Chapter Text
WRAPPING CHAOS, Part 2
The color to make him fall
“Bring out the lingerie.”
“Wait, no, the stockings.”
“You need to look sexy!”
“Your hair, maybe you could—”
“Enough!” Hermione snapped, her breath uneven.
Her cheeks flushed, a warm haze betrayed the effects of the two glasses of wine she had downed far too quickly. Bad idea. Her head spun faintly, and she anchored herself to reality as best she could, a faint smile gracing her lips under the giddy lightness coursing through her body.
Ginny had been adamant: Relax, Hermione, or you’ll never manage to approach your so-called target. Or rather, targets, she thought with a flicker of humor, a mischievous glint igniting in her caramel eyes.
Her fingers brushed the delicate lace of her top, tracing the fabric near her chest. She needed to calm the turmoil within, though this habit of running her hands along the graceful curve of her neck and down to her hips would likely be her undoing one day—or perhaps his. A smirk twisted her lips.
Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her gaze, her eyes locking onto her reflection in the mirror. The crimson hue of her cheeks contrasted sharply with the dark forest-green lingerie top. The plunging neckline dipped daringly to her navel—an essential feature, according to Ginny Weasley. She was certain Hermione would turn heads tonight.
A fitted black skirt, slit high on one thigh, elongated her legs. She was still petite—but it would suffice. To complete the look, she wore black lace stockings, one carefully adjusted to conceal her wand. She would likely need it if that platinum-haired nuisance dared to run his mouth too much.
Hermione’s nails matched the deep hue of her top with precision, and even her eyeliner adhered to the theme, drawing an intense line that accentuated her hazel eyes. A faintly disdainful pout adorned her lips as she studied her reflection.
She was practicing—she needed to captivate Draco Malfoy’s attention. Over the years, she had come to understand that the fool adored challenges, and she intended to give him one he wouldn’t soon forget: make him believe she was unattainable, let him crack, and then vanish without a trace.
Should I unsettle him by calling him by his first name? she mused. No, too soon. She needed to give him the illusion of pursuit, of the hunt—and when he thought he’d caught his prey, she would slip away, leaving him bewildered and frustrated. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, picturing the scene.
He was going to be furious. She couldn’t wait.
A pang of guilt tugged at her, almost softening her resolve—but no. She didn’t appreciate being mocked. Those days were behind her, and he would soon learn that two could play this game.
“Get ready, you scruffy-headed ogre—I’m coming for you,” she murmured.
I control my appearance, but not my words, darling
"Stay still."
"Make an effort and shave, for Merlin’s sake!"
"Have you looked at yourself? Even a courtesan wouldn’t want you."
"I think he needs a pick-me-up. Maybe you should bring out Hermione’s famous toy box again. That might motivate him to stay presentable."
"Will you two just shut up already?!" Malfoy roared, his voice tinged with hysteria.
Nott and Blaise had been pelting him with insults and mockery for hours, and Draco was reaching his breaking point. Hermione—the damned witch who had kept him awake for days—was joining them tonight. In an hour. And fifteen minutes. Thirty-six seconds.
Well, Malfoy didn’t know her exact arrival time, but he knew how long he’d spent scratching the back of his neck, too anxious about seeing her again. Six fucking hours. He felt like punching himself, appalled by his behavior. Since when had he lost his grip like this? Over a woman, of all things—the ultimate humiliation.
Grumbling under his breath while his so-called friends tried every trick to shave his face, Draco’s gaze flicked to the small piece of parchment on his dark bedside table. He knew every word by heart, having written it immediately after his encounter with the goddess of sex. And since then, he’d reread it so obsessively that he’d given himself a headache.
He was pathetic.
"Are you shaving that beard, or do we have to tie you up and do it ourselves?"
"Oh, I’d gladly take care of it," Theodore promised after Blaise words, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.
His friend clearly hadn’t forgotten the time Draco had pinned him to a wall with a spell, silencing his monstrous mouth for an entire evening. Blissful peace —albeit short-lived.
Draco groaned weakly. "Fine, I’ll handle it. Now, go clean the toilets. I saw the giant turd one of you left in there, and honestly, it’s disgustingly uncivilized."
Nott burst into laughter, utterly unoffended, while Blaise glared daggers at him.
"I have no idea how Pansy tolerates your grotesque behavior," Draco muttered.
"Oh, mate," Blaise replied coolly, "when you have a girlfriend, you’ll learn you can’t hold in your farts forever. The truth always comes out."
Nott choked on a laugh, while Draco’s chuckle escaped before he could stop it. "Don’t worry, that day will come when pigs fly. I’ll remain a gentleman until my dying breath," Draco said with mock sincerity.
"Right, of course," Blaise quipped with a theatrical pout. "What would a Malfoy know about the art of defecation?"
"Will you be writing poems for me tonight, Draco-dear?" Theodore teased, stroking Draco’s arm dramatically.
Malfoy saw red. Shoving him off, his ears burned crimson. "Go fuck yourselves. Just because you lack my talent for prose doesn’t mean you’re allowed to act like savages."
"Oh, forgive me!" Theodore exclaimed with faux distress, raising his hands in surrender. "You must always ask a Malfoy’s permission."
Blaise moved closer, slinging an arm over Draco’s shoulder with a wicked grin. "Do you think Hermione will have to ask your permission for an orgasm? Or will you be decent enough to give her one without her begging?"
Draco’s lips twisted into a snarl, his eyes darkening dangerously.
"Oh, we’ve struck a nerve," Nott observed, feigning nausea but waggling his eyebrows playfully.
Blaise pulled back, his smirk firmly in place. "If you manage to woo her properly—spare me the details of your sex life."
"Oh, I’m all ears for the vital information," Nott interjected gleefully. "How she moans your name, if she likes it rough, whether she begs you to—"
"Enough!" Draco snapped, his breathing uneven.
He wouldn’t tell them anything. Hermione… If she ended up in his bed, she would be his completely. Their secret. And sex with a Malfoy was never conventional. He liked to push boundaries, to play with his prey.
He imagined her kneeling, arms bound behind her back, lips parted and swollen, her thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to find relief.
"Draco. Please."
Her body, languid and curved for his eyes, her gaze glistening with desire. Fuck. He’d savor her. Slowly. Every shiver, every whispered surrender, he’d draw from her one by one.
The tension in his custom-tailored trousers was impossible to ignore. He discreetly adjusted himself, his fingers curling momentarily in frustration.
Control yourself, damn it.
Forcing his attention elsewhere, Draco fixated on a random point in the room, willing away the vivid image of her body, the heat of her skin, and the echo of her ragged breath. Blaise and Theodore had vanished, leaving him alone to prepare in the bathroom.
His gaze fell on his reflection. His sharp jawline, chiseled as if by a blade, gave him an imposing air. Steely gray eyes scrutinized every pore on his face, from his arched, stern brows to his full lips, set in a line that danced between disdain and seduction—a look he fully intended to wield tonight. A smirk crept onto his face by habit.
Draco was usually respectful and considerate with women—attentive, even gentle. But with Hermione? He burned with barely contained fury. He wanted to pin her against a wall and silence her with his lips or his cock as much as he wanted to provoke her into baring her teeth at him.
His fingers tightened around the sink as he continued his scrutiny. A faint scar traced his left brow, a reminder of his rebellion against Bellatrix after she dared raise her hand against Granger. The memory twisted his expression into a grimace.
Draco wasn’t prone to defeatism—he preferred pragmatism. But when it came to Hermione, hope seemed laughable. He’d made too many mistakes to ever taste her lips.
Agitated, he ran a hand over the back of his neck, where a tattoo coiled like a living shadow. The black ink etched into his skin showed snakes that slithered lazily. Absently, he traced their outlines, his features hardening.
He needed to think.
No matter what he wrote, Hermione wouldn’t forgive him or move on. Why would she, when he couldn’t even do it himself?
Grabbing his razor with precise movements, Draco studied his reflection one last time before shaving. The stubble marring his face gave him a disheveled look.
He’d be presentable. Outwardly, at least. But his words? He couldn’t make such promise. Not when it came to Hermione Granger.
Not with his prey.
The Beginning of Hostilities: The toad and the moron
The party was in full swing at Blaise's manor, a display of extravagance and noise that grated on Draco Malfoy's nerves. His sharp gaze cut across the room with a simmering irritation. The Christmas decorations were absurd: golden garlands coiled around towering columns, enchanted snow drifting from the ceiling but never touching the floor, and a massive tree at the far end of the living room, groaning under the weight of sparkling baubles and magical ornaments croaking Christmas carols in grotesque toad-like voices.
A dry laugh escaped him as he recalled the letter he’d sent upon hearing Hermione might attend. The resentment behind his words lingered in his mind. He wondered if she had read it. He dragged a hand over his chin, his thoughts darkening.
Blaise’s sense of festivity was nothing short of theatrical. Draco half-expected him to summon reindeer prancing around in red tutus.
But it wasn’t the garish decor or the music’s incessant chime that gnawed at him—it was her absence. Hermione Granger. That insufferable witch hadn’t arrived yet, and his mind refused to think of anything but her—her neck beneath his lips, her curves beneath his hands. Fuck. He clenched his jaw, his pulse spiking. He was screwed, really screwed.
“Be a gentleman. A bloody gentleman,” he muttered under his breath like a prayer. The mantra, however, failed to cool the heat roiling in his chest. Blaise’s mocking, knowing glance only stoked the fire. Draco tightened his grip on the whiskey glass, lifting it to his lips, his dark eyes fixed ahead with a practiced indifference.
Zabini and Nott had wagered he couldn’t win Granger over, but Draco wasn’t here to prove anything to those idiots. No, his target wasn’t them—it was her. His lips twitched, almost smirking at the thought.
The cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and chattering voices surrounded him, but his focus remained detached. He shot occasional disinterested glances at the crowd milling on the dance floor, his expression hardening when he spotted Nott sprawled on a sofa, surrounded by simpering admirers.
“He tied me to the wall like some poor defenseless dog. I’m telling you, it was unbearable,” Theo grumbled, spinning a tale for his eager audience.
Draco’s laugh came low and mirthless. Nott relied on his stories—and Draco’s reputation—to ensnare women. It was pathetic.
Draining the last of his whiskey, Draco felt the atmosphere shift. The music faltered, conversations softened, and then she entered.
Hermione fucking Granger.
She wore a top that could barely be called clothing, its plunging neckline daring gravity as it sliced to her navel. The sight of her breast made Draco swallow, his body taut as a string about to snap. His heart pounded like a drum, an unbearable heat pooling in his lower stomach. And then there were her legs. Her fucking legs.
Malfoy pressed a hand to his lips, the cross-shaped ring brushing against them. Eyes wide, he found himself fantasizing about slipping his hands under that skirt, gripping her hard enough to draw a moan from her. She wore high heels, fuck. The image burned in his mind: his hands tracing the inside of her thighs until she sighed his name.
He cursed under his breath, raking his fingers through his hair.
Hermione’s eyes locked onto his, bold and almost playful, her lips curving into a knowing smile. Draco sank back into his chair, forcing his posture into something resembling nonchalance. His hand tugged at his tie, loosening it with a grunt.
He was burning up in this suffocating room.
Blaise shot him a wink laced with mockery. Draco gritted his teeth. He wasn’t captivated by the beauty of the witch with a lioness’s mane—no, he refused to be. He… his gaze betrayed him, tracing the line of her endless legs. He inhaled slowly.
She was undeniably stunning.
“Mione,” Zabini greeted her warmly, pulling her into an embrace that ignited something bitter in Draco’s gut.
Malfoy’s sharp glare followed their exchange, his fingers whitening against the sofa’s arm. He lounged like a predator, legs spread, his eyes alight with hunger.
Nott rose next, his interest evident as he approached her, oozing charm. Theo’s obvious ogling made Draco’s jaw lock. Enough. Rising in a smooth motion, Draco closed the distance between them in three deliberate strides.
“Granger,” he drawled, his tone clipped.
“Malfoy,” she replied smoothly.
Would she use that voice when he bent her over a table, preventing her from touching herself?
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head toward the obnoxious decorations.
“You’d fit in perfectly with the toads by the tree.”
A true gentleman, he muttered to himself as he realized what he had just said. Blaise’s laughter rang out, and a lovely shade of pink colored Hermione’s cheeks.
“Bold words from a poet stealing lines from children’s books,” she shot back, her voice slicing through the tension.
Nott choked on his glass, and the floor was soon flooded with alcohol. The idiot’s drink was coming out of his nose. A truly flattering portrait.
Malfoy tried his best to hide his anger—unsuccessfully.
“A woman as frigid as you couldn’t possibly understand the power of poetry. But it’s to your credit that you’ve tried to understand it.”
Hermione’s lips froze into a placid, furious pout and Malfoy’s smirk deepened.
Oh, he was going to enjoy this evening.
"Cut the tension, Draco, will you?" Blaise draped an arm around Hermione's shoulders, his dark eyes observing him with… disdain? Malfoy was almost outraged. His fists clenched, and he forced himself to relax them.
"We wouldn’t want bloodshed before the party’s even begun," Nott added theatrically, running a hand through his hair.
Draco wanted to slam him against the wall—again—but Hermione's laugh pulled him from his murderous thoughts.
"Malfoy," she hissed, a dark gleam in her gaze. "He’s not worried about me, but about what I’ll do if you step out of line. Act civilized. I know it’s a stretch, but I believe in you."
Draco froze, then let a slow smile curve his lips. His eyes shifted, moving from irritation to mockery.
"Read the signs, Granger. Your presence is unbearable. Even a toad couldn’t resist croaking to get you out of the party."
He shrugged nonchalantly, his indifference clear. "If honesty offends you, by all means, enjoy Nott’s company. He’s positively dripping in it—if lies and cowardice count."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, both perplexed and amused. With a languid smile, she linked her arm with Nott’s, entwining her fingers around his muscles before disappearing from Draco’s sight.
Malfoy’s reaction was a mix of confusion and frustration. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What a bloody idiot, he cursed inwardly. Theodore grinned like a fool who had just won a golden apple. Draco's fists clenched again, a disturbing urge to smash Nott's smug face gnawing at his stomach.
"You just lost your target," Blaise groaned, feigning disappointment as he surveyed the room. "Again."
"You think?"
Malfoy’s sharp tone echoed through the music in the room. With Blaise by his side, they tracked Hermione’s every movement and the ungrateful curly-haired idiot clinging to her side. He had a hand on her hip. A wave of heat surged up Draco’s neck. Zabini pressed his palm on Malfoy’s shoulder, his grip unyielding.
"When are you going to stop playing with fire and watch the sparks die under your incessant remarks?" Blaise leaned closer, his frown deepening. "Compliment her, for Merlin’s sake. I saw the way you devoured her with your eyes the moment she walked into my manor. Is it so hard to grow a pair and be at least somewhat nice to her?"
Malfoy continued to study Hermione’s actions. She leaned toward Nott, her eyes shining, touching his arm, then brushing a lock of hair from the idiot’s face. Theodore looked like he was drowning, his palms sweaty and trembling. Even from across the room, Draco noticed. His jaw tightened.
Blaise was right—he knew it—but there was no chance in hell he’d admit it aloud, let alone make it up to her. When had a bloody Malfoy ever apologized?
Zabini, as though reading his thoughts, smacked the back of Draco’s head. The sharp sting made him groan, too stunned to retaliate. Blaise had already taken a step back, his smirk daring Draco to lash out. They exchanged a venomous glare.
"You’re not hexing Nott tonight," Blaise declared coldly. "If you’re going to act, do it loyally. So either you move your arse and get her away from Theo, or you watch in silence and stop whining like a five-year-old."
Malfoy’s nostrils flared, his pride simmering. Apologize? Absolutely not. They’d have to tear his toenails off one by one before he'd act with such foolishness.
Is it an apology I’m hearing?
Fuck.
Draco was trying to apologize for the first time in his bloody life, and to say it wasn’t going well would be a spectacular understatement. The first step in such a situation? Speak calmly with the person in question. Well.
Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, his eyes dark. He had tried. His attempt at salvaging his pride had boiled down to him criticizing her balance in heels after deliberately brushing against her as he approached. Hermione had shot him a fiery glare. Since then, she’d been engrossed in conversation with guests whose names he neither knew nor cared to learn.
He drained another glass in one go, his fingers tense around the stem.
Across the room, Hermione leaned toward her new friends, her lips curving into a smile that sent ripples of energy through the space. Her presence seemed to saturate the air with her scent—lavender, mint-touched parchment, and a hint of coconut. Draco inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as thoughts of her consumed him.
He needed to strategize his next move. And, ideally, complete the first step: Be nice, he reminded himself bitterly. It shouldn’t be that complicated. Yet every time he met her gaze, rage simmered within him. She awakened sensations in his chest—wild, uncontainable emotions that he loathed. Draco Malfoy had lost too much control in his life already; he couldn’t afford to lose any more.
Still, he wasn’t about to back down. He’d continue his hunt, testing the waters with his prey. He was certain Hermione enjoyed the game. He caught the subtle way she angled her body, always keeping him in her line of sight.
Draco’s height gave him an advantage, towering over most of the guests. Only Blaise shared his stature, but his closest friend was too preoccupied elsewhere, with his girlfriend probably in a bloody bed. That left Nott sliding into place at his side, a cryptic smile tugging at his lips.
“So, when are you planning to offer those apologies to the lady?”
“Shut up, Theo,” Malfoy snarled, his tone brimming with venom.
Nott chuckled softly, his fingers pressed against his mouth as if he were holding onto some scandalous secret.
Malfoy scowled, irritation flashing across his face.
“What?” His tone was cold and skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? Theo was known for his carefree antics, always acting the clown. So finding him thoughtful, with sharp eyes and a calculated demeanor, was... unusual.
“Hermione confessed one of her sexual tastes to me,” his friend admitted casually.
Don’t look too interested. Don’t take the bait like some desperate fool. Malfoy repeated the mantra in his mind, over and over.
But he cracked—as the depraved soul he was—raising an eyebrow.
Theo immediately caught the silent cue but took his time, swirling his cocktail with deliberate smugness.
“You’re not hexing Theo tonight,” Draco reminded himself irritably. For fuck’s sake. He really wanted to make him swallow that glass. His patience—the one quality he occasionally prided himself on—was wearing thin.
“Do you need my wand to jog your memory?” he growled.
Nott let out a grotesque nasal laugh, rubbing his cheek mockingly.
“You could just admit you’re dying to uncover all her filthy secrets instead of taking your frustration out on me. I’m not blind, Draco. Even a troll could see how much you drool over her.”
Malfoy’s scowl deepened, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Don’t push me, Theo. I’m not in the mood. Now spill it, or do I have to force it out of you?”
Theodore leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with a sickly-sweet amusement.
“Why don’t you just ask her yourself? She’d be delighted to tell you. Her fantasy...” He let the sentence dangle, and Draco’s breath hitched in response. “...seems to align with your preferences.”
Malfoy inhaled sharply through his nose, his pulse hammering in his temples, his ears, and— damn it —all the way down. He rubbed his temples, desperately trying to conjure an image of Blaise with a broomstick shoved up his ass to regain focus.
The mental picture was so vivid that he let out a strangled gasp of horror. Never again would he think of Zabini with something that massive in any of his orifices, or at all, he vowed.
“You know,” Theo continued, cutting through Draco’s mental trauma, “hunt, chase, dominate, and submit. That’s her thing.”
Malfoy clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Fuck. This was getting harder. Everywhere.
“She’s a dominant?”
“No, you idiot,” Theo groaned, rolling his eyes. “She likes it when her partner takes control. It gets her... wet. And—”
Draco wasn’t listening anymore. He was already striding through the sea of guests, loosening his tie, which already hung open against his massive chest. His focus had narrowed to a singular target: Hermione fucking Granger. The goddess of sin who was going to kill him with these damned erotic thoughts.
" What are you—? " Hermione began, her expression stern, but he didn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence. His hand clamped around her forearm, pulling her firmly toward him as he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear, his voice low and rough.
“So, you like being hunted, Granger? Let me show you someone who’s up to the task.”
Hermione’s lips parted, as if she wanted to respond—anything, really—but no words came out. Her wide eyes locked onto him, resembling a gazelle frozen in the predator's sights. And Malfoy was starving. Right now.
His fingers trailed slowly down her skin, their touch gentle but deliberate, drawing an involuntary shiver from her. He smirked, clearly entertained.
“Well, Granger? What’s it going to be? Ready to chat about the weather with people who can’t stop ogling your breast, or would you rather skip to the interesting part? ”
Hermione’s gaze darkened, the light in her eyes shadowed by something unreadable. All that remained was the echo of their breaths mingling in the space between them. The party had vanished—no more chatter, no cheers, no booming music. There was only him and her.
His lovely prey.
Malfoy continued to study her intently, his eyes tracing every detail—the wide, glassy look in her irises, the faint constellation of freckles glittering under the dim lighting, and her lips, flushed and swollen. She ran her tongue over them, and Draco let out a low, barely audible growl. Not for her ears.
His fingers moved downward, deliberate and unyielding, until they found their mark—her hips. Hermione gasped at the heat of his touch, swallowing hard as her lips pressed together tightly. Then, with a shaky breath, she nodded. That small, fervent motion earned him a smile, sharp and knowing.
To hell with apologies.
Malfoy wasn’t the kind of man to grovel. If words failed to satisfy her, he had other ways to make his case. His preferred method was far more tactile—and far more effective. If she hadn’t appreciated his poetic attempts, he would let his hands do the talking instead. Maybe, just maybe, if the temperature rose enough, she would lose herself completely and cling to his shoulders like a lifeline. He could only hope.
Trailing his silver ring along the skin of her stomach through the deep plunge of her top, he leaned in close, his breath scalding against her ear. A cascade of shivers rushed down her arms and over her face as his words, slow and deliberate, coiled around her.
“Hide, Granger. Anywhere you want—the bathroom, the closet, I don’t care.” He paused deliberately, then bit down on her earlobe with agonizing slowness. “You picked the game. Now let me set the rules.”
Hermione understood, her breathing quick and shallow. He was hunting her like prey, and he would find her. But then what? Her gaze darted to his face, searching for answers in his expression. Prickles of excitement danced across her skin as she awaited his answer with scandalous anticipation. Hermione couldn’t suppress the desire glimmering in her eyes. She swallowed hard, her palms damp with sweat.
Malfoy’s face darkened, a feral intensity blazing behind his mask of control.
“Try to survive, little rabbit.”
RULES OF THE GAME, Hermione & Malfoy
- The rabbit has ten minutes to find a hiding place.
- If it manages to stay hidden for the allotted time – thirty minutes – without being found by the fox, it wins and decides the fox's fate for the evening.
- If the fox finds the rabbit, it claims the reward and the conditions promised before the game.