Hermione and Draco stood off to one corner of the room, arguing in hushed tones.
The others—Daphne, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy— all sat together in another spot, waiting.
They were in Draco, Blaise, and Theo's bedroom this time around, finding it better than the public common room.
Inside the dorm, the silence was thick, cut only by the soft rhythm of Hermione's sharp gestures and Draco's barely restrained responses in the corner.
Daphne huffed, "This is ridiculous."
Blaise didn't look up from where he was absentmindedly rolling a Galleon between his fingers. "You mean the part where Granger's calling the shots, or the part where Draco listens to her like she's got his balls in a jar somewhere?"
"They've been at it for ten minutes," Daphne muttered, arms folded across her chest. She was curled up in Blaise's desk chair, legs drawn beneath her like she might flee at any moment. "Can't they just tell us why we're here?"
Theo snorted, watching as Hermione tilted her head in that particular way, the one she always used when she thought she was being subtle. She moved a little closer to Draco—closer than necessary—and though they were still clearly arguing, her posture had shifted. Less confrontational now, more… suggestive.
"She's doing the thing again," Theo said, not looking away. "With her eyes."
"What thing?" Daphne asked, looking over. She groaned, watching as Hermione's hand found its place on Draco's clothed stomach, tracing shapes innocently.
"The thing where she's going to slit his throat and then lick it."
That earned a laugh from Blaise, low and amused. The Galleon clicked once more against his knuckles before he finally set it on the desk. "He's going to cave in about thirty seconds. Look at his face. He does that stupid thing where he forgets to blink."
Pansy snorted, "She knows how to get what she wants. I commend her for it. More Slytherin than Gryffindor at this point."
"It's fascinating how he seems to forget how to breathe," Daphne added just as Draco looked like he'd done just that.
Hermione's hand dipped a little lower then, resting against the buckle of his belt.
His hands flexed uselessly at his sides like he didn't know what to do with them.
"Should we be concerned that this is how they compromise?" Daphne asked, brows raised.
Pansy made a face. "I'm more concerned that this is the most functional relationship any of us has ever seen."
There was a pause.
"…Gods, that's actually true," Theo muttered.
"Disturbing, isn't it?" Blaise added.
Another pause, and then Draco finally muttered something under his breath, glancing at the others, eyes landing on Blaise first, then Theo. Hermione followed his gaze, her face smoothing into something more neutral, composed. Official.
He looked back at her and then huffed, walking over to the group, Hermione giddy behind him.
"I need to know what you said to him to make him behave," Theo said as Hermione sat down next to him.
Hermione hummed, "Something tells me it wouldn't be as effective coming from you."
Draco sat down next to her, his arm wrapping around Hermione's waist and pulling her towards him possessively.
"We're not stopping them," he said, blunt. "That's not on the table."
"There goes that dream," Blaise muttered.
Hermione leaned into Draco, "If we can't stop them, we control the variables." She explained, "Simply put, no improvising. No panicking. We all have a role. You stick to it. No one gets hurt."
"Do we even know when this is happening?" Pansy asked, trying to feign boredom.
"Next time Dumbledore leaves the castle." Draco said, "Defenses will be down."
"The oaf isn't daft enough to leave the castle unprotected. They'll be members of his little Order." Daphne pointed out.
"You won't be fighting against them." Hermione said simply, "You won't be fighting at all. The goal is to delay the Death Eaters and let Draco do what he needs to do. To keep the Death Eaters from hurting anyone. If we can manage the situation—"
"There's no managing this, Hermione." Theo cut her off.
"Nothing we plan will stay in place. Not when we can't anticipate their moves." Blaise agreed.
Pansy eyed Draco, who seemed a little lost in his own world, "Who's coming?"
He blinked, looking at her, "The Carrow siblings, I believe, Rodolphus and Rabastan, if they've gotten out of Azkaban, along with… along with my aunt Bellatrix."
Hermione swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
The last time they'd fought Bellatrix, Sirius died.
Which meant if Harry saw her…
She cleared her throat, "I'll be with the D.A." She said, "I realize I can't ask you all to fight by their side. It's reckless. You never have before. It's- well, it's suspicious. But I also realize you're not fighting on the other side either."
"Which means we distract." Daphne said in understanding, "We shift you guys. We make enough noise to distract the D.A. from realizing who's not around. From realizing what's happening. They fight the Death Eaters, but they don't get to find out why they're here."
"You give me a clear path from the Room of Requirement to wherever Dumbledore is." Draco had finally stirred beside her, rubbing his eyes.
"And I keep Harry away." Hermione said, clearly trying to avoid the topic of just what Draco was doing, "I'm not feeding him any information. Not until it happens. If he thinks I know anything, he won't trust it."
She glanced at the clock. Almost curfew.
With a soft sigh, she stood up, "If I'm not spending the night, I should head up now."
Draco's eyes flickered then, "You're still spending the night here?"
Pansy hummed, "Oh, you didn't know?" She asked chalk-full of nonchalance, "Your girlfriend's been spending the night in my bed lately."
Draco's head snapped to Pansy then, so fast it was a miracle it didn't dislocate, "Sorry, what?"
Pansy grinned, delighted at the shade of green Draco was turning, "She's rather cozy. Talks in her sleep. It's cute."
Draco looked absolutely scandalized, his mouth opening like he was about to launch into a tirade and then closing again when nothing came out. Hermione, for her part, rolled her eyes but couldn't quite hide the faint flush creeping up her neck.
"Have you seen her pajamas?" Pansy continued, as if her goal in life was just to see how far she could push Draco, "Absolutely scandalizing. Such short shorts and what a thin top."
Hermione laughed, "I run hot in my sleep, my shorts aren't that short, and it's a regular spaghetti strap sleeping top. There's nothing scandalizing about it." She gave Draco a quick kiss, "I'm going to bed. Try not to duel your best friend for my hand."
But as she started to walk away, she let out a soft yelp.
Draco had slipped a finger through her belt loop, pulling her back.
Having lost her momentum, she stumbled back. She turned to glare at him, to ask him what the bloody hell he thought he was doing, but her words fell short when she saw Draco's eyes looking up at her.
"Spend the night."
Draco didn't say it again. Didn't need to. He was still seated on the edge of the bed, looking up at her with that maddeningly unreadable expression of his—somewhere between challenge and plea, arrogance and vulnerability. The way only Draco Malfoy could look when asking for something without ever lowering his pride enough to actually ask.
Hermione's heart gave a traitorous little stutter.
"You sure know how to make a show, Malfoy." She muttered.
As if in response, Draco tugged her closer once more, having her stumble until she was standing just in front of him, unable to look at the others.
"Stop doing that!" She hissed, her face turning a shade of red that almost made Draco delirious enough to lean forward just to kiss the first bit of skin he could. Almost. He was trying really hard to restrain himself.
As if for no reason more than to prove a point, he tugged at her by the belt loop once more, just hard enough and having left her with not enough room the last time, that she'd have no choice but to stumble into sitting on his lap.
Hermione landed with a soft thud, her eyes growing wide, face blushing a hundred times deeper, especially when Draco's hands found their way around her resting rather innocently by her arse, pulling her closer.
Hermione's hands were braced on his shoulders now, trying not to look at the others. She could feel the stares.
"I'm going to kill you." She hissed.
Draco, in turn, leaned forward, his mouth finding its rightful spot on her bare shoulder by her bra strap.
Hermione sucked in a breath, torn between melting into him and hexing him into next week. The warmth of his mouth at her shoulder, the smug set of his lips, the smugger smugness of his hands still very much in place—it was enough to scramble her brain entirely.
"I'm going to die of mortification." She decided.
Draco chuckled against her skin, "You get off on it."
"I do not!" She gasped, a little too loudly.
He pressed a kiss to the soft skin just beneath her ear instead, lingering, maddening. She could feel him smiling against her.
Behind them, someone cleared their throat.
Loudly.
"As much as I'm loving the soft core Malfoy porn," Pansy said, standing, "I fear it's time for bed."
"Educational, truly," Daphne agreed, "Pomfrey should hire you for the next sex ed lesson."
Draco lifted his head that time, "Don't tempt her." He warned, "She put on a lovely show last time."
Hermione's jaw went slack as she felt the others pause behind them, "Oh my god."
"What exactly does that mean?" Theo laughed.
"Nothing!" Hermione said.
Draco, smug incarnate, tilted his head as though weighing just how much damage he could get away with. Hermione could feel the smirk growing on his face—could sense it in the shift of his posture, the self-satisfied looseness of his limbs.
"I'll kill you." She warned, attempting to wiggle free from his lap, but he didn't budge.
"Goodnight, love birds," Daphne called, already at the door, pulling Pansy with her.
"She's staying then?" Blaise asked.
"I suggest you both get into your beds," Draco said, reaching for his wand, and flicking it towards their respective beds. Instantly, their curtains snapped shut with a definitive swish.
"You're impossible when you're jealous," Hermione whispered to him as she got off his lap, crawling further onto the bed.
"I'm possessive." Draco corrected, turning towards her, "There's a difference."
"There's a difference," she echoed mockingly, as she settled in against the pillows, watching him, "You're not allowed to do that again. I looked ridiculous."
"You looked like mine." He said.
Her tongue darted out, licking her lips, "I am yours."
"Good." Draco grinned as he stood up off the bed, shrugging off his jumper to change into his pajamas. "Do you plan on sleeping in your jeans?"
Hermione hummed as if considering her options, "It's not like I'd planned on sleeping here."
"A shame really." Draco agreed, his shirt coming off next.
Hermione's eyes narrowed, but she didn't look away. Not when the soft glow from the bedside lamp threw his lean torso into sharp relief, not when the muscles in his back flexed as he moved, not even when he smirked knowingly at the way her gaze lingered a beat too long. And especially not when she could make out the still-fresh scars from the curse Harry had hit him with.
They looked better. Better didn't mean good, though.
Draco was turned away from her again, rummaging through one of his drawers, probably for pajamas.
Hermione stretched her legs out a bit more on the bed, watching Draco's back as he rifled through the drawer. Her voice came slow, smooth, laced with a sort of lazy challenge that made him pause mid-motion.
"If you're so bothered by the jeans," she said, picking at a lose thread on the bedding, "maybe you should take them off."
Draco froze, his hand still on a pair of silk pajama bottoms. His spine went rigid, then rolled with tension as he turned halfway toward her, one brow raised high.
She was trying to feign casualty, as if her heart wasn't beating so hard it was a surprise it was still in her chest.
"Is that a request?" He asked, trying to gauge if she was serious or not, his pajama pants long since forgotten in the drawer as he moved towards the foot of the bed.
She shrugged, "I mean, you're probably right. Sleeping in jeans does sound rather uncomfortable…" Draco was already getting on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as he pressed his knees onto it.
Draco crawled forward slowly, stalking toward her like a predator with all the time in the world—shoulders relaxed, eyes locked on hers, predatory and amused and devastatingly fond. He stopped when he was kneeling between her legs, his hands braced on either side of her hips, weight supported just above her like some dark prince out of a dream she wasn't sure she should be having.
"You're flushed."
"Probably because of the man between my legs." She murmured, her breath tickling his face.
He hummed, fingers finding her waist, "You sure you want me to take them off?"
"You make it sound like I'm donating to charity." She laughed, though her mouth had gone dry and her hands were curling into the duvet.
"It's purely selfish." He murmured, kissing just below her ear, feeling her squirm a little, "It's not fair that Pansys gotten to see more of you than I have."
Hermione's eyes fluttered shut. "I wouldn't worry too much if I were you." She breathed out as he kissed her jaw, fingers skimming along her waistband.
They paused at the button, "The things you do to me, Granger. Salazar, it isn't fair. You're fully dressed, and I already need a cold shower."
She let out a breathy laugh, "You're stalling."
"Am I?" He asked.
He was. He knew he was. He was terrified. That it wasn't real. That she'd disappear. That she'd regret anything in the morning. That he'd regret letting himself have what he's wanted.
"Draco." She whispered, hands coming up to cup his face, "Take my fucking jeans off."
He groaned, dropping lower, his lips finding the exposed skin of her stomach, where her jumper had ridden up, kissing down as he popped the button out of place.
His movements were painstakingly slow, Hermione's eyes rolling into the back of her head as she let her head fall back on the pillows, hair splaying out as she fisted the duvet, her mind already jumping over a few very crucial steps.
Draco slid the zipper down with agonizing care, metal tooth by tooth, his hands slipping into her waistband then.
She lifted her hips, just enough to help him, and he slowly slid the denim down, groaning softly as he exposed her lacy white knickers.
He kept pulling them down, hands following the curve of his thighs as his mouth found the new skin, kissing and sucking gently at her inner thighs as he pulled the jeans off, relishing in the new skin he hadn't yet gotten to kiss.
Once they were off, he tossed them to the floor, moving up and claiming her lips with his own, "You're trying to kill me, Granger." He gasped against her mouth.
Hermione laughed against his mouth, her arms slipping around his shoulders, moaning softly as she felt him press against her, "I told you to take my jeans off. I didn't say we'd be doing anything." She pointed out, mostly teasing.
Draco pulled back just enough to stare at her, his eyes dark and narrowed. "You are evil."
"And you're still recovering." She murmured, glancing at the still-fresh marks on his chest.
"I'm also hard and being thoroughly tortured." He whispered, kissing her once, "I'll live. I might die, but I'll live."
Hermione ran her hand over one of the scars, "I mean… I'm sure there's something else we could do that wouldn't… exert you into popping stitches."
Draco let out a low, strangled sound that might have been a groan or a laugh—it was hard to tell.
"I'm going to need you to be more specific," he muttered, his lips grazing her cheek as he spoke, voice rough with restrained want.
She hummed, hand dipping lower with another scar, "I could read to you. That won't pop any of your stitches." Her hand didn't stop its travel, however.
Her hand was trailing lower, skimming over his ribs, past his stomach, teasing the line of his boxers with the same nonchalance she had when discussing reading to him.
He wanted to press his lips to her. To run his hands over her body, to find his place between her legs, have her wrap them around him as he plunged into her. But god did his body still ache, every muscle sore, every scar still fresh and ready to break back open if he moved wrong, and she was looking at him like she knew that.
"I…" his voice faltered, eyes glancing away for a moment, "I want to make you feel good, Hermione."
Draco's confession hung between them like a fragile thread—vulnerable and raw, slipping past the usual walls of arrogance and bravado.
Hermione's heart tightened in her chest, and she pulled her hand away, grabbing his face. "Hey, don't do that. No. I- gods, Draco, I always feel good when I'm with you. Even when I'm mad. Even over these last few days. Even when you make me want to scream. I'm always- you always make me feel good."
He tilted his head, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers anymore, like he was embarrassed by the vulnerability of his words, "That's not how I mean, and you know that."
She smiled softly, kissing the corner of his mouth, "You make me feel good when I'm alone." She said, mouth still against his skin, "And you'll make me feel so good. Once you're healed."
"'Mione." He groaned her name like a vow.
"Let me take care of you." She murmured.
Draco closed his eyes, moving off of her and lying flat on his back next to where she lay, covering his face with his hand, muttering under his breath.
"You're being painfully dramatic." Hermione drawled.
"I'm being denied sex because your best mate tried to kill me." He pointed out, hearing her move around him, probably turning to face him, "You try not being dramatic.
Draco let out another long-suffering sigh, dragging his hand down his face in an exaggerated display of woe. The mattress shifted beside him, Hermione moving around again—probably just turning over or adjusting the covers or something equally ordinary. But he could feel it, the soft dip of the bed, the rustle of sheets, the way her warmth shifted slightly closer.
He didn't look. He was too committed to his own melodrama.
"Truly, the cruelest thing that's ever happened to me."
"You've been tasked with murder." Hermione pointed out, amusement curling around every syllable.
She shifted again.
She wasn't leaving, he was sure of that much, though he wasn't aware she moved so much when trying to fall asleep.
Draco, still shielding his face with one arm in protest of his thoroughly tragic life, huffed another sigh. "It's cruel. You're cruel. You're not even denying it."
Hermione hummed noncommittally in response. The sound was oddly close, but he couldn't be bothered to move his arm and check. The sheets rustled again—more than they would if she were just turning over. She must be adjusting the duvet, maybe fluffing her pillow. Preparing for sleep like a normal, emotionally stable person who wasn't in the throes of sexual frustration and physical injury.
"I nearly died," He continued, "Could hear my ancestors calling out for me."
"What do they think of you complaining about not being able to shag your muggleborn girlfriend?"
"They were thrilled. Really. Glad I haven't tainted the Malfoy name completely."
Another rustle. This time, the covers shifted lower. She was definitely doing more than adjusting her pillow now. He was still too immersed in his own tragedy to give it much thought. His hand slid down slightly so he could peek out beneath his fingers.
But Hermione wasn't beside him anymore. Not sitting up, not lying back—she wasn't even in his peripheral vision.
"What are you doing?" He asked, half sitting up.
"You're terribly dramatic." Her voice came from under the duvet.
Draco blinked. Once. Twice. And then, in a slow, dawning horror-turned-anticipation, he realized what was happening.
"Hermione." His voice cracked halfway through her name.
"I'm helping you relax." She said it as if she were offering him no more than a back rub.
And he felt it, her fingers slipping into the waistband of his boxers.
He blinked, breath catching in his throat, "This is cruel."
"Cruel?" Her breath was so close, brushing just under his navel.
"Yes, cruel, it's—"
She pulled his boxers down, and he dropped back to lying down, staring up at the canopy over his bed.
He was dreaming. He was sure of it.
Especially when he heard Hermione moan.
Merlin, why was she moaning?
He was sure he had died if for no reason other than the fact Hermione Granger- his Hermione- brilliant, beautiful, maddening, infuriating Hermione, was under his duvet, pulling his boxers down to free his aching cock, moaning at the sight.
"Hermione- 'Mione- love- sweetheart- darling-" he was already sputtering like an idiot trying to form any coherent thought, and she hadn't even touched him yet, "Do you plan on perhaps coming out from under the covers or?"
Hermione didn't answer right away, and then, "Why? You wanna watch?"
He made a noise at that, "Do I wanna- do I wanna- believe it or not I'm a gentleman, Granger." And perhaps a man that wouldn't last very long if he did get to see her.
He felt her laugh, "You know I uh- I'm really starting to understand your arrogance." She said, trying to swallow down her own nerves.
Draco let out a sound that could have been a strangled laugh or a whimper. He couldn't tell anymore. He was halfway to losing his mind. "What exactly are you understanding?"
"That some of it may be… warranted." Her voice was breathy.
He draped his arm over his face again, feeling hot all of a sudden, "Hermione, I'm really going to need you to get out from under there unless you plan on-"
"I'm building anticipation."
"You're building a heart attack!"
She was nervous—he could feel it in the slight hesitation, the way she hovered instead of diving in, the way her fingers curled lightly against his thigh as if grounding herself—but she was also determined. She wanted this. Wanted him. Otherwise, she would've come out already.
"Hermione." He murmured, "You don't have to—"
The duvet lifted slightly as Hermione peeked out, her cheeks flushed, bottom lip chewed as if she'd been considering a particularly difficult question; curls slightly wild from static and warmth and whatever chaos she'd just caused beneath the sheets. Her eyes; however, were sharp; glinting with mischief and affection, and something far more dangerous.
"You're very…" she considered her words, "Particular."
"Particular?" Draco stared at her, dumbfounded—caught somewhere between wonder and panic. He had half a mind to respond with some clever retort, but his brain was too busy short-circuiting.
She nodded just once, ducking back under the covers.
He was about to say something. Anything. Ask her what she meant by particular. Was particular a good thing?
And then—
And then there was heat.
Draco's entire body arched, his hands flying to the mattress like he needed something to anchor himself to the earth. Her lips—Merlin's pants, her lips—were tentative at first, experimental. But then—
"Fuck," he gasped, voice high and rough and utterly wrecked. "Granger."
Hermione hadn't known what to expect—not really. Her confidence had been borrowed more than earned, and the cheeky remarks had only masked the storm inside her. But now that she was here, feeling the way Draco's breath stuttered above her, the way his whole body had gone taut with anticipation and disbelief, she felt steadier. Bolder.
Everytime his breathe hitched or he said her name like a curse and prayer she was learning what made him tick, what made him come undone.
And Hermione Granger was nothing if not a fast learner.
Draco was a mess, lips parted, muttering her name again and again as if his brain couldn't make anything else come out.
When Hermione started pulling up, hollowing her cheeks, Draco moaned, his hand darting under the sheets and into her hair to… he wasn't really sure. Stop her? Push her down? Just… hold her?
She was taking her time. Thorough. Curious. God, of course she was—his Hermione.
It was unfair, really, how devastating it felt. How tender and tormenting all at once. Each slow, tentative movement from her, each shift of pressure, was like a new spell being cast, reshaping him from the inside out. And the worst part—the best part—was that she wasn't just trying to get a reaction. She was trying to learn him.
And as she pulled off, her hand took over, face popping out from under the duvet.
There were no words for that look—not really. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a mess, and her eyes—her eyes—were blown wide with something wicked and beautiful and far too knowing for his fragile heart.
Draco stared at her, mesmerized by the look of the girl in front of him, and his hand fisted a little more in her hair, hips pumping up to meet the pace her hand was setting.
And then, in a dangerously innocent voice, Hermione bit her bottom lip, already raw from having been chewing on it just moments before, just before asking, "Am I…" there was a pause, her blush darkening, "Am I doing okay?"
Draco's head fell back. "Oh hell." Because of course, of course Hermione Granger would want to be told she's doing a good job while in the middle of a blowjob, she'd want to be told she was perfect, that she'd received an O in all sections of her exam. She wanted to be praised. And for a moment, one simple moment, he cursed himself for not having assumed it because it would be so obvious to anyone who knew the girl.
He sucked in a breath, one hand still tangled in her hair, the other gripping the sheets like a lifeline. He forced himself to look at her again—really look. The faint tremble in her lips, the crackle of nerves behind the bravado, the slight uncertainty layered under her playful edge
"You're doing so good. Gods, are you doing good, love." He refused to let his head fall back no matter how much he wanted to, just kept staring at her, "A perfect little witch."
She was wrecking him. Unmaking him with nothing but her mouth and her hands and her insatiable curiosity.
"Brilliant little know-it-all, ruining me like this." He groaned, cock twitching as she twisted her hand.
Hermione's eyes flickered, dark, and a grin spread over her face.
His breath left him as she ducked her head again, licking a long strip up the side of his cock before taking it back in her mouth.
And he couldn't pull his eyes away from her now. Not with the duvet having fallen around her shoulders, letting him see her beautiful, flushed face as she took him, every move deliberate, as if she was cataloguing every switch, every gasp, every shiver, as if nothing more than studying for NEWT's. Her hair was a wild mess, and he had his hand in it, and he'd imagined it a million times, but god was the reality so much better.
His brain was nothing compared to the sight before him. He'd spent so many late nights fisting himself to the thought, so many early mornings taking too long in the shower, but he never would have imagined her to look so breathtaking with his cock in her mouth.
He grunted, hips jerking up slightly, "So smart. So clever. Look at you. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl." He murmured.
She moaned at that, the sound running through him like static, and his hips bucked in response.
Her fingers tightened on his thighs, eyes flickering up to meet his for a moment before giving in.
"Fuck, I didn't mean to-" He rasped, voice torn, but as she took him further in her mouth his head rolled back, "Good girl. My good girl."
She whined around him, and his hips jutted up once more, his hand tightening in her hair, pushing her down, "Mine." The words slipped rough, "You're mine, Granger. You feel so good. So fucking good. Taking me so well. So good for me. So eager."
She moaned again, cheeks hollowing as she let him fuck her face, let him guide her head with the hand in her hair.
As much as she was unravelling him, his words were unravelling her.
Each groaned praise, each desperate murmur of "my girl", of "so eager for me", sank deeper than his cock ever could—right into her spine, her lungs, her core. Her fingers tightened on his thigh, trembling slightly as her mouth moved in time with the grip of his hand in her hair, guiding her faster, deeper.
"Fuck, you like this don't you?" he hissed, voice thick and low, "You like being on your knees for me. You like being good for me. My perfect little witch, soaking through her knickers while I fuck your mouth."
That last line—that one—broke something in her.
Her hand twitched against his thigh, and he felt it.
Saw it.
Barely registered it as it pulled away from his leg.
He watched as it slipped beneath the duvet, and Hermione shifted.
"Oh, hell—are you…?" He couldn't finish the question, didn't need to. He knew. "Gods, you are, aren't you?"
She moaned around him, a sign of approval, and he could barely make out the shape of how her hips moved under the duvet, the way her breath hitched around him.
"You like this, don't you? You like me calling you my good little witch." He grunted, Hermione letting him fully guide her head now, allowing him to push her onto his cock, letting him thrust up into her mouth, "You'll get all O's on your oral exams, won't you? With that pretty little mouth of yours."
He felt her gasp, saw how her hips bucked into her hand under the covers.
"You're so wet for me, aren't you? Fuck, Granger. You're going to cum like this, aren't you? With my cock in your mouth and my voice in your ear—"
She hummed around him, an acknowledgement to him.
"My filthy girl, my perfectly filthy girl." He grunted, pushing her head down once more, hips jutting up, "You like that? Hearing you're mine. Pushing your head down."
And he didn't need her to answer, not with the way she whimpered, not with the way she let him fuck her mouth, or the way her hips kept rolling into her hand.
"You take me so well, darling." He groaned, his other hand finding its place in her wild mane, "Merlin, I want this in a pensive. I want to be able to look back on it whenever I bloody well please." He was just fucking into her mouth now, his hips thrusting up into her mouth again and again and again, becoming rougher the closer he got.
His grip on her hair tightened, pulling slightly, guiding her as he fucked into her mouth, the wet sounds filling the room, mixing with his grunts and groans.
She was so close, her own pleasure building rapidly. Each thrust of his hips, each gasp of his breath, pushed her higher.
She let out a soft noise, somewhere in the back of her throat, and he knew she was about to cum, eyes fluttering shut, "Look at me." He demanded, "Granger, look at me when you cum."
He felt her shudder, her fingers stilling under the covers as her mouth went slack around him. Her eyes, when they met his, were hazy and unfocused, pupils blown wide with pleasure. She was beautiful—ravaged and wrecked and utterly undone—and the sight of it, the sheer perfection of it, was going to kill him.
"Shit, Granger." His voice was broken, "I'm going to- you're going to want to-" He let his hands fall from her hair to let her pull away.
She just made a noise in response, pleased, maybe a little smug, and her hand that had disappeared under the covers found its way out and back onto his thigh, wet against his skin, as she lowered her mouth, taking him as far as she could, gagging against his head, her hand wrapping around the rest of him.
His eyes rolled to the back of his head, "Fuck, Granger, you want it? You want to take it? Good girl's going to take everything I give her."
Her moan in response was the final blow.
His head dropped, eyes squeezing shut, the sound he made was pure wreckage.
She didn't pull away, let him fall apart, fill her mouth, as her name left his lips again and again.
Slowly, she pulled off and he opened his eyes, hand moving around to cup the side of her face, thumb brushing against her wet lips, "Fuck, Granger, be a good girl and open your mouth. Stick your tongue out for me." He rasped, pressing his thumb against her bottom lip.
Hermione blushed red, embarrassed, as if she hadn't just had his cock in her mouth.
She stared at him for a moment before tentatively opening her mouth, her tongue sticking out.
"Let me see," Draco murmured, his thumb pressing down on her tongue to keep it in place. "That's it. Good girl."
She whimpered at the praise, the filthy words making her squirm with embarrassment and lingering pleasure, but she did as he said.
Draco groaned, finding her mouth empty. He fell back onto the bed, chest rising and falling.
Hermione laughed softly, "You okay?" She asked.
He nodded, "Just trying to keep myself from proposing."
She stared at him for a moment, "Sorry, was that emotional affection from Draco Malfoy?" She wondered.
Draco let out a breathless scoff, draping an arm over his face as if shielding himself from the shame of having said anything remotely earnest. "Don't make a big deal out of it."
Hermione crawled up the bed beside him, her bare legs tangling slightly with his. "You just said you want to marry me."
"No, I believe I said I was keeping from proposing."
"Which means you wanted to."
"Because you're bloody good on your knees."
She scoffed, pushing him softly, "How about you stick with figuring out how to tell me you love me before you start thinking about proposing?"
Draco huffed, "Go to sleep, Granger."
"You're just mad that I'm right." She muttered, snuggling into his side.
Her fingers ran over the skin of his arm, ignoring the mark like the plague, "You don't have to say it, you know." She said quietly.
"Hermione." He warned.
"You just have to not pretend you're not feeling anything either."
Draco closed his eyes.
His silence wasn't very surprising to her. It was something she'd come to know and expect. He didn't really like talking when it was something important and emotional.
She knew he cared, and that was all she needed.
"You're domesticating me, Granger." Draco drawled the next morning.
He was reading his book, just a couple of chapters left, Hermione lying with her head on his chest, reading along.
Hermione hummed, half-heartedly, "Hardly. Just wait until I start reorganizing your drawers."
"Don't go in my drawers."
She snorted, "Why? What you hiding?" She teased as he turned the page.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" He muttered.