"I suppose it's time to lay some things on the table," Granger said.
Draco stared at the tray between them. An idiotic part of his mind fixated on the smooth texture of the wood, while the rest frantically wondered: what game was this silly witch playing? What "negotiations" was she talking about? And what exactly was she going to "lay on the table"?
Their eyes met, and he felt as if he was transported back to that very first Divination class. Granger's dark-gold eyes studied him with cold curiosity. For a moment, he thought her pink lips would part to dryly declare, "I need eight NEWTs."
Now she was frowning. Was she waiting for Draco to say something in response? Obviously, this was another bloody test, but at the moment when advice would have been helpful, the voices of the Malfoys and Blacks in his head treasonously fell silent. Even the pathetic voice of reason showed no signs of life.
Draco tried to reason rationally. Witches trying to seduce him were nothing new—Slytherin girls had started throwing themselves at him back in fourth year. In sixth year, he allowed himself a couple of hot weeks—until the Dark Lord's impossible assignments put an end to it. Then Draco sank into gloomy silence, snapping at any girl who dared approach, even Pansy. But he hadn't forgotten. He hadn't forgotten the tenderness and enveloping seductiveness, the furtive glances, the frank whispers, the breathtaking compliments. Girls slipping out from under tables, from behind tapestries and bookshelves. Hasty, clandestine meetings in corridor alcoves, classrooms, behind library shelves.
But never before had Draco felt such insane lust as he did now, looking at Granger, who sat at the other end of the sofa like a fluffy red bird.
"So," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "the table." He raised a hand. "Allow me to go first."
A pale silver card materialized between Draco's fingers. He placed it on the wooden surface. Granger hesitated, then flipped the card over with her small hand.
The card boasted four capital letters, embossed in ornate black script—so fancy it was barely legible: SEX
Granger's cheeks flushed, but her expression didn't change. She bit her lip and shook her head.
Something inside Draco died. No sex on the table? But I wore this paisley robe! Argh! However, outwardly he remained unperturbed. Malfoys didn't groan, clutch their heads, or roll on the floor in despair—no matter how much circumstances demanded it. Instead of answering, he placed a second silver card next to the first. Granger flipped it over. This time there were four words, written in the same ornate script: TASTE ME
Granger looked away, her entire face flushed.
"That won't be on the table," she said.
"Sorry, but it's already here," Draco countered.
She looked at him again, shifting her posture slightly. Draco noticed the tip of her tongue dart out, moistening her dry lips, and the blood in his veins stirred even faster. Granger put her hand in her robe pocket, murmured a spell—and a pale gold card appeared face down on the table. A counter-offer.
Draco flipped it over with one elegant movement. Simple black letters read: TOUCH YOU
A concession. Albeit a small one. Draco touched the gold card, and the text shifted: WHERE
This time Granger didn't look away. She took out her wand and touched the card: CHOOSE
Draco froze, his mind instantly filled with images. Oh yes, he had plenty of options. Plenty of things she could do.
"Well," he said, as if granting a great favor.
Granger smiled, her cheeks still flushed, and laid out another gold card: TOUCH ME
Draco touched the card again with his finger, and the letters swirled, rearranging themselves: WHERE
Granger's wand added text, mimicking his ornate script: EVERYWHERE
"Well," Draco repeated in the same unperturbed tone, though he was perfectly aware that his mask of indifference was cracking and his gaze was becoming predatory. But he wasn't finished yet. Draco conjured a new silver card: I'LL TASTE YOU
Hermione flushed even more. She created a new gold card, which spun like a top and fell face up: PENDING
Draco nodded. For a Slytherin, "maybe" was practically equivalent to consent.
"Our negotiations are concluded," Hermione announced primly.
She raised her hand, and all the cards leaped into her palm on their own. Hiding them in her robe pocket, she transfigured the tray back into a book.
Draco leaned back on the sofa, feigning relaxation. Now it was her turn. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung, the fire crackled in the fireplace, and Draco's own breathing seemed too loud.
Hermione stood and looked down at him, her hands in her pockets. Draco tried not to look too interested.
Suddenly, she shook her head—her bushy bun bounced—and moved away from the sofa. Draco turned his head, watching her stop in front of the fireplace, her back to the wizard.
He had just opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, the fluffy red robe slipped from her shoulders and fell silently to the carpet. The words caught in his throat. Whatever he had imagined her to be under that ridiculous robe, this was not it.
A black lace bodysuit, interwoven with thin pink ribbons, exposed her back all the way to her lower waist. Dancing shadows from the fire glided over her bare neck, the curve of her spine, her rounded backside beneath the translucent lace, and further—to her elegant bare legs.
Draco didn't remember getting up from the sofa and walking to the fireplace. He simply found himself there—behind her, untying the ribbons, exposing her shoulders.
Hermione turned to him, her eyes shining so brightly it hurt to look.
"Mal..." she began.
"Draco," he corrected her. "Draco."
She wouldn't call him Malfoy in private again, not while it was within his power.
"Draco..." she breathed, and pressed her entire body against him, passionately crushing her lips to his. She tasted of spiced wine. Draco bent his knees, lowering them both onto the soft robe spread on the carpet. Now Hermione was beneath him—exactly where he wanted her to be.
His hands cupped her neck, squeezing gently.
"You little provocateur," he growled.
She smiled faintly.
"I like clear boundaries."
"Then you're a terrible negotiator," Draco said. Her game had given him too much freedom.
She opened her mouth to reply, but Draco wasn't in the mood to listen. His lips covered hers, and his hand slid into her hair, pulling her head back, and Draco deepened the kiss, intent on subduing her.
But taking control of the witch proved not so simple—her fingers untied the belt of his robe and slid down his chest. Soft pads touched the sensitive scars on his stomach, then dropped even lower...
Draco pulled away from her lips with a low groan.
"On your back, Draco," she whispered.
He immediately stretched out on the carpet with a clumsiness unworthy of a Malfoy. Lying on his back, he stared at the witch leaning over him—at her disheveled curls, lit by the fire, at her bare shoulders. He felt as helpless as he had that night she hit him with a book, when she read to him, when she took off her glasses. He pressed his lips together, holding back the words ready to spill from his tongue.
"Where, Draco? Hmm? Right here?" Her hand slid into his silk underwear. "You choose."
"Be careful with your nails," he warned.
She pulled her hand out and raised it to the light—short, neatly filed nails with a red and gold manicure.
"I adapted the spell," she said.
Relaxing, Draco gently closed his fingers on her wrist and guided her hand down, silently indicating what he wanted.
And she obeyed—touching, squeezing, sliding... Rough movements gave way to the moist warmth of her palms, and fantasies—much older than he cared to admit—of Hermione Granger's lips on him floated into his mind. But that wasn't part of their agreement, so he let the images fade, throwing back his head and simply enjoying the touch of those soft hands.
"More," Draco breathed, and then he heard a whisper right in his ear—a familiar commanding tone.
"Say 'please,' Draco."
Draco's eyes flew open just in time to see her bring sticky fingers to her lips, and he nearly choked.
"P-please," he rasped, but it was too late—he came. Salazar, and only from her hands. How humiliating. Theo's words echoed in his head: "she's nothing but trouble." She was still on top, her lips touching his face. The black bodysuit had slipped, revealing the curves of her breasts and her nipples.
"Kiss me, Hermione," he whispered. She complied, and he tasted himself on her lips. Draco growled and, in one fluid motion, flipped her onto her back—now he was looking down at her again. Both of them were splattered with semen, Hermione's hair was disheveled, and only the limitations of his own body prevented Draco from entering her right then and there, damn the table. His hands tugged at the thin ties of the lace bodysuit, and Hermione shivered. Draco shed his robe, then leaned over the witch to lick her salty, slippery nipple.
"Oh, Draco," she moaned when he bit her nipple, and his hands moved over her body, blindly tugging ribbons and tearing lace. He pressed his lips to her throat, slipped a finger inside her, then another. So tight. Granger hissed, then moaned, clutching his hair and arching up to meet him. She came, crying out, but Draco allowed her only a brief reprieve. His cock was painfully hard again, and Hermione's claws had lengthened, despite the spell, digging into his skin. So if she didn't want Draco to break their agreement, he needed a distraction, fast. After all, "pending" didn't mean "no."
She quickly understood what he was after and gasped when he shifted the lace, and his lips moved lower.
"Draco..." she pleaded.
"Use your words, Hermione," he whispered, his lips brushing her skin. A shiver ran through her body. "Hermione," he repeated, savoring each syllable of her name. "Tell me."
"Keep... keep going..."
"Keep going what?" he asked in his most arrogant tone. She deserved it.
"Draco..." she moaned again.
"Define the terms," he said. "As I recall, that was pending."
"Lick... lick me... please, Draco..."
He readily complied, bringing her to orgasm again, exploring her body with his hands and lips until tears welled in her eyes. He himself was close to tearing up. Never before had he spent so much time on a witch. Never had he gone so far without full sex. What was wrong with him?
Forgetting the bed, forgetting the Vanishing Spell—if only for a while, with her body at his complete disposal, Draco felt something inside him weaken and crack.
She belonged to him. His—to touch and kiss, and tonight she couldn't refuse him. The cards had decided. He could run his hands over that warm, slightly damp skin, bite those nipples again, then caress them with his tongue, catch her palm and place it on his cock in silent demand—expecting her to obey. Hermione herself had flipped him onto his back to lean over him, and made him come again. And then he returned the favor—his touches grew rougher, his voice lower. He expected objections—she wasn't Vane, after all. But when he pressed her down with his body, tearing the black lace, she moaned. And when she playfully tried to slip from his grasp, and he grabbed her, ordering her to behave—she only smiled defiantly.
"Don't make me go lower," Draco growled.
Her smile widened, and he felt her hand slide down his thigh.
"Oh, I definitely will."
When they finally stopped—exhausted but not entirely satisfied—the fire in the fireplace had almost died, and the only lamp in the room barely glowed. Draco's lips were swollen from kissing, his chest covered in scratches, and he had left dark red marks on her smooth skin. Her crumpled lace bodysuit lay on the carpet. Hermione waved her wand, cleaning them both, and Draco frowned, looking at the witch. He preferred the disheveled version.
But he had nothing to complain about. Even if she repainted the entire room in red and gold, he wouldn't utter a word—which was extremely uncharacteristic of him. Malfoys loved to complain.
Pressed against her, his nose buried in her hair, Draco felt neither Malfoy nor Black. The voices in his head were silent, and his body was relaxed and pliant.
Draco reached out to touch the pile of torn lace and twisted ribbons.
"Where did you get this?" he asked curiously.
A soft chuckle.
"You'd rather not know."
"Vane?"
She shook her head.
His mouth twisted.
"Did you wear it for..."
"No." She slapped his bare shoulder. "I've never worn it before."
"Hint," Draco whispered.
Her soft smile looked very Slytherin.
"One kiss, one hint."
He wasn't sure he could kiss her—his lips were so swollen—but he did his best and lifted his head to look at her again.
"Well?"
Another smirk.
"Orthopedic socks."
What?
"I'm sure I deserve a better hint," Draco said petulantly.
"Then kiss me better."
Draco glared at her, but then a wave of tiredness washed over him.
"Want to get into bed?" he asked instead.
"No." Her voice trembled slightly. "Let's stay here."
"Alright." Draco reluctantly got up and walked to the bed to remove the bed linens and transfer them to the dim fire in the hearth. Then they both lay down on the thick green bedspread and covered themselves with heavy quilted blankets. Hermione mumbled something, burrowing into his neck, while he stroked her soft hair.
Closing his eyes, Draco felt a strange calm. This witch had seen his worst side, and yet she was in his arms. He hoped their next negotiations would be more fruitful. He couldn't handle another night like this.
Draco sighed silently, feeling the passage of time. Sooner or later, she would come to her senses. She was Hermione Granger, after all. Their "something" belonged to the night, not daylight. They would remove the Vanishing Spell—and she would leave. Someday, Draco thought, burying his face in her curls. But not tonight.