted it to end.
She was close—so close—and she could feel the crescendo building inside her.
“You’re mine, Granger,” he growled, the possessiveness causing her core to spasm.
She nodded frantically, surrendering to the fire between them, to him. “Yes,” she gasped.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice dark, insistent. “Say you’re mine.”
A shudder ran through her, and she felt her lips move before she could even think. “Yours. I’m yours, Draco.”
He made a low sound of satisfaction, a deep growl that rumbled through his chest and set her nerves alight. Her entire body was shaking as she teetered on the edge, trying to hold back even though she knew it was useless. The need clawed at her, until she gave into it.
Sensing her surrender, Draco’s fingers dug into her thighs, his voice raw with need as he growled, “That’s it, Beautiful. Come for me again.”
And she did. Her release swept through her like a tidal wave, crashing over her in a relentless surge that left her gasping for air, her entire body trembling violently in his arms. She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to stifle the soft cries that escaped her as he continued, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until she was utterly spent, barely able to think, to breathe.
Only when her body went limp, boneless and trembling against him, did he finally slow. His breath came in short, uneven pants, and he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes heavy-lidded as he struggled to catch his breath.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was their labored breathing.
It was Hermione who found her voice first, though it came out weak, hoarse, almost foreign. “You knew,” she whispered, her heart still racing. “You knew the spell was broken.”
Draco pulled back, meeting her gaze with an unrepentant look. A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “I did,” he confirmed, as he tucked an unruly curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, brushing her cheek as he slowly eased her down, letting her body slowly slide along his until her feet hit the floor. He pulled her closer, holding her against him as her knees wobbled precariously beneath her.
Her lips parted as she searched his face, trying to piece together what it meant. “But you—”
His hand cupped her jaw, leaning closer, his voice a quiet rumble. “I know.” He pressed his lips to her in a soft, almost tender kiss. When he pulled back, his smirk was as insufferable as ever, his silver eyes glinting with that familiar, irritating confidence. “You didn’t seem to mind, though,” he teased.
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but no words came out. He wasn’t wrong, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t. Her body had betrayed her completely. And even now, as she stared at him, feeling the heat creep back into her cheeks, a part of her didn’t regret it.
But she'd be damned if she let him know that—no way was she giving him the satisfaction. With as much dignity as she could muster, she pushed him away. She cleared her throat, awkwardly surveying the room, painfully aware that her rushed spellwork had vanished every last stitch of her clothing. “I’d better go.”
Draco stepped back, his face betraying nothing as he watched her reach for his Santa jacket, wrapping it tightly around herself. She avoided his gaze, focusing on clutching the fabric closed, grateful that it at least covered her to mid-thigh. She smoothed a hand over her tangled hair, knowing it was hopeless, nothing could manage her unruly curls right now.
Just as she was about to turn away, her eyes flicked to his face and caught the briefest flicker of hurt before it was replaced by his usual unreadable expression.
She started for the door, trying to avoid looking at him, feeling the acute discomfort of what could only be described as a walk of shame. Her skin felt raw, still tingling, and each step reminded her of the delicious soreness between her legs. She could already feel the bruises forming on her hips and thighs. Her emotions were a tangled mess.
“I’m going to bury Scorpius in homework for this,” she muttered to herself. That is, if she ever found the nerve to set foot in the manor again. The thought of facing Draco and pretending this night had never happened made her stomach twist.
A low chuckle came from behind, and a shiver prickled up her spine. She glanced over her shoulder to find Draco following her. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he drawled, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I'm thinking about finally getting him with that Nimbus 3000 he’s been hinting at.”
Hermione spun around, her eyes narrowing in disbelief. “You’re rewarding him for this?”
Draco stepped forward, a strange vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I?” he murmured. “He gave me exactly what I’ve wanted for years.”
His words struck her, stopping her mid-breath. Her heart gave a little flutter, her eyes roaming over his face, trying to decipher exactly what he meant by that. With his guard down, she saw it—an ache, a longing in his eyes that made her chest tighten.
He took another step closer, closing the distance between them as his gaze held her in place. “Please stay."
She held her breath, pulse hammering. “For the party?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, almost afraid to hear his answer.
“For the party,” he replied, but his voice faltered, a flicker of determination settling in his eyes. He drew a slow, steady breath. “For the night. For forever. Just… stay.”
His words hung between them. She searched his face, trying to find a sign that he was teasing, some telltale glint of his usual bravado, but there was nothing. No smirk, no familiar arrogance—just quiet, sincerity.
Her throat tightened, emotions she’d buried rushing to the surface as she stood there, torn open and uncertain. Could she really stay? The thought should have been unthinkable, impossible, yet here she was, standing in front of him, every reason to leave melting away. He looked at her as though he truly saw her, saw past all her pretense and guarded smiles, saw her in a way no one else did. And maybe, just maybe, it had always been there.
Stay.
The word slipped from her lips before she could second-guess herself. “Okay,” she whispered, barely believing her own answer.
Draco’s brows lifted in surprise, as though he hadn’t truly expected her to say it. “Okay?”
Hermione nodded, doing her best to hide the slight quiver in her voice. “Yes, I’ll stay.”
A small, relieved smile spread across his face. “For the party?” he asked, taking a cautious step toward her.
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded. “Yes.”
He took another step forward, slowly closing the distance between them. “For the night?” His voice was quieter now, as though he didn’t dare hope for more.
She paused, rolling the question around her mind. She bit her lip and looked up at him. “Possibly."
His eyes gleamed, and he took one more step closer, his presence intoxicating as he searched her face, letting the question linger between them. “For forever?”
A shiver ran through her at the suggestion, but it didn’t scare her as much as it should have. Instead of pulling back, she found herself wanting more, more of whatever this was, more of him of him.
“I wouldn’t… rule it out,” she whispered, letting her hand drift up his bare forearm.
Draco beamed, wrapping his arms around her waist, his eyes shining with the hope she so often saw in his son’s eyes.
The heavy wooden door to the ballroom creaked open, interrupting the moment. Pansy's head poked through, her gaze sweeping over the room until it landed on them. “Oh, good. You two finally figured it out. I was beginning to worry.” Her eyes widened in surprise as she took in Hermione's disheveled state and Draco’s open, button-less shirt. She squeezed through the doorway, shutting it behind her. “Wow, you both look positively ravished. I'd say the Amorvita worked like a charm.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward Pansy, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “I can't believe you did that to us, Pansy!”
“What?” She glanced at Hermione like a cat who had not only caught a mouse but held it pinned beneath her paw. “Did you need more time? Because I can leave, if you’d like.”
Hermione's voice dropped to a furious whisper. “That’s not what I meant,” she bit out, her cheeks burning “You practically forced us to—to have sex!”
Pansy’s eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, she looked genuinely surprised. “What? I would never!”
“But you did!” Hermione’s voice rose, her finger jabbing in the direction of the mistletoe hanging ominously above them. “That bloody thing,” she spat, “should be banned by the Ministry. Forcing people together until they’re... forced to—” She stopped herself. “It’s not just intrusive; it’s unethical! And you gave that to a child for a bloody prank.”
Pansy raised both hands in defense. “Whoa, ok, so I see now that you didn’t figure it out. What I gave Scorpius was an enchanted mistletoe, yes, but it’s harmless.” She gestured dismissively at the pink-berried twig. “All that does is compel someone to stand near the source of their Amortentia until they recognize it. That’s it. No forcing anyone to do... whatever just happened here.”
Hermione’s face drained of color, her gaze darting to Draco’s, who mirrored her look of stunned realization, a flush of color creeping up his neck. “What?” she breathed.
Pansy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms defensively. “You clearly needed help confronting your feelings for Draco.” She paused, piecing Hermione in place with a pointed look. “If I’d been wrong, which, by the way, I never am, nothing would have happened. You’d be at home right now, sitting next to that hideous orange monstrosity of yours, stubbornly denying your obvious feelings for him.”
Hermione’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again, entirely at a loss for words. Her mind spun, her stomach lurching as the implications settled in. “You mean—,” she stammered. “We didn’t have to… actually have sex?”
Pansy looked at her like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Merlin, Granger, you’re supposed to be the smart one. All you had to do was stop for a second and breathe. You were sitting on the man’s lap, for Salazar's sake! How did you miss it?”
Hermione gaped, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. “But you said it required more than a kiss.”
Pansy pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “No, no. I said kissing wouldn’t work. What you needed was to open up and admit how you feel about Draco—not, well...” She trailed off, blinking at Hermione, then threw her head back with a delighted cackle. “Wait—are you telling me it took a full-on shag to make you realize you’re head-over-heels for him?” She doubled over, her laughter echoing around the room. “Oh, that is priceless! After all these years, all it would have taken was for him to shag you senseless?”
Hermione cringed, her face turning scarlet. “But what about Draco?” she started, trying to shift the focus. “How could you do this to him? He got caught up in this because—”
Pansy cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Draco’s known who his Amortentia smells like since 6th year. So, trust me, he very much wanted what obviously happened here.”
Surely, she couldn’t mean…Hermione’s head whipped around to face Draco.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, this… isn’t exactly how I planned on telling you,” he murmured, his hands disappearing into his pockets.
Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest. “Wh-what?” she managed to choke out.
“My amortentia…” he began quietly. “It smells like the library on a rainy day.” His gaze dropped to his shoes, taking a breath before continuing. “That peppermint tea you’re always drinking…” His voice grew even quieter. “And you.”
Her breath caught, and she could only stare, barely comprehending, as he continued.
“It was maddening, realizing that the one person I was supposed to hate was the only person who made everything feel—” He stopped, raking a hand through his hair as though to steady himself, inhaling deeply before finishing. “Made everything feel right.”
“I tried to ignore it,” he confessed, his voice cracking slightly. “I convinced myself it was a mistake, that I was somehow wrong. That I could push it down, forget about it, pretend it didn’t matter. But… it never worked.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, reaching out to hold his hand. “You could have said something.”
Draco huffed out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same. And I thought… maybe it would be easier to let you live your life without…” He swallowed, his hand tightening over hers. “Without the burden of knowing that you consume me.”
He finally looked up, and she could see him building his walls back up as if he was bracing himself for her reaction.
Hermione slowly rose onto her tiptoes, slipping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers into the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Her eyes locked with his and she gave a gentle tug, drawing him closer. She pressed her lips against his, tentative at first, then pressed harder, deepening the kiss, her emotions spilling out as she pressed her mouth to his. This wasn't a kiss—it was a confession, a promise, telling him everything she hadn’t dared to say aloud.
His hands slipped around her waist, pulling her closer as he poured himself into the kiss too, holding her as though the very thought of letting her go was unbearable.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead gently against hers, closing his eyes as he exhaled a ragged breath. “That didn’t feel like a ‘get stuffed, Malfoy’,” he whispered.
“That’s because it wasn't,” she chuckled brushing her palm against his cheek. She pulled back so she could look into his eyes, eyes she’d spent years trying to ignore, to pretend didn’t affect her the way they did. “It was more like a… Let’s see where this goes.”
Draco’s lips curved into a genuine smile, warmth spreading across his face. “I can work with that.”
The door creaked open again, and Scorpius poked his head inside. “Can I come in yet, Aunt Pansy?” His wide eyes found Hermione, and without waiting for an answer, he bounded into the room. “Did it work? Are you staying?”
She glanced up at Draco, who was watching her with the same hopeful expression, his gaze locked on her, waiting for her answer.
She sighed, ruffling Scorpius’s hair. “Yes, I’m staying.”